September 1944 Beaulieu-sur-Argonne, France

  “Goddamn gallows,” Emmett muttered, lowering the binoculars. The nooses swayed slightly in the breeze, making his stomach twist.

  From their position along the tree line, the village below looked almost peaceful in the warm light of late afternoon. But the reality was far from. Wehrmacht uniforms littered the streets. Lazy-postured, rifles slung, the arrogant gait of men who thought they owned the place.

  Henri leaned in, eyes hard. “Putain… They stroll around like they built this village. They strut like proud, fat roosters.”

  Emmett grunted, bringing the binoculars back up. “Last time we came through, that square was full of market stalls.” He adjusted focus, tracking a patrol. “Now it’s a warning board with rope.”

  Henri’s jaw tightened. “They’ve fouled it. Ma mère used to bring me there to buy fruit.”

  He spat. “Now it’s for executions.”

  Emmett didn’t answer. He scanned the streets, searching for familiar faces. Too many civilians, too much movement. If Adele or Julien were down there, he couldn’t see them. His grip on the binoculars stiffened.

  Henri’s hand balled into a fist on his knee. “So? What now? We sit here and pray they haven’t already hanged someone?”

  “We get our bearings,” Emmett said, voice even. “Figure out who’s in charge, where they’re posted, what the locals know. We don’t move till we know the shape of the thing.”

  Henri nodded, his jaw still tight. “And how do you suggest we do that? Stroll into town and ask the Kommandant for an update?”

  Emmett shot him a look. “Funny. No, we’re going to contact someone in the village. Someone we trust. Father Brenard. He’ll know what’s going on.”

  Henri’s expression flickered. “Merde. He’s smart, I know it. But I worry that someone might have spoken to the occupiers. I suspect those gallows have seen use.”

  “We’ll take it one step at a time.” Emmett said calmly. Noticing his friend was more agitated than he had ever seen him before. “For now, let’s not assume anything until we know for sure.”

  Henri rubbed his face, his shoulders tight. “Alright. But even if he’s breathing, how do we reach him? The Boches are everywhere. One wrong step and we’ll have a firing squad to answer to.”

  “We wait till dark. Move quietly. If we get spotted, we split. And absolutely no shooting unless we must.” Emmett set the binoculars aside rubbing his temples feeling the threat of a headache set in.

  Henri didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked side to side. “And if there is one who collaborated with the Germans?”

  Emmett didn’t respond immediately. His thumb tapped against his leg. “Then we make them pay for it.”

  Henri didn’t like that answer, but he didn’t argue. “I just hope we’re not standing here come morning, watching someone swing.”

  Emmett nodded and turned his gaze back to the village.

  The nooses in the square shifted again in the wind, the sway subtle but steady. Like a clock ticking down.

  Emmett just hoped that Adele and Julian were safe.

  The trees stood like sentinels, tall and bare, casting long, skeletal shadows beneath the pale light of the moon. Deep within the forest, a clearing sheltered the Headhunters. The old truck, covered with pine branches and a tarp, was parked just off a disused trail. It blended into the darkness like a sleeping beast.

  The only light came from above, where moonlight slipped through the canopy, softly illuminating the forest floor and the exhausted faces of the resistance fighters.

  They had made camp here, far from prying eyes. The forest muffled all sound except for the whisper of wind in the trees and the occasional creak of the truck's cold chassis settling. Blankets were pulled tight around shoulders, weapons rested close to hand, and men sat huddled in silence, waiting for Luc to return.

  When he did, hours later. They knew before he said a word. His face was tight, jaw clenched, eyes dark with a weight he hadn’t carried when he’d left.

  He climbed down from the ridge, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, and approached the fireless circle of men. All eyes turned to him.

  Henri stood first, his expression already grim. "Well?" he asked in French.

  Luc didn’t answer right away. He looked at Emmett first, then the others, and finally said, his voice low, "They came about a month ago. Patrols first. Then the full weight of occupation. The Bosch suspected the village was helping us."

  Henri exhaled sharply, the cold puff of air catching moonlight. "Merde," he muttered, running a hand over his face.

  Luc nodded. "Someone talked. Gave names. The Germans executed those individuals publicly... hangings in the square." He paused, jaw tightening. "Father Brenard was among them."

  Emmett didn’t speak. He stared at the ground. Then, slowly, his hand slid to the hilt of the long, narrow dagger at his side. The one Brenard had given him that quite night in the church. His fingers curled around it, squeezing until his knuckles went white. The silence stretched.

  Henri swore violently, slamming his fist into the side of the truck. The impact, echoing through the clearing.

  "Putain de merde," he spat, pacing a step, his breath quick and furious.

  Luc continued. "The villagers keep their heads down. They're broken. But the weapons hidden beneath the church? They haven’t been touched. By some miracle."

  That stirred the others. A murmur of disbelief rippled through the Headhunters. One man crossed himself with trembling fingers. Another looked skyward.

  Emmett finally spoke, his voice rough. "We stashed enough under that church to arm twelve men. Maybe more. But getting to it now?" He shook his head. "Not without a plan."

  Henri turned, his anger cooling into purpose. "Then what’s the plan, mon ami?"

  Emmett looked up, eyes sweeping across the men gathered around him. "First we find out who talked. Someone gave up those names. And were going to find them."

  There were murmurs of agreement, but they were low and venomous. Nods came with clenched fists and twitching jaws, the kind of suppressed fury that crackled beneath the surface like dry tinder. The men's expressions weren’t just grim. They were filled with a personal hatred, a need to see blood spilled for the betrayal that had cost them friends, and the good people of the village. The air in the clearing thickened with wrath, not just at the Germans, but at the coward who had opened their mouths and signed others' death warrants. This wasn’t about justice. It was about vengeance.

  "If they’re still alive," Emmett continued, "then we drag them out of whatever hole they’re hiding in and make them answer for it. That’s the least we owe the ones they buried."

  Luc stepped forward, his voice cautious. "I asked around. No one knows for certain who the collaborator is. Or they are too afraid to say."

  Emmett looked at Luc. "Who did you speak with?"

  Luc hesitated. "Mostly Armand. the Tavern keeper. He still supports us, quietly. He’s careful. But he said he’ll help how he can."

  Emmett nodded. A plan beginning to formulate.

  Henri looked to Emmett and cocked an eyebrow. "You have something in mind?"

  Emmett sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. "We take a Wehrmacht officer. Drag him into the woods. Ask our questions."

  Henri gave a humorless smirk. "Ah. A friendly chat, yes?"

  Emmett didn’t return it. "The right one will know. And he’ll talk. One way or another."

  Luc rubbed his chin. "It won’t go unnoticed. The moment one disappears, they’ll suspect the village."

  "That’s why we need to move fast," Emmett said. "We'll wait for one to get comfortable. Drink. Get sloppy."

  Henri nodded, grim. Then he turned to Luc. "Was Marie working at the tavern tonight?"

  Luc shrugged. "I didn’t see her. I couldn’t stay long of course. But I saw a few officers at the tavern," Luc added. "Drinking, laughing like kings.” He said with barely contained disgust.

  Henri’s eyes narrowed, mind clearly turning.

  Emmett looked off through the trees toward the distant village. "Any word about Adele? Julien?"

  Luc lowered his eyes. "I went to her house. It was dark. Curtains drawn. I knocked, but no one came."

  Emmett gave a slight nod, jaw tightening again. He didn’t speak further.

