Chapter Text
For both father and son, Byleth was cursed with the killing blow. The ordeal was but a flicker in a sprawling battle, a simple whip of her sword. She didn't realize the sick irony of it all until her blade was finally buried at Ashe’s collarbone—Sword of the Creator notwithstanding, she’d done Lonato in with the same stroke.
A high-pitched sob mingled with Ashe’s scream. Marianne. She’d tailed Byleth throughout the battle, healing when necessary and occasionally finishing off Byleth’s quarry with a bolt of levin. Her duties had placed her in the perfect position to witness her classmate’s death. Byleth had forgotten. She turned to catch Marianne’s eye at the sound, guilt snapping at her at the girl’s look of horror. Between Marianne’s grief and the sight of Ashe’s corpse, his cheek already burning on the coals of Ailell, Byleth was doomed to return to the monastery feeling every bit the hollow monster the masses believed her to be.
“It was necessary,” Marianne later conceded in her wisp of a voice. But it had been a week since the ambush, and Byleth still caught the holy knight sneaking glances at her in the halls. Sometimes, she thought they might be full of rage. Other times, fear.
Byleth enjoyed neither, but was big enough to admit that she deserved both.
Which is why she denied Claude’s suggestion of keeping Marianne on as her adjutant when they marched on Myrddin. “She doesn’t trust me,” she said, the words dropping to the map between them like lead.
“What?” Claude looked to her with rare surprise. The reaction was gone in a moment, wiped away in favor of a practiced smile. “You’ll have to elaborate, my friend. I can’t think of a single person in this entire monastery who doesn’t trust in your abilities, let alone a member of the Golden Deer.”
“My abilities aren’t the problem." She crossed her arms and frowned at the figurines across the map, trinkets they’d procured to represent their meager lives. “She was troubled. After Ashe.” At the dimming of Claude’s smile, she turned away, pacing about the table to avoid his gaze. “I’ll need time to rebuild trust. For the next battle, perhaps I’ll take on Flayn instead.”
The only answer was the click of her boots. After a brief quiet, she dragged her eyes to meet his.
All of her students had grown in her absence, but Claude most of all. He’d whetted his charm over the years, wielding it as deftly as Byleth did her blades. His boyish interest in schemes had matured into renowned tactical prowess. Then there was the care in him that Byleth hadn’t seen in his schooldays. It came in glimpses, but it was there: a Claude who occasionally trusted his comrades enough to take the persona of the grand Duke Riegan and lay it down.
That was to say nothing of his physique. Taller than her now. His shoulders broader, his body no longer roped with the lean muscles of a young noble playing warrior but that of a man. Sown with scars, too, a fact that Byleth discovered after Claude invited her to the sauna after a long bout at the training grounds. She couldn’t help but stare then, taking in the scars across his torso, the pale knotted tissue become islands in his golden skin. She only remembered herself at the sound of his chuckle.
“Like what you see?” He’d teased, and it struck her then that his voice had deepened too.
It wasn’t the only time she’d caught herself staring. Claude had always been handsome, but five years was apparently enough for him to stir her blood in a way that might’ve been welcome, thrilling even, if not for their roles to play in this war. Her eyes were drawn to him in inopportune moments—discussions at the roundtable, training sessions, the long nights they spent together poring over their ledgers. But she liked to think that, since the sauna, she’d become rather good at not getting caught.
What was it that Dorothea had once told her? That Byleth stared as if she could see straight to her soul. It was amusing to her then, but under this new Claude’s gaze, she found herself sympathizing with the young singer. She’d spent an entire life mystifying others. She was unused to anyone looking at her as if she were something familiar and known.
Claude was fixing her with such a stare now and it took everything in her not to recoil. Gone was the easy smile. Leaning forward, hands braced upon the table, he studied her with the same focus he’d shone on the map not moments before.
She might’ve shivered, if she didn’t feel carved of stone.
“You can’t seriously think she holds that against you,” he said.
She didn’t bother wasting her breath on a lie.
“Byleth.”
She was never one to fuss over titles and formalities, but hearing her name caught in the rush of Claude’s breath still startled her. Not Teach or friend but Byleth, a new development that had taken place in the weeks before Ailell. (“If we’re to end a war together, we should be able to call each other by name, right, Teach?”)
