Chapter 2: The Enemy’s Bed

Three days later, I took Rachel Quinn’s place and followed the envoys to the Northern Alliance’s capital. We were herded into canvas tents on a fairground—twenty-three girls, all of us trembling. The canvas walls barely held back the wind, and the ground was so cold it made my bones ache.

I’d learned everything I could about Derek Shaw, the enemy’s great general. He would pick first. When he entered, the other girls shrank away, but I stood straight and locked eyes with him, my lips painted sin-red and my dress cut low.

He met my gaze and his voice dropped. “What’s your name?”

“Rachel Quinn.”

He gripped my chin, rough, calloused fingers turning my face left, then right. I wondered if they ever shook, or if men like him were born steady. He smelled of tobacco and leather, confident and dangerous.

“You have some beauty.” He turned to the envoy. “I’ll take her.”

The envoy nodded. I exhaled, surprised it was that easy. Behind me, a girl started to cry. My legs felt like jelly, but I kept my back straight. I wouldn’t let them see me shake.

I followed Derek Shaw into a bedroom hung with burgundy drapes and the thick musk of old money. A full bear skin draped over a chair. I brushed it with my fingers as the door creaked open.

I turned back and forced a smile.

He grinned. “Do you like it?”

“I’ve never seen one.”

He pulled me in, his arm heavy around my waist. “Please me tonight, and maybe I’ll let you keep it.” His words were low and dangerous, his breath hot against my ear.

As his lips neared mine, I turned my head, but he yanked me closer. The gauzy fabric slipped from my shoulders, revealing the rose tattoo on my back. He ran a finger over it.

“Who did this?”

“An artist