  They had work to do.

  The night air was thick with the scent of spilled beer, old tobacco, and the faint musk of damp cobblestones. Emmett leaned heavily against the wall outside the tavern, swaying just enough to make it look convincing. He muttered to himself in slurred French, his head hanging low as though he’d had too many drinks to stand properly.

  A few villagers passed by, sparing him little more than a disinterested glance. He worried that someone might recognize him, but for now he had gone unnoticed. Drunken men loitering outside taverns weren’t uncommon of course. Especially not in occupied France, where misery often led people to drown their sorrows in liquor. That was exactly what Emmett was counting on.

  Inside, the plan was unfolding. A local woman, Marie was playing her part, charming a Wehrmacht officer known for his fondness for French women and cheap wine. Henri had chosen her carefully. She had a sharp mind and an even sharper tongue, but most importantly, she knew how to handle herself.

  Emmett adjusted his stance, eyes flicking toward the window of the room above. Then, the light flared.

  A golden glow spilled from the window, illuminating the alley in thin streaks of light. Emmett straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders.

  Showtime.

  Inside, he could hear the drunken mutterings of the Oberleutnant, his words sluggish and thick. Marie’s laughter followed. A soft, sultry thing laced with amusement. She was playing the part well. The shuffle of feet against the wooden floor signaled the next step.

  In one smooth motion, Emmett pulled the window open and hoisted himself up, slipping through without a sound.

  Henri was already inside. The German officer was on his back, his eyes wide with panic as Henri straddled his chest, one hand clamped firmly over his mouth while the other pressed a Walther P38 to the side of his skull. The Oberleutnant struggled, his breath coming in sharp, terrified pants. His uniform, still buttoned neatly despite his intoxicated state, bore the insignia of his rank.

  Perfect.

  Marie straightened her dress with a smirk, stepping back toward the door. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to your business,” she murmured in French, her voice low and sweet. Her eyes met Emmett’s briefly, searching.

  Emmett nodded in silent thanks. Marie had done her part, now it was up to them.

  She slipped out, locking the door behind her with a deliberate click.

  Emmett stepped forward slowly, crouching down beside the terrified man. He smiled, drawing his knife with deliberate ease.

  “Guten Abend,” Emmett said smoothly in German, his voice almost pleasant.

  The officer’s wild eyes snapped to him.

  Emmett tapped the flat of the dagger’s tip against the man’s cheek, just below his left eye. “We have some questions for you,” he continued, his tone light, conversational. “Of course, not here. We’d rather not be… interrupted.”

  The officer flinched as the cold steel touched his skin. His breath came in ragged gasps against Henri’s hand, his body rigid with fear.

  Emmett tilted his head slightly, as if considering. “If you cry out for help,” he murmured, his voice dropping to something quieter, more intimate, “I’ll take your eyes.”

  The German’s chest heaved, his breath hitching in his throat. Sweat beaded along his temple, his pupils wide with terror.

  Henri shifted, pressing the muzzle of the Walther harder against the officer’s skull. “Do you understand?” Henri asked, his German rough but clear.

  The officer gave a frantic nod, his breath still coming in short, panicked bursts.

  Emmett leaned in just a little closer, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Good.”

  Then he nodded to Henri.

  The German’s eyes darted between the two men, realization dawning in his expression. He knew whatever came next, there was no chance of talking his way out of it.

  Emmett pulled a few rags from his pocket, rolling them up tightly before shoving them into the officer’s mouth. The man let out a muffled grunt of protest, thrashing weakly.

  Emmett leaned in, his voice a low, lethal whisper.

  “I warned you.”

  The struggling ceased immediately.

  Henri secured the gag in place with another strip of cloth, tying it tight behind the man’s head, then moved so he was crouching beside him. Forcing him to sit up, he yanked off the man’s tunic with sharp, practiced movements. The officer bucked slightly in resistance, but Emmett was already leaning over him, the gleaming dagger in his hand tapping lightly against the man’s throat.

  The message was clear.

  The German went still, his wide, panicked eyes flicking between the two men.

  Henri tossed the man’s tunic under the bed, then made the officer stand up and pulled Emmett’s heavier, darker coat over the man’s shoulders. The officer’s breath hitched as Henri worked the sleeves over his wrists, then binding them together tightly with a thick strip of cloth.

  “Should keep him warm,” Henri remarked dryly.

  Emmett grunted, his focus on the next part. He took off his own scarf and looped it around the lower half of the German’s face, obscuring the gag.

  The officer was breathing hard, nostrils flaring, his chest heaving in panic.

  Emmett stood, giving him a quick once-over.

  With Emmett’s coat, the man looked less like an officer and more like a local. The only remnants of his uniform being his trousers and boots.

  Perfect.

  Emmett pressed the tip of his knife into the man’s ribs, just enough to remind him it was there. “We’re going for a walk,” he murmured in German, his tone eerily casual. “No sudden moves. If you make a sound, I carve you open, and your guts will decorate the ground.”

  The German nodded frantically, muffled noises escaping past the rags.

  Henri smirked and looped his arm under the officer’s, keeping a firm grip on his shoulder. “That’s a good little pig,” he muttered, adjusting his grip. “Let’s move before we overstay our welcome.”

  They worked the officer toward the window, maneuvering his bound form carefully. Emmett slipped out first, landing silently in the alleyway below. The dim moonlight filtered through the narrow street, casting just enough light to navigate. He turned and reached up, gripping the officer’s bound wrists as Henri eased him through the window.

  The officer whimpered as he was lowered down. Emmett caught him by the arms, dragging him onto steady ground. Henri tucked his pistol into his belt under his coat and followed, landing softly beside them.

  Emmett shifted his knife, pressing it lightly against the officer’s side. He leaned in close, his breath hot against the man’s ear.

  “Remember If you try to run, call for help, I’ll take your eyes.”

  A muffled whimper. A sharp nod.

  Emmett straightened and slung an arm around the officer’s shoulder as if steadying a drunk friend. Henri did the same, taking the other side.

  They moved swiftly but carefully, guiding the officer through the quiet village streets.

  The night was still, the air thick with the faint scent of chimney smoke and damp earth. Most of the village was asleep save the rotating patrols, and a few dimly lit windows. The occasional crunch of gravel underfoot sent Emmett’s pulse spiking, but they kept moving, their pace even and measured.

  They passed between buildings, sticking to the narrowest alleyways, keeping their heads down. The officer shuffled awkwardly between them, only keeping his footing thanks to Emmett and Henri keeping the panicked man upright.

  Then they turned a corner, and froze.

  An older man sat in a rickety wooden chair outside a small house, smoking a cigarette. The glowing ember brightened as he took a long drag, the smoke curling into the night air.

  His sharp eyes flicked toward them, narrowing slightly. “Who’s there?” he called in French, his voice rough with age and exhaustion.

  Henri barely hesitated.

  “Ah, just us, monsieur Perrin!” he slurred, putting on the voice of a man deep in his cups. “Had a long night. Figured we should get this drunk bastard home before he pisses himself in the street.”

  Emmett forced a wobbly step, exaggerating the sway of a drunk man trying to keep his balance. Henri chuckled, playing along.

  Perrin leaned forward slightly, his gaze scrutinizing them. His eyes lingered on the officer, taking in his rigid posture, the panicked darting of his gaze. The muffled grunts beneath the scarf.

  His face changed.