He righted himself, walking along the edges of the table to her. There was a ripple in his brow, rare evidence that even the silver-tongued duke occasionally needed time to find the right words to say. “I know it’s only been a few months for you. But this war has been raging on for five years.”
“I’m well aware.”
With a stern look, he continued. “I say that to remind you that this isn’t the first time we’ve lost someone we once considered a friend. Last year, Annette—” He stopped himself, banishing the thought with a small shake of the head. “It might’ve been the first time Marianne’s seen it firsthand, but she knows the stakes. We all do.”
“Even so.” Byleth let her gaze drift to the space behind his shoulder out of an old habit, searching for Sothis there.
Claude frowned at the periphery of her vision. “What else? Let me ease your thoughts, my friend.”
And there it was. The earnest Claude, so different from the suspicious boy that coveted her sword and strength from the back of the classroom. With a slow, measured breath, she replied, “I only wish I could have fought alongside you sooner.”
After a moment, he placed a hand upon her shoulder.
“You couldn’t have helped that. And you’re here now.” Byleth lifted her eyes to his. So intent on hers, so green, with a tenderness that managed to cut through the guilt that plagued her. “The circumstances forced your hand. And it’s not as if it’s your fault we’re all caught up in this war.”
Oh, Byleth thought, remembering a young princess cowering beneath an axe. But it was.
But that wasn’t a secret she was keen to reveal. Certainly not now, likely not ever.
“I suppose,” she allowed, looking away when Claude’s hand squeezed.
When she didn’t respond, Claude reluctantly released her. His head tilted ever so slightly to the side, a gesture Byleth remembered well, his braid often swaying with the motion. “Maybe we should take a break. Get some rest.”
She nodded, looking to the exit. “Yes.” As he moved to clear the table, she flexed her hands as if to wake her nerves. A familiar shame simmered at the pit of her stomach. “Have the knights returned?”
The question gave Claude pause, the map half-rolled in his hands. “This morning. But I don’t think collecting reports from the knights is the most productive way to settle your nerves.”
“No reports,” she assured him. At another one of his stern looks, she added, “I promise.”
He gave her a skeptical grunt in response. With that, Byleth moved to exit the room. She was stopped partway by Claude tapping the rolled map against her arm, imploring. “You do know you can count on me, don’t you? Not just on the battlefield. For whatever you need.”
Byleth stared. The words were unlike him, not in their portent but in the way they were said. Almost sheepish. Tentative. Something about it all nearly touched her, until she remembered that she didn’t deserve it. Not after she’d bloodied her hands with the ghosts of her students, or else abandoned them in their time of need.
“Yes,” she said, before rushing out the door.
Tonight, he couldn’t give her what she needed. Nor would she have asked.
The first time was after Remire. After the Flame Emperor had extended their hand to Byleth and she’d refused it as if by reflex, her head still swimming with the memory of kind village folk struck crazed, then dead. As the Emperor warped away, Byleth felt a lacking in her chest, an intuitive sense that it truly was yawning and empty. Surveying the spoils of battle, she thought about how, once, she’d died in Remire for Edelgard. Despite all evidence that Byleth had survived that and this gruesome massacre, it somehow felt as if she’d died yet again.
It was not an unfamiliar feeling. She and Jeralt had seen and survived gruesome before. They’d retrieved men, women, even children who were tortured for years. Carved their path through entire villages painted red, the stink of decay ripe in summer heat. On the road, she’d learned that humans were fickle, contradictory beings, and so she knew well that when faced with the worst of death, it was not uncommon for them to seek evidence of their survival in another. To remind themselves that their blood still ran warm. After the worst battles, Byleth would often return to an inn with the walls beating, the entire building breathing with survivors trying to fuck themselves alive, alive, alive.
It was an aspect of the mercenary life that she and Jeralt had never discussed. But while Byleth didn’t have a heart, she did have a body, and it didn’t faze her to tend to its needs. When they finally had a mission so terrible that slipping her own fingers between her legs wasn’t enough, she took no time to find a willing partner in the company. If Jeralt was aware, he was kind enough to look away.
Lucky for her father, such missions were few and far between.
But then, Remire. The worst in ages. And immersed in the monastery as she’d been, Byleth was bereft of a forgettable face to bed.
Byleth spoke with her students amongst the wreckage, her praise for their conduct on the battlefield as glowing as the situation would allow. They’d managed to save most of the villagers, but not all. Privately, Byleth soothed herself with the knowledge that the rabid villagers were far too animal to suffer much fear, and her students were skilled enough to grant them a quick death.