  Recognition. As his sharp eyes realized who he was looking at.

  Emmett tensed, shifting his grip on the knife.

  Perrin’s lips parted as if to speak, but then he exhaled slowly, rubbing a tired hand over his lined face. He cleared his throat, then looked directly at Emmett.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice heavy, knowing.

  Emmett straightened slightly, but Henri answered first.

  “We’re doing what we have to,” Henri said, his voice low but firm. “For those who died. For those who died because of him.”

  Perrin’s gaze flicked back to the officer. His expression was unreadable.

  Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

  The old man studied the officer like one might inspect a rotting carcass, his cigarette dangling from his fingers. The officer whimpered, shrinking back slightly as Perrin leaned in.

  For a long moment, the only sound was the officers heavy breathing.

  Perrin sighed. A deep, weary sound.

  He turned his gaze back to Henri and Emmett. “I want to blame you,” he murmured. “You and your damn resistance.” His fingers tightened around his cigarette, his voice bitter. “I want to say this hell fell upon us because of you. That the people they hung from those gallows…” His voice caught, but he swallowed it down, his jaw tightening. “…that their blood is on your hands.”

  Emmett’s grip on the officer tightened. Henri’s jaw flexed.

  Perrin exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “But that’s not the truth, is it?” He looked back at the officer, his lip curling in disgust. “They are the reason for all of this.”

  He took one last, long drag from his cigarette, then turned away.

  He limped back to his chair and sat heavily, his eyes staring out into the dark.

  “Make him suffer,” he said, his voice distant. Detached. “Make him suffer for all of them.”

  Henri swallowed, his fingers twitching slightly where they gripped the officer’s arm.

  Emmett gave Perrin a long look, then nodded.

  “Let’s get going,” he murmured.

  Henri nodded back. “Bonne nuit, Perrin.”

  The old man didn’t respond.

  He simply sat there, staring into the void, the trembling ember of his cigarette glowing faintly in the dark.

  Emmett and Henri turned, hauling the officer forward.

  They disappeared into the night, their prisoner shuffling between them. Dragged toward the inevitable.

  The forest was silent save for the ragged breathing of the bound man, his chest rising and falling in rapid succession, his body slick with sweat. The others stood in a loose circle around the scene, their faces set in hard expressions. The flickering glow of a single lantern casting jagged shadows across the dirt. Henri stood just behind Emmett, his features unreadable, his posture tense.

  Emmett knelt before the officer, his knife pressed against the man’s heaving chest, the tip biting into fabric, then flesh. The German let out a muffled grunt, his body stiffening. His hands, bound tightly behind the tree trunk, flexed helplessly. His pulse thundered against the blade’s point, a frantic rhythm under Emmett’s hand.

  Emmett locked eyes with him, speaking in soft, German.

  Cool. Detached. Calculating.

  "My knife is resting right over your heart," he murmured. "A little more pressure, and it slides straight in."

  The officer whimpered, his eyes wild with terror.

  Then, abruptly, Emmett pulled the blade free. A sharp gasp of relief escaped the German’s throat. It barely had time to settle before Emmett grabbed his face, yanking his head sideways, exposing the stretch of his jawline and ear.

  Cold steel kissed the sensitive skin just beneath the man’s earlobe.

  Emmett smiled. A warm, almost friendly expression.

  "That’s not what I’ll do, though," he murmured, his voice almost soothing. "I’m not going to kill you."

  The officer’s breath hitched, his terror now mingled with desperate confusion.

  Emmett’s smile widened as he dragged the blade down, tapping it just below the man’s eye.

  "I’ll let you live."

  The German shuddered.

  "But..." Emmett continued, his voice lowering, becoming almost intimate. "I’ll take your eyes. Your ears. Your tongue. Your balls. Your fingers. I’ll let you live as a wretched little nothing. A blind, deaf, mute sack of meat. That’s the future you’re looking at."

  The officer began whimpering, his head shaking in tiny, frantic motions against the bark of the tree.

  Emmett reached for the gag, gripping the cloth binding the rags in place.

  "A single lie," Emmett warned, his voice now a razor’s edge. "Just one... and I start carving."

  The man nodded furiously, trembling in agreement.

  Emmett yanked the gag down and pulled the rags from his mouth. The officer gasped sharply, sucking in deep, desperate gulps of air. A thick string of saliva dripped from his lips, but he hardly seemed to care. He coughed violently, spitting onto the dirt.

  A beat passed. Then, in a shaky voice, he rasped, "What do you want?"

  Emmett adjusted his grip on the knife, letting the blade rest against the man’s throat, just beneath his chin.

  "Someone talked," he said. "Someone told you who was helping us. I want to know who."

  The officer’s head lolled back slightly against the tree. His eyes darted between Emmett and Henri, searching for mercy he wouldn’t find. He let out a broken, terrified sound.

  "If I don’t know a name?" he asked. "will a description suffice?"

  Emmett smirked, lifting the tip of the knife to tap lightly under the man’s chin. "That’s right."

  The German exhaled shakily.

  "I… I will tell you what I know," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It isn’t much... but I swear it’s the truth."

  Emmett gave him a slow, expectant nod.

  The officer swallowed hard. "I only heard this secondhand. My company relieved the previous one who occupied the village. But they had caught a boy."

  Emmett’s fingers tensed on the knife handle.

  "A messenger," the officer continued. "Running messages back and forth in the village. Secret communications. We caught him, and he…" The man hesitated. "He was young. Just a boy."

  His terrified gaze lifted to Emmett’s. A hollow, nervous smile twitched at the corner of his mouth.

  "A girl pleaded for him."

  The breath in Emmett’s chest froze.

  "Begging," the officer continued, his words tumbling forward now. "Begging us not to kill her brother."

  The world began to blur. The edges of everything. The trees, the lantern glow, the shapes of the men standing around them, seemed to darken. Narrowing down to just the German’s face, his thin, quivering lips, his sweat-slick skin.

  "She gave us names," the officer admitted, his voice fragile. "To save him. She told us who had been helping the Resistance."

  The words felt distant, underwater, like a garbled, distorted echo.

  "I don’t know who she was," the officer hurried to add. “This is all I know.”

  Emmett stared at him. His face betrayed nothing. No reaction. No hint of the violent, twisting horror clawing its way up his throat.

  "You’re sure," Emmett said, his voice deathly quiet.

  The officer nodded frantically. "I swear it."

  A long silence settled over them.

  Henri exhaled through his nose, shifting uncomfortably. His fingers flexed at his sides. Then, stepping forward slightly, he rested a hand on Emmett’s shoulder.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  "We don’t know for sure it was her."

  Emmett nodded once. He knew Henri was right. They didn’t know for sure.

  But he felt it.

  A slow, creeping nausea spread through his stomach, tightening his chest.

  Henri hesitated, then asked carefully, "What do we do with him?"

  Emmett exhaled, forcing himself to steady his breathing.

  "Keep him alive." His voice was flat. Hollow. “Get what you can about how many troops are in the village, and anything else useful."

  Henri studied him for a moment, concern flickering behind his dark eyes. He nodded.

  "Alright."

  Emmett took a slow step back. The others were watching him, unreadable expressions on their faces. Emmett ignored them. He adjusted his coat, gripping his knife tightly before tucking it away.

  "You all stay here." He could barely hear his own voice. It felt distant, detached. "I need to talk to her."

  Henri nodded, offering quiet reassurance. "It might not have been her, Emmett."

  Another nod.

  Emmett barely felt his own feet as he turned.

  He walked away from the lantern glow, slipping into the darkness, heading back toward the village. His heart was hammering, his breath short and shallow, his thoughts unraveling into something cold and heavy.

  Adele.

  Had she done this?

  His pulse roared in his ears, and for the first time in a long, long time, Emmett was afraid.

  The spoon in Adele’s trembling fingers clattered against the rim of the ceramic bowl. The thin porridge inside had long since cooled, a film forming over its surface. She had been staring at it for what felt like hours, unable to bring herself to eat. Every bite had become a struggle. An unbearable weight pressing against her stomach, making her nauseous.

  Her breath hitched as she forced the spoon into the thick sludge. The scent turned her stomach, a wave of bile rising in her throat. Her grip on the spoon tightened, her knuckles paling as anger, frustration, and guilt surged through her.

  With a strangled cry, she lashed out, sending the bowl flying. It struck the wall with a loud crack, shattering into jagged pieces, its contents splattering in uneven streaks against the wood.

  Adele squeezed her eyes shut, pressing her palms hard against her temples, trying. Failing, to steady her breathing.

  Her hands shook as she forced herself to her feet. With slow, deliberate movements, she retrieved a rag from the counter and knelt beside the mess she had made. She scrubbed furiously, as if she could erase something deeper than the spilled porridge.

  Then, a floorboard creaked.

  The rag slipped from her fingers. She froze.

  Adele slowly straightened, turning her head toward the sound. A tall figure loomed in the doorway, the dim light casting his face in shadow. For half a second, her heart seized with terror. Until recognition struck like a hammer.

  Emmett.

  She gasped, a strangled sound escaping her lips as she stumbled backward, her body shaking with overwhelming emotion. And then it broke free. A wretched, keening sob ripped from her throat as she collapsed onto the floor.

  She cried, wailed. Grief and relief and guilt intertwining into something unbearable.

  Emmett did not move. He stood there, his face unreadable, his green eyes fixed on her.

  She looked up at him, her tear-streaked face contorted with misery. “Where…” Her voice cracked. She swallowed thickly. “Where have you been?”

  He stepped forward, slow and deliberate.

  His boots stopped just inches from where she knelt, her small frame dwarfed by his towering presence. She could hear his breathing. Slow, controlled, too measured. He knelt, leveling himself with her, his face eerily calm.

  “What happened?” His voice was low, devoid of warmth.

  Adele’s breath caught. Her lips parted, but the words refused to come. Her entire body trembled as she tried to form an answer.

  His gaze did not waver. “Did you talk?”

  She hesitated. The silence between them stretched, taut as a wire.

  Her chin dropped. A single, almost imperceptible nod.

  Emmett didn’t react.

  She forced herself to speak, her voice a hoarse whisper. “They caught Julien.”

  Emmett’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and continued, the words spilling from her in broken sobs. “He was… He was carrying messages. I didn’t know, Emmett. I didn’t know.”

  Her fingers curled against the wooden floor.

  “They, they tortured him,” she choked, her breath hitching violently. “He wouldn’t talk, not even when they…” She let out a small, shattered sob. “I was scared. I begged them not to kill him, Emmett. I pleaded.”

  She lifted her head, meeting his eyes.

  “I told them,” She whispered. “I told them who had been helping the Resistance.”

  Emmett exhaled slowly through his nose. His expression remained unreadable.

  Adele’s voice broke as she sobbed, “They killed him anyway.”

  Her body convulsed with grief. “They killed everyone.” Her fingers dug into the floorboards. “I was weak. I was so scared, Emmett…”

  “Why are you still alive?” Emmett said flatly, cutting her off.

  The words were so cold, so hollow, that for a moment, she thought she had imagined them.

  She blinked up at him, confusion knitting her brow.

  Emmett stared down at her, his face devoid of emotion. “Why do you get to live when so many others didn’t?”

  Her lips trembled. She tried to answer, tried to find the words… but before she could, he moved.

  His hand shot forward, tangling roughly in her hair.

  She let out a startled cry as he yanked her up, dragging her toward the bedroom.

  “Emmett… please!” she gasped, her hands flying to his wrist, struggling against his grip. “Wait… stop!”

  He ignored her, his grip ironclad as he all but threw her onto the bed.

  Adele scrambled to sit up, her breath coming in sharp gasps, her eyes wide with terror. “Emmett, please!”

  He rolled her onto her back, one hand forcing her down as the other wrapped around her throat.

  She clawed at his wrist, her nails digging into his skin, but his grip only tightened.

  Her eyes bulged, her face contorted in terror. "Emmett! I’m…”

  A pillow muffled her scream.

  Adele’s body bucked beneath him, her legs kicking wildly as he pressed the fabric down harder. Her hands flailed, grasping at anything. His arms, his shirt, until her strength began to fail.

  The knife slipped from its sheath.

  Emmett adjusted his weight, shifting just enough to position the blade over her chest.

  He raised it, the cold steel gleaming in the dim candlelight.

  Then.

  Something made him pause.

  For the first time, he really looked at her.

  Pinned beneath him, Adele’s body was arched in terror, her hands trembling as they grasped weakly at his wrist. His focus shifted. His gaze dragging lower, drawn by something his mind hadn’t registered before.

  The way her dress bunched around her waist. The swell of her stomach.

  Too round. Too full.

  Something inside him twisted. A terrible, icy sensation crawled up his spine.

  His fingers flexed around the knife’s handle, but he didn’t bring it down.

  Adele let out a choking sob, her body trembling violently. Then, with a shaking hand, she reached for him. Not to push him away, not to claw at him in desperation, but to guide his hand.

  Emmett flinched as her fingers, clammy and frail, wrapped around his wrist.

  Slowly, so slowly, she pressed his palm against her stomach.

  And then he felt it.

  A jolt beneath his hand. A movement, faint but undeniable.

  A kick.

  The knife almost slipped from his grip. A cold sweat running down his spine.

  His breath hitched, his mind fracturing under the weight of realization.

  Adele sobbed harder, her lips trembling as she forced the words out between gasping breaths.

  “I-I’m… having your child, Emmett.”

  Her voice cracked on his name, raw with pain and desperation. Her fingers, still resting over his, trembled.

  “Our child.”

  His throat clenched. His entire body went rigid.

  His hand twitched against her stomach, as if it burned to touch her. He felt it again. A shift, a flutter, a life moving beneath his palm.

  His child.

  His.

  Adele let out a broken sob, her free hand clutching his sleeve. “Please,” she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Please, Emmett.”

  His fingers curled into a fist, slowly withdrawing from her skin.

  Adele’s tear-streaked face searched his, desperate, pleading… hoping.

  His expression was blank. His body frozen, rigid as stone.

  But his eyes. His eyes were wide, filled with something beyond fury, beyond grief. Something unreadable.

  Something unbearable.

  He stepped back, his breath unsteady.

  Then he turned.

  And without a single word, without a glance, without hesitation.

  He walked out of the house.

  Into the night.

  Leaving her behind.

  Leaving them behind.

  Emmett Granger stalked through the darkened woods, his boots crushing fallen leaves and twigs underfoot. His mind was blank, an endless chasm of blind, hate-filled fury that swallowed everything in its wake. He didn’t feel the cold bite of the night air. He didn’t feel the sting of exhaustion weighing down his limbs.