By the looks on their faces, Byleth had done a good job of appearing as she always had—professional, stalwart, emotionless in the face of great disaster. But Claude’s stare was piercing. His brows pinched in a frown.
Her house leader had always been too clever for his own good.
As the rest of the class dispersed to deliver aid to the surviving villagers, Claude approached her instead. “Teach,” he said, “You know it’s okay if you’re upset, right? Pretending to be unaffected doesn't do anyone any good.”
She blinked at him, fighting against the tremor in her empty, empty chest.
“I’m just saying—” His voice had aged in an afternoon, gained a wisdom that was too old for such a young face. “If you need a minute or two, I can—”
“You’d best get to work.”
They looked to Shamir as she settled in at Byleth’s side. “To have Duke Riegan’s heir among the relief efforts will help morale.”
Claude was rattled enough that it took a few moments for him to recover. He flashed a half-hearted smile, blatant evidence that the day had worn him through. “I was just telling Teach—”
“Your professor has her duties. You have yours.” Shamir nodded to him, carrying herself with enough authority that one might’ve mistaken her for a noble herself. “Run along.”
The corners of Claude’s smile tightened in his irritation, clear to the likes of Byleth but missed by most else. He glanced at Byleth just once before he grudgingly stepped away.
Byleth looked out upon her students as they worked. She’d seen more than one of them die today. A mage caught Raphael by surprise, a Fire spell burning straight through his chest. Lysithea had tried to strike Solon all on her own in an uncharacteristic show of rage. A villager rushed through Ignatz’s blindspot and planted a lance in his back. Now, they assisted the knights in putting out flames and dressing wounds, more than a few of their cheeks tear-streaked. She didn’t realize how she’d lost time staring until Shamir’s hand fell upon her shoulder.
“You did well,” she said, and Byleth was relieved the archer wasn’t so dishonest as to fake a smile.
On the contrary, Shamir was grim as ever, wearing the tragedy of the day without shame. Her hair was mussed with fight. There was a smudge of dried blood across her jaw, a streak of dirt on the cut of her cheek. Byleth wondered what a picture they must look, the two of them struggling not to buckle under the day's weight.
Shamir’s frown dug deeper. She’d never been a talker, but Remire seemed to have loosened her tongue. “It never gets easier,” she said.
Byleth nodded, and the movement felt so strange that she wondered whether she’d been still for hours, leaden while the others toiled away. She peered at herself in the shine of Shamir’s eyes, watched her reflection go dark as they filled with a warrior's recognition—not quite pity, not quite kind.
As Shamir moved to lift her hand, Byleth reached up to pin it in place. She squeezed until Shamir’s knuckles cut into her palm. Until Shamir’s chin dipped in acceptance. Until she could hear the drum of her pulse in her ears.
After leaving Claude to his own devices, Byleth sought Shamir out. The rest of the monastery was in the thick of dinner, which made things easy for her. She knew Shamir liked to avoid the crowds. She found her sitting in the Knight’s Hall, the building emptied and quiet but for the scrape of steel against stone. She walked round the couch, propping her arms against its back and leaning forward to look over Shamir’s shoulder, her words a puff on the archer’s ear. “The whetstone I gave you?”
The dagger skirted the gritted surface without pause. “Yes.”
“I’m glad it’s still of use.”
“It’s adequate.”
They fell into comfortable silence, enjoying the rhythm of the sound. With the monastery halfway to ruin, sound carried further than it once did. If Byleth listened closely enough, she could hear laughter from the dining hall on the wind.
“I assume you aren’t here to watch me hone my blade.”
Byleth had leaned closer without realizing. Strands of Shamir’s hair tickled her cheek. “No.”
Shamir came to a stop, resting her dagger on her thigh. “Then what?”
The question struck a lonely pang in Byleth’s chest. The truth was that she’d come for help. For a hand to draw her back from the edge. But neither of them were particularly talented at spinning words, so rather than say as much, Byleth turned her lips to Shamir’s hair. When the knight remained still, considering, Byleth traced a path lower, her lips closing around the shell of her ear.
Relearning a body wasn’t something she did often when she was on the road, but Byleth found that the process was quick. A nip earned a stutter in Shamir’s breathing just as she remembered; her finger twitched at a swipe of tongue. Before Byleth could drift lower, expose the infallible woman for the human she was, Shamir righted herself in her seat, putting her out of the reach of Byleth’s wanting mouth. “Passion or pastime?”