  The trees blurred past him, and then he was in the clearing. The makeshift camp the resistance had set up flickered with dim lantern light, scattered among crates of stolen munitions and bedrolls hastily thrown together. The scent of oil and unwashed bodies filled the air. But he barely noticed.

  The Headhunters milling about caught sight of him and froze. He could feel their eyes on him, wide and wary. They didn’t know what had happened yet. But they saw it. The change in him. Like they were looking at something untethered, something wrong. A man with no soul left in his body.

  Henri was the first to step forward, his brow furrowed in concern. "Emmett?" His voice was calm, measured. "What happened?"

  Emmett didn’t answer. He didn’t stop.

  He walked straight toward the German officer tied to the tree in the center of the camp. The man still bound and slumped against the rough bark, his shirt disheveled, his eyes downcast. He didn’t even hear Emmett coming. Not until it was too late.

  In one swift motion, Emmett drew his knife and plunged it deep into the man's gut.

  A sharp, wet gasp tore from the officer’s mouth, his body seizing as his wide, terrified eyes locked onto Emmett’s. He tried to mouth something. Plead, beg, something. But Emmett didn’t give a damn. He yanked the knife out and plunged it into the mans chest.

  A startled gasp of surprise rose from one of the fighters. Someone took a step back.

  Emmett didn’t care.

  Didn’t hear them.

  Didn’t see them.

  All he saw was Adele’s panicked eyes.

  With a furious curse, he ripped the knife free and drove it back in.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  A guttural growl built in Emmett’s chest, turning into something unrecognizable. Something more animal than man, as he stabbed the officer over and over. The blade cut through flesh, through bone, through whatever remained of the man’s life.

  The German’s gasps turned to choked gurgles. Blood gushed from his lips, his body jerking violently with every strike. Emmett didn’t stop. He couldn’t. The knife sank in and out, in and out, faster and faster, his arm a blur.

  By the time the blade stopped, it was still buried deep in the officer’s chest. The man’s body had slumped against the tree he’d been tied to, his uniform slick with red, his head lolling forward. Blood ran in thick rivers from his mouth, pooling beneath him in the dirt.

  Emmett stood over him, chest heaving, his own hands-stained crimson. The world around him was a distant hum.

  A hand rested cautiously on his shoulder.

  “Emmett,” Henri said, his voice measured, careful, like a man trying to calm a rabid dog. “What the fuck happened?”

  Emmett didn’t respond. He was still staring at the corpse, jaw clenched so tight his teeth might shatter.

  Henri took a step back.

  A few of the Headhunters were still standing there, frozen, their faces a mixture of shock and unease.

  Emmett turned toward them slowly.

  His face was unreadable

  And then he smiled.

  A sharp, humorless thing, all teeth and no warmth.

  In a low, cold voice, he asked, “Who wants to kill Germans tonight?”

  Silence.

  No one moved. No one breathed.

  The way they looked at him… like they were staring at something wrong. Something feral.

  The wind softly stirred the trees. Their branches swaying.

  Emmett stepped forward, scanning their faces.

  “People died for us,” he said, voice steady. Quiet. Deadly. “Good people. People who didn’t have to die.” His fingers curled around the hilt of his knife, yanking it free from the dead officer’s chest with a sickening schlck. He wiped the blade on his sleeve. The blood smeared, dark and fresh.

  He pointed to where the village lay beyond the tree’s.

  “We’re going to return the favor.”

  Still, no one moved.

  Emmett let out a slow breath, shaking his head.

  “Cowards.” The word dripped from his lips like poison.

  The tension snapped. A few of the men bristled, shifting in place.

  Henri, who had been watching Emmett carefully, finally sighed. He turned to the others and gave a small, almost helpless chuckle. “Well, you heard the man,” he said, his usual lightness gone. “Might as well follow him before he decides to really go off the rails.”

  There was a pause. Then, one by one, the men started moving.

  A ripple of unease still clung to them, but Henri’s words had done enough to break the paralysis.

  Emmett said nothing. Just turned, grabbed a pair of binoculars, and his MP40 and started marching toward the village.

  The men hesitated, glancing at each other.

  Henri gave them a pointed look.

  A beat of silence. Then, like dominoes, they fell into step behind Emmett.

  Henri followed last, muttering something under his breath as he adjusted his rifle.

  Emmett stalked through the forest, boots crushing undergrowth with mechanical purpose. The Headhunters followed behind him in tense silence, the air around them charged like the seconds before a lightning strike. None dared speak. Not after what they’d seen in the clearing.

  Henri jogged up alongside, breath misting in the cold night air. He reached out and patted Emmett's shoulder.

  "Emmett... Mon ami," Henri said cautiously, voice low. There was a tightness in his features, like a man reaching out to touch a coiled snake. "We need to speak of what comes next."

  Emmett didn’t even acknowledge him. Didn’t grunt. Didn’t blink.

  Henri pressed on, shooting a glance to Luc walking beside them.

  "The officer said there are twenty-five Wehrmacht in the village. Bored. Complacent. But that still puts us at less than half their number. We must be smart about this."

  Still nothing.

  Henri frowned, then stepped ahead and turned, planting himself in Emmett's path. "Emmett! Speak to me, dammit. Do you intend to march into that village with no plan?"

  He grabbed Emmett’s shoulder.

  For half a breath, the world stilled.

  Emmett finally looked at him.

  Henri flinched. The look in Emmett’s eyes was feral. Wide. Wrong. It wasn’t rage. It was starvation. The face of a man who’d already died and was starting to enjoy it.

  Henri's pulse hammered.

  But then, a flicker. A breath of recognition. The beast eased, just slightly. Emmett’s jaw unclenched. His hand clenching the MP40

  Henri let out the breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

  "Bon," he said quietly, clearing his throat. "Let’s talk, yes? I want blood just as much as you. But I want our men to come back with all their bits intact."

  Emmett finally nodded.

  Henri looked around at the Headhunters who had gathered in a loose semi-circle around them. Their expressions were a volatile mix. Wariness, uncertainty, and something deeper, darker. Some of them looked ready to kill with their bare hands. Weapons weren’t slung; they were held tight, knuckles white. Their eyes burned. Not just with the desire for revenge, but hatred. Hatred for the enemy that had humiliated them, butchered their friends, and now lived fat and lazy in the very village that had been a sanctuary.

  Henri knelt, and picked up a thin stick from the ground and began drawing a rough layout of the village with a stick. "Here's what we shall do," he said in a low, clear tone. His voice steadied the others.

  Henri glanced up once, just to be sure Emmett was still with him.

  He was.

  Staring at the rough layout of the map carved into earth.

  Silent.

  Waiting for the chance to burn the world.

  The upstairs rooms of the tavern were heavy with rot. Stale vomit, piss, and the sharp tang of spilled liquor saturated the air, thick enough to taste. Two Wehrmacht officers lay sprawled in separate beds, stripped down to their undershirts, boots kicked off, limbs limp with drink. A knocked-over bottle glinted in the moonlight filtering through the curtains. A slop bucket sat cocked at a precarious angle against the bed leg. Some of it's contents spilled across the wood floor.

  Henri crept forward first, each step carefully placed, his boots muffled by tightly bound rags. The boards creaked faintly under his weight, but the stench of piss and liquor told him these bastards weren’t waking for anything short of artillery. Luc moved with him, his blade held low, his movements ghostlike in the gloom. Their eyes locked for a heartbeat. A sharp, silent understanding passing between them. Then, like twin shadows, they split, each veering toward their target with lethal intent.