“Pastime,” Byleth easily replied.
Shamir turned, her eyes narrowing as she appraised her. “There are others who are willing.”
Though Byleth wasn’t certain of who she meant, she could’ve sworn she felt parchment tapping against her arm. “Our arrangement is less complicated.”
Shamir nodded, allowing that. “It is.” She studied her another long moment before reaching up, calloused fingers finding their place on Byleth’s jaw. She drew her in, angling her head just so as she pressed her mouth to hers.
Her touch was light, an assessment of Byleth’s hunger. Byleth slipped her tongue along the seam of Shamir’s lips in answer, the archer granting her a soft grunt of amusement before deepening the kiss.
They came apart at a rustling outside the hall. They looked to the entrance, waiting for someone to appear. Byleth grew uneasy. Laughter was still audible from the dining hall, but it was late, and it was not improbable for someone to be walking about after their meal. And the thought of a witness, of word traveling throughout their small army…
“Your room,” Shamir said as she stood, moving to leave without so much as a passing glance.
Byleth followed. It was hardly a comfort that the arcades were empty outside.
She supposed it didn't matter. She wasn’t tied to anyone, had never been, and this was also true of Shamir. Even so, she found it difficult to ignore the thought of what such gossip might do to a pair of green eyes.
Shamir was on her at the closing of the door. She’d shucked away the caution of their kiss, her fingers tangling themselves in Byleth’s hair and yanking at the root. Byleth gasped—she’d always been the most vocal of the two—as teeth dragged across the slope of her neck, a tongue laving across the welt they left behind soon after.
As quickly as Shamir had drawn Byleth to her, she released her and pushed her to the bed. “Off,” she said, her coat already shrugged from her shoulders and tossed to the floor. They removed their clothes in silence, Shamir smirking as Byleth made quick work of her armor and positioned herself in bed. “If you’re so impatient, summon me after you’ve undressed next time.”
“So confident that there will be one,” Byleth sniped back, though they both knew the prospect was likely with the war having no end in sight.
Shamir’s knowing look was her only acknowledgment of this before she moved to join her.
Byleth hummed as Shamir settled in above her, straddling her leg and slotting her mouth over hers. Byleth’s hand drifted to the back of her neck, the other finding its place on Shamir’s hip, pulling her close. She shuddered as Shamir resisted, withholding in just the way she liked, her kisses deep while her breasts hovered too far above, hard nipples occasionally ghosting over Byleth’s skin.
At the sound of her growl, Shamir broke the kiss and punished her for her impatience with a hard nip to the lips. Then, as if to appease her, she slid down, taking Byleth’s nipple into her mouth, hands steadying her hips when she jerked in reply.
Sensitive. She had always been sensitive there, and if Byleth had been quick to remember Shamir’s favored spots, clearly they had that in common, with the way her tongue was flicking against her. When she was satisfied that Byleth wouldn’t buck her off, Shamir trapped her other nipple between her fingers to end its neglect.
Shamir pulled away soon after, blowing cold breath across Byleth’s breast before rising to watch her flush and squirm under her pinches. Not one to bow in the face of a challenge, Byleth peered back, surprised to see that old sympathy return to Shamir’s gaze. It was gone before she could react, Shamir’s head dipping to once again toy at her nipple with the tip of her tongue.
Hands settled at Byleth’s hips, this time guiding it in slow motions against the leg propped between her thighs. Under Shamir’s grip, the movement was awkward, but even then Byleth was pleased by the flutter of pleasure as pressure glanced across her clit. “Like this,” Shamir said, lips traveling across the swell of her breast.
Byleth nodded, placing a hand on Shamir’s upper back and grinding against her leg as demonstrated. It only took a few tries for her to find the right angle, that familiar angle that focused pressure perfectly between her legs. She sighed, a confirmation that she’d found her rhythm. To her delight, Shamir moved her leg forward to meet her. Her hand rose once more to Byleth's breast, rough as it squeezed and pinched. Lips returned to the red tracks she’d left behind on Byleth’s neck, alternating between sucking and biting to bring blood to the surface of her skin.