  Henri leaned over the first officer, staring down at the man’s slack-jawed face. He could smell the alcohol on his breath. Pale, clammy skin shone with a drunken sweat. Luc raised a hand, signaling readiness. Henri nodded back and inched his free hand toward the officer's mouth.

  One last glance. A breath held.

  Their hands struck in unison.

  Calloused palms slammed down over slack mouths as the knives plunged deep. The officer beneath Henri jolted awake, bloodshot eyes going wide with panic. But no sound escaped, only a muffled gurgle. Henri’s blade met the briefest resistance from the skin, the tip of his nicked knife pressing more than cutting. Then the skin broke and the steel practically glid in. He yanked the blade free and drove it again between the ribs. The man's eyes went glassy as warm blood bubbled up beneath Henri’s fingers.

  Henri nodded and let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He turned to see that Luc was already done. He wiped his blade on the officer’s tunic and gave Henri a curt nod.

  Henri stood, flexing blood-slick fingers. He studied the body for a moment. The way it slumped, the twitching that had already begun to fade. Then he wiped his hand on the man’s sleeve and followed Luc to the window.

  Luc pulled a mirror from his coat and angled it outside, catching the moonlight. A flick of reflection. The signal was sent.

  They turned from the window and left the room quietly, stepping carefully over the floorboards, blades already cleaned and tucked away. The bodies behind them were still, the tangy, almost metallic smell of blood now added to the stench. Henri eased the door shut behind them with a soft click. Luc gave him a nod, and together they moved toward the stairwell.

  Out on the landing, Marcel and Thierry stood waiting, hands wet with fresh blood. Marcel, a wiry man with a sharp mustache, shook his head in quiet disbelief.

  "They slept like babes, Henri," he whispered. "Didn’t even twitch."

  Henri nodded. "Ours too. Come, we’ve work yet."

  They descended the creaking stairs into the empty tavern below. Armand, the Innkeeper, gave them a polite nod as they passed. Then returned to scrubbing at a dark stain near the hearth. Behind the bar, a Wehrmacht soldier slumped lifeless behind the counter, the rag to muffle his scream still stuffed in his mouth. A soaked rag was wrapped around his neck, more an attempt to keep blood from further spilling than any courtesy.

  They slipped through the back door of the tavern, one after the other. Henri led the way, followed by Luc, Marcel, and Thierry. The door eased shut behind them with a faint click. Their footsteps were muted on the packed earth, eyes already adjusting to the low light as they moved along the side of the building.

  Behind the tavern, four more Headhunters waited in the shadows.

  "Radio's gone," one of them muttered. "Smashed it to pieces."

  Henri nodded. "Good. Spread out. Locate your patrols. Wait five minutes before contact. No earlier. Let the others fall into place. Then butcher them."

  The men nodded grimly, collecting Submachinegun's from their hiding place and vanishing into the dark.

  Henri exhaled, turning to Luc.

  "I’ll join Emmett’s team. But we'll need someone else to reinforce your side. I’ll send one from there."

  Luc arched a brow. "You’re worried Emmett will lose control."

  Henri hesitated. "He already has. But if he goes too far, we lose more than Germans."

  Luc sighed, adjusting the sling of his weapon. "What happened to him? He’s always been... mad. But now he looks like he’s not coming back."

  Henri shook his head. "I don’t know, mon ami. He hasn’t spoken of it."

  Luc’s expression tightened. "You think it was Adele?"

  Henri stopped walking. Turned to him.

  "We don’t speak of that. Not now. Not tonight."

  Luc gave a solemn nod. "Bonne chance."

  "Et toi."

  Henri melted into the shadows, slipping between the village buildings with the ease of a man who’d done this far too many times.

  Henri crept along the outer wall of a building, his steps soundless against the packed earth. At the edge of the alley, he paused, pressing himself into the shadows. He peered past a crumbling stone fence. The storage building stood ahead near the edge of the village, its silhouette stark against the paling eastern sky. He adjusted his grip on the MP40 beneath his coat and kept moving, the weight of the coming violence heavy on his shoulders.

  Henri moved slower as he left the cover of the alleys. Ahead, he caught sight of two Wehrmacht soldiers shuffling through their patrol route, rifles slung carelessly and postures slack. One of them paused to light a cigarette. The cherry briefly illuminating his face in a dull glow.

  So far everything had gone along as planned. Better than planned. But of course, there was still more to do. And if he was being honest, he worried that Emmett might do something brash.

  He turned his gaze toward Adele’s home. The structure sat quiet and unmoving, its windows dark, the curtains drawn like a closed eye. Henri stared a moment longer, unease gnawing at him.

  What had happened there?

  Henri exhaled through his nose and pushed it from his mind. He adjusted the MP40 beneath his coat and slipped toward the cluster of men waiting in the shadows. Emmett was amongst them, taking a bag from off his shoulders.

  Even in the dim light, he could see it. something off in Emmett. A kind of wrongness that clung to him like smoke.

  Henri knelt beside the men, pointed to one of them, and sending him of to join Luc. Then opened a canvas satchel. Inside, a dozen Stielhandgranaten lay nestled like rotten fruit. Henri pulled two free, twisting the base caps off to expose the pull cords. He seized both cords loosely in his free hand.

  The others did the same, eyes gleaming with nervous energy. One of them licked his lips, jittery with anticipation.

  But Emmett didn’t move. He just crouched there, staring into the dark.

  "Mon ami," Henri whispered. "Are you ready?"

  Emmett turned to him, blank-eyed. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached into the bag and took two grenades.

  Twisting off the base caps, he suddenly yanked both cords and stood.

  Henri’s blood ran cold.

  "No..."

  Emmett hurled both grenades through the nearest window. Glass shattered, clattering inward.

  Screams followed, raw and panicked as the men inside reacted.

  Henri flinched and turned away, shielding his face from the expected blast. But before the grenades could even detonate, gunfire erupted across the village. Sharp, fast, and purposeful. Henri’s breath caught in his throat, then released in a low exhale of relief.

  The signal

  The grenades detonated with thunderous force. The concussion rocked the night, smoke billowing outward as some of the windows shattered from the blast.

  Henri rose to throw his grenades, hand tightening on the pullcords, when he saw Emmett grab the window sill and vault inside.

  "Merde!" Henri cursed, letting the grenades drop as he brought his rifle forward. He sprinted to a window, smashing what remained of the glass with his rifle butt.

  A shadow moved. One of the Germans lunging for a rifle beside his cot.

  Henri fired, the bullet tearing through the man’s chest.

  "Emmett! we'll cover from the window, damn you!" he shouted.

  To his left, a Headhunter opened up with his MP40, stitching the shadows inside with gunfire.

  Emmett walked through the carnage, smoke swirling around him. The MP40 chattered in his hands, muzzle flashes lighting up the chaos.

  Figures moving, the muzzle flash illuminating faces as the rounds cut through uniforms and flesh.

  Emmett’s mind was silent. The world narrowed to movement and sound and recoil.

  A man rose with hands up. Emmett didn’t hesitate and fired a burst into his chest.

  Another reached for a rifle. He was dead before his fingers touched the stock.

  The submachinegun suddenly clicked empty. The bolt falling on an empty chamber.

  Emmett tore the empty magazine out, and yanked the bolt, rearwards.

  Three Wehrmacht trying to flee, burst through the door in the rear of the building.

  One of the Headhunters was waiting. A short burst dropped them all in their tracks, the men collapsed, writhing and screaming.

  Emmett dove behind a stack of crates as a rifle cracked and splinters exploded near his head. Striking the headboard of a nearby bed frame. The shooter had taken cover behind an overturned table across the room.

  Then another shot rang out. Sharp and close. The German soldier jerked, stumbled, and collapsed with a cry, a fresh red hole in his chest.

  Henri stood at the shattered window, the barrel of his rifle warm. Smoke drifted from the muzzle as he chambered another round, watching through the haze.

  Henri exhaled, the tension in his shoulders slackening slightly. Then, stepping back from the window, he circled the building's edge toward the front, boots crunching softly against the debris-littered ground.

  Emmett fumbled in his coat for a magazine, breath shallow, hands slightly shaking. A figure to his left. One of the Germans who had managed to circle around in the confusion. The soldier raised his rifle and fired, the shot going wide, adrenaline throwing off his aim. The bullet slammed into a crate near Emmett's head, splinters flying as Emmett flinched back.

  The soldier rather than chambering a round, lifted his weapon and lunged, bayonet fixed. Emmett rolled to the side, just as the blade thudded into the wood missing him just barely.

  Emmett leapt up into the man, drawing his knife as he tackled him to the floor. The soldier caught Emmett’s wrists as the blade came down, muscles straining. The tip of the blade drove partially into his shoulder, earning a guttural cry. The German twisted hard, trying to wrench it away. Emmett snarled, pushing down with all his weight, the knife trembling between them as both fought for control.

  Then the German gained the upper hand, managing to shove Emmett to the side. The man leapt onto Emmett's back, seizing his wrists and with a furious cry managed to turn the blade back towards Emmett.

  Emmett suddenly let go with one hand, grabbing the blade itself, fingers slicing as he managed to angle it away from himself just as Emmett was shoved down. The flat of the blade pressed against his chest.

  Emmett rammed an elbow into the man’s ribs behind him, and rolled clear.

  As they rose together

  A gunshot cracked.

  The German collapsed, blood pouring from his skull.

  Emmett spun around to see Henri walking towards him, rifle ready, eyes like fire.

  He chambered another round, glaring at Emmett.

  Before he could speak, a new commotion rang out.

  "Bitte! Ich gebe auf!" a voice cried.

  They turned to see a German soldier lay on his back, his mustached face twisted in terror. His hands raised in surrender. A Headhunter had a boot pressed to his chest, rifle aimed at his forehead.

  Emmett huffed and approached, lips pulled back in a silent snarl.

  The Headhunter looked up as he drew near and backed off, wary.

  The German’s eyes met Emmett’s. Searching for mercy.

  Then Emmett seized him by the collar, dragging the man to his feet.

  "Walk," he growled.

  He dragged the man towards the exit of the building as he begged and pleaded in German. Emmett kicked the partially closed door open with his boot.

  Henri looked at the others. Their faces were unsure.

  "Clear the building. No survivors," he said, voice cold.

  Then he turned and followed Emmett towards the village square.

  When Emmett reached the square, he turned sharply, jerking the captured Wehrmacht soldier with him. The man nearly stumbled, barely keeping his feet beneath him. That was when Henri realized what Emmett intended. At the far end of the square, silhouetted by the dim light of morning, stood the gallows. Tall, and grim, the two nooses swung slightly in the wind.

  The soldier paled, and the first panicked sob slipped past his lips. He began to blubber, eyes wide, snot running from his nose as he stammered out desperate pleas in German. Emmett didn’t slow. He dragged the man forward with a cold, mechanical determination.

  "Crate," Emmett barked in French to one of the Headhunters standing nearby. The man hesitated, eyes flicking to Henri, then to the prisoner. After a heartbeat, he obeyed, hauling a wooden crate into position beneath the nearest noose.

  The prisoner tore free of Emmett’s grip and collapsed to his knees. He clasped his hands together, sobbing, begging for his life in broken bursts. "Bitte! Bitte!" he cried. Emmett stared at him for a beat, his jaw set, then stepped behind the man and grabbed his wrist. With a sharp yank, he twisted both arms behind the crying soldier’s back and lashed them tightly together with a length of cord.

  The man wailed as Emmett hauled him upright by the collar and forced him toward the gallows. The noose swung gently above, catching the wind. Henri, watching silently leaned against a nearby building, cradling his rifle. He chewed the inside of his cheek, unsure how to feel. The execution felt just, perhaps, but it was the man delivering it that unsettled him.

  He reflected on how he felt when they first arrived here. He was near losing control in his anger, seeing his home desecrated by the occupiers. But Emmett had gone well beyond that.

  Henri drew a cigarette from his coat and lit it with a sulfur match struck along the rough edge of the building. The first pale light of morning crept over the hills, painting the sky in shades of purple and blue. Villagers began to peek out from behind shutters and now opened windows, their expressions tense with morbid fascination. Some began to spill out into the square.

  Emmett forced the man onto the crate. The soldier trembled, sobs hitching in his throat. Luc walked up behind the gallows without a word and adjusted the rope, taking out the slack and resecuring it.

  Henri glanced around. The faces of the villagers were a mixture of horror, grim satisfaction, and silent, eager anticipation. Justice, it seemed, wore many expressions.

  He drew on the cigarette again. He hated this damn war so much.

  Without ceremony, Emmett suddenly kicked the crate out from beneath the man. Just as the man let out one last, desperate plea.

  The soldier's body dropped, the rope snapping taut. His eyes went wide, as the noose dug deep.

  The German’s legs kicked violently, boots flailing. His body writhed, twisting as he tried to find footing that wasn’t there. His arms strained behind him, muscles bulging, wrists jerking frantically against the cord that held them fast. His fingers opened and closed, clawing at nothing, desperate to relieve the crushing pressure on his throat. A guttural, choking sound rasped from his mouth as his face darkened, eyes bulging in blind panic.

  Henri exhaled smoke and walked forward, calm and silent. Emmett didn’t even notice him at first. His green eyes were locked on the soldier, watching each twitch and convulsion with an almost sick fascination.

  Then came the crack of a pistol.

  The soldier’s head snapped back, the motion limp and final. Silence falling like a hammer.

  Emmett spun around. Henri stood just behind him, revolver in hand, the barrel still smoking.

  Henri took a slow drag from his cigarette, then exhaled through his nose, the smoke curling around his face. "Let that be enough blood for today, mon ami. I've had my fill of violence."

  Emmett looked stunned. Angry.

  "Henri, I..."

  Emmett cut himself off. His gaze drifted toward a nearby building, where a face peered through the fogged glass. Henri followed his gaze, and there she was. Adele. Her face pale, her eyes puffy and red as if she'd been crying. She didn’t flinch from the window but stared straight at Emmett, lips parted slightly.

  "Emmett..." Henri said in a low tone.

  Emmett ignored him and moved, almost trance-like. He pushed past Henri, through the crowd, boots crunching gravel beneath. A villager who was in Emmett's path was shoved aside.

  Henri followed, moving urgently. "Emmett! Wait." he called.

  Emmett walked the small stone path leading up to the home and grabbed the handle.

  The door to Adele’s home creaked open under Emmett’s hand. He stepped inside. The interior was dark, empty. Emmett’s gaze darted around the interior, trying to find her.