Trapped beneath her, Byleth tipped her head back to offer the whole of her throat with a moan. Her hips rolled with more purpose, the burning between her legs reaching a plateau. Through her haze, she registered Shamir’s hand leaving her breast to disappear between her own legs, the sound of her touching herself loud between their breaths and wet.
Struck by the idea of better uses for Shamir’s fingers, Byleth grabbed a fistful of her hair, wrenching up and biting at her lower lip. Shamir shivered despite herself, angling her head to allow Byleth to travel lower and mark her own claim across Shamir’s collarbone. Byleth glanced between their bodies and, as if sensing it, Shamir’s hand slipped deeper between her legs, fingers disappearing and reappearing, glistening in the low light of her room.
Her mouth watered. Moments later, Shamir pulled back and righted herself, withdrawing her hand and placing it at Byleth’s lips. She gripped the archer’s wrist without hesitation, hungrily taking her fingers into her mouth, curling her tongue, dragging her lips across the knuckles and back again to strip them of all evidence of Shamir’s arousal. Shamir hummed in approval, dark eyes growing darker still, before tugging away from Byleth’s grasp.
She closed her eyes, tempering her annoyance as Shamir extricated herself from her. A mistake. She jolted at the hard flick to her clit. “Boring you, am I?”
Byleth scowled. “You're dragging.”
By the pleased lift of Shamir’s brow, this was the sort of defiance she was looking for. She climbed up the bed, smirking as she caught Byleth’s glance at the stripe of moisture on her thigh. “Move it along, then,” she said, swinging her leg over Byleth’s shoulder, the weight of it jerking at her hair spread beneath.
Byleth bit back a hiss, craning her head to pull the pinned locks free before rising up to plant her mouth over Shamir’s center. There was a sharp inhale above her. A soft thud as Shamir braced herself against the wall with a spread hand. Byleth glared up at the knight, spurred on by her reaction, vying for victory even here.
She gripped at the swell of Shamir's ass, guiding her hips against her mouth as Shamir had done hers. Shamir allowed it, malleable only when she could reap the benefits of it, nearly purring as Byleth lapped at her clit.
Byleth scoffed against her cunt. As unaffected as Shamir made herself out to be, her clit was already swollen, red as if Byleth had been suckling at it all night. Greedy thing, primed for rougher play. After closing her lips around it with a hard suck, Byleth grazed at its edges with a bit of teeth.
There was a strangled sound above her. Shamir shuddered, fighting for restraint. Byleth repeated the maneuver between long licks, the tip of her tongue dipping just past her entrance and teasing with fluttering flicks. Soon, Shamir’s hips were moving of their own accord. Byleth ground her mouth up against her in tandem, unable to help a moan of her own as Shamir’s slick coated her jaw.
As the muscles of Shamir’s thigh twitched against her ears, the knight’s hand darted down, once again grabbing at Byleth’s hair as if to hold her in place. “Wider,” she grit out, resurfacing a dormant habit in Byleth to open her mouth and offer the knight the flat of her tongue.
The pace of Shamir’s hips turned desperate as she ground down, angling herself to drag her clit across the pink muscle. Her head tipped back, a pleasured growl finally tearing itself out of her throat. Byleth’s hand flew up to spur her on, fingers pinching at Shamir’s nipple while the other dug its nails into her ass. Shamir came with a shudder and a gasp.
Byleth caught her, her hands returning to Shamir’s hips and holding her there, suckling cruelly even as Shamir’s thighs pressed painfully at her ears. If her clit had been swollen before, now it was throbbing.
There was a louder thud as Shamir’s hand left Byleth’s hair to join its sister on the wall, the knight groaning and cursing her as Byleth rendered her helpless, drawing out her orgasm until pleasure flirted with pain. “Enough,” she finally hissed, and only because Shamir’s legs were trembling against her cheeks did Byleth finally allow her to pull away.
Shamir grabbed at her with a fervor bordering on rage, and yes, this is what Byleth wanted. She moaned as Shamir turned her onto her side and pulled her flush against her, crushing her breasts to Byleth’s back. A hand gripped at Byleth’s throat, calloused fingers, archer’s fingers, pressing hard at the sides. Before her next breath, a knee parted her legs, fingers gliding easily across the cleft of her and rooting themselves inside, hooking onto the hidden part of her that made her see stars.
“Bitch,” Shamir hissed fondly into her ear before beginning to fuck her, the wet slap of Byleth against her palm filling the room.