  She wasn't by the window. She had just been there. He had seen her in the window.

  Just past the threshold, Emmett collapsed to his knees, catching himself with trembling hands. Her voice echoed in his memory as the home seemed to close in. "Emmett, I'm having your child."

  He let out a low groan and pressed his fists to his skull.

  Henri entered behind him and sighed.

  "I'm sorry, mon ami. But that's not what happened." He spoke in an almost apologetic tone.

  Emmett nodded slowly, the memory realigning in his head. He remembered now. He had seen Adele through the window, she had been there as if hoping. And… he walked away. Never to see her again.

  Emmett let out a choked sob as the reality set in. He sat back on his haunches and let his arms fall to his side.

  "I almost killed her, Henri… our child.”

  Henri nodded, and crouched in front of him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.

  “But you didn’t Mon Ami.” Henri said as if encouraging him.

  Henri glanced down at his watch as if remembering something. He sighed and shook his head, looking up to meet Emmett’s eyes.

  "Time to wake up, mon ami."

  Emmett looked up, eyes glassy. Confused.

  Henri gave a faint smile. "Time to wake up, Emmett."

  Emmett gasped violently, his lungs seizing as if he had just surfaced from the depths of the ocean. His body jolted upright, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts. He could still feel it… the kick from Adel’s stomach, he could still see the terror in her eyes as he almost stabbed her.

  “Emmett… I’m…”

  The words clawed at his mind, sharp and merciless.

  He reached out blindly, grasping at empty space where she should have been. But there was no soft touch, no warmth, no life. Just the coarse, frozen ground beneath his fingers. His chest heaved, his pulse hammering in his ears as reality slammed back into him like a freight train. The dream was gone.

  No. Not a dream.

  A memory.

  Emmett blinked rapidly, his single eye adjusting to the dim firelight. His surroundings solidified. The rough shelter of roots, branches and packed snow, the faint glow of embers casting jagged shadows across the walls. His muscles ached, his body sluggish with exhaustion, but the bone-deep chill that had once threatened to claim him had faded. He realized he was dressed, his clothes were dry, stiff from the cold but no longer frozen against his skin.

  His fingers grazed the wound at the side of his head, and he winced at the sting. The stitches were crude but held firm. Someone had closed it.

  His body tensed. His gaze flicked toward the fire. She was there.

  Eira sat across from him, her blue eyes reflecting the fire’s glow like shards of ice. She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just watched. Perfectly still save for the slow, almost lazy flick of her tail against the frozen ground.

  For a moment, neither spoke. Emmett’s hand twitched, creeping toward his side. His pistol and knife were gone.

  His eye darted around the shelter, scanning for them. A few feet away, near the fire, they lay just within reach. Relief washed over him, but it was short-lived. His fingers brushed his breast pocket next, searching for something else.

  Nothing.

  His stomach twisted.

  “Looking for this?” Eira’s voice cut through the crackling fire, smooth and unreadable.

  Emmett’s gaze snapped to her hand, his muscles tensing.

  She held the tranquilizer dart between her thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly in the firelight. The small metal cylinder gleamed, the polished surface catching the glow of the flames.

  Emmett’s jaw tightened. “You…” His voice came out rough, his throat dry from disuse.

  Before he could finish, Eira flicked the dart into the fire. The tranquilizer hissed as the flames devoured it, vanishing into the embers with barely a whisper.

  For a long moment, Emmett said nothing. He simply watched the fire, his eye burning with restrained fury. “That was my last dart,” he said finally, his voice low, edged with quiet anger.

  Eira tilted her head slightly, studying him.

  “Ja,” she said simply. “I know.”

  A slow exhale passed through Emmett’s nose. His ribs protested as he sat up straighter, forcing himself to ignore the pain. His body was battered, his head ached, but his mind was sharp. Razor-sharp.

  And right now, it was focused entirely on the she wolf across from him.

  Eira sat calmly, her posture relaxed, but her gaze was anything but. It was sharp, assessing.

  Waiting.

  Finally, she spoke again, her tone eerily even. “We are here because of you.” The words were like ice water poured over his skin.

  Emmett’s fingers curled into fists. “That so?”

  “Ja.” She leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on her knees. “Everything that has happened, everything that has led to this. It is because of you.” Her voice didn’t rise, didn’t waver. But there was something beneath it. Something simmering.

  “I have never hated anyone, not really.” she continued, her blue eyes locking onto his with an intensity that sent a chill down his spine. “Not the ones who gave me orders, not my countrymen who regard my kind with horror. Not even the Russians who want me dead.”

  She exhaled slowly, and the faintest trace of a smile flickered at the edges of her lips. But there was no humor in it.

  “But you,” she said softly, tilting her head. “I think I might hate you.”

  Emmett held her gaze, his expression unreadable. “You should have let me freeze, then,” he said, his voice flat. “Would’ve been easier.”

  Eira shrugged. “Perhaps.”

  Emmett let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. “Then why didn’t you?”

  For the first time, Eira hesitated. It was slight. Just the smallest pause before she answered. “Because,” she said, “we are both behind the Russian lines.”

  Emmett narrowed his eye, waiting for more.

  Eira gestured vaguely to the storm outside. “The Russians want us both dead. The cold wants us dead. Everything in this place wants us dead.” She tilted her head. “And you, for all your… flaws, are a capable fighter. More than capable. I fear my chances alone are… not so good.”

  Emmett barked out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “So that’s it? You’re keeping me alive because I’m the better option?”

  She smirked faintly. “Ja.” She leaned forward slightly. “And because I am not ready to die yet.”

  Emmett’s expression darkened.

  Eira’s smirk faded. She studied him for a moment longer, then shifted her posture slightly, straightening her back.

  “I only trust that you will keep me alive,” she said, her German accent thick but her tone calm. “If only to turn me over.” Her blue eyes gleamed faintly. “I can offer you the same. Until we at least reach German lines.”

  Emmett’s jaw tightened, his mind working through the implications.

  Eira leaned forward, extending her hand toward him. Her claws glinted faintly in the firelight, the gesture deliberate. Almost formal.

  “Let us make an agreement,” she said. “I will work alongside you until we reach German lines. After that…” She paused, her lips curling into a faint, wry smile. “We shall see what happens.”

  Emmett’s eye flicked to her outstretched hand, his muscles coiling.

  “And I’m just supposed to believe you’re not going to slit my throat the second I turn my back?”

  Eira shrugged. “You cannot believe anything,” she admitted. “But… I keep you warm. I feed you. I stitched the hole in your thick skull.” She gestured lazily toward his head. “Surely that is worth… something?”

  Her gaze sharpened.

  “All I’m saying is we work together until we reach German lines. Seems beneficial to both of us, ja?”

  Emmett sat in silence for a long moment. Then, finally, he sighed. With a heavy exhale, he reached out and clasped her hand. Her grip was firm, her claws pressing faintly against his skin.

  “Until we reach German lines,” he said coldly, his voice carrying a warning.

  Eira’s smirk returned. “Until we reach German lines,” she agreed.

  They released each other’s hands, and Emmett leaned back, rolling his shoulders.

  “I hate you so gawd damn much.” he muttered.

  Eira smirked, leaning back against the roots of the tree.

  “The feeling is mutual, Schei?e.”

  Wei?er Wolf. It helps push the story out to more readers who might enjoy it too.

  SABLE