Byleth gasped, struggling if only to feel Shamir’s hand close tighter around her throat and pin her down. She was embarrassingly slick, sopping, but Shamir didn’t comment on this as she might have back when these nights were a regular habit of theirs, instead choosing to bring her mouth to Byleth’s shoulder and grip her in a hard bite.
Yes, this is what she wanted. A reminder. A pair of hands and lips to drag her body back to the realm of the living and wrench the breath out of her chest. Shamir knew this. She delivered. A kindred spirit, the two of them singularly focused in relearning how to feel.
Shamir’s fingers left her, and before Byleth could lament their absence, bemoan the fact that she was suddenly, painfully empty, there was a hard press to her clit. As Shamir's thumb ground circles into her, Byleth grit her teeth and demanded, “Harder.”
Shamir paused. It wasn’t an unfamiliar request. The first time they’d done this, Byleth hadn't even learned how to cry. Brutality was the only relief she knew. She’d begged for the full brunt of Shamir’s rough lovemaking. On her part, Shamir hadn’t hesitated, just as in need of a kinder violence as Byleth was after the battle. They threw themselves at each other and left the bed sated and bruised.
Now, it was only Byleth in need of mending. And though she couldn’t see Shamir’s face, she knew the knight could only be pitying her when she nodded against her cheek and murmured, “All right.”
She trapped Byleth’s clit in a hard pinch, sending a bolt of pain shot through Byleth with a cry. Shamir swiped across the raw bud before she could recover, pushed her knee through the crook of Byleth’s leg to prevent her from closing them against the assault.
Byleth bit her lip as Shamir rubbed at her, interrupting the rhythm with a sharp slap between her legs again and again, and rocked her hips into the vicious cycle.
Shamir jerked her knee, hiking Byleth’s leg higher, plunging her fingers into her in the freedom of the wider angle. There was a sudden bite of pressure as Shamir breached her with her fingers, then another, then another, and as the fire building between her legs grew to unbearable heights, Byleth grasped at Shamir’s wrist in a bid to slow, to let her use her hand to find release. Then she was empty again, Shamir briefly abandoning her to fend her off with a slap to her clit.
“Stay down."
Another pinch had Byleth melting back against her chest, a mewling mess as the knight parted her, fingers alternately traveled across her clit and delved into her in rough circles, toying with her until Byleth wasn’t sure whether she was crying for mercy or for more. As her strokes grew more deliberate, as the grip of Shamir’s fingers turned from pinch to slow, hard roll, curses unspooled from Byleth’s lips in sobs.
She arched back against Shamir, groaning as the grip on her throat tightened, casting her gaze to the ceiling as her breath thinned and vision blurred. And for the first time in days, she felt. Pain. Pleasure. For one long moment, Byleth was not a woman nor a killer nor a goddess, just a body ringing with pure sensation, the burn between her legs keeping her warm.
And she broke.
The hand around her throat released her in favor of clamping hard across her lips. The one between her legs turned brutal, plunging into her too deep, too much, with a sound that would have shamed Byleth if she could hear it over her cries. Byleth bucked hard against it, but Shamir held fast—always had—drawing out her release as Byleth had done hers while smothering the audible evidence of their tryst.
Byleth’s shouts trickled into whimpers as her orgasm receded from its sharpest edge. Chest heaving, she twitched as Shamir subjected her to another flick. As her room came into focus, she became faintly aware of the ache rising in her chest, the moisture seeping from the corner of her eyes and spreading across the swell of her cheeks.
Shamir pressed a kiss to her temple as if to distract her, the breath that rushed from her lips almost a hush. Byleth’s head spun as she struggled to recover, failing against the feel of Shamir burying her face into the crook of her neck. The fingers against her were gentler now, ghosting across her slit in with a promise to guide her from one peak to the next.
“Shamir,” Byleth murmured, immediately hating how she sounded as if she were on the brink of weeping, her breath hitching on the name.
There was that hush again. “Stop thinking,” Shamir said. “I've got you.”
And Byleth believed her.
She closed her eyes, pretending not to notice when Shamir lifted her head, offering her lips to catch a rolling tear. She willed herself to forget—the screams, the blood, Marianne’s horrified sob—and focused instead on the curve of the hand cupping her breast. The fingers pushing deeper into her, stoking greater fires. The body curling around hers, just as scarred and wanting and empty, trying desperately to root them both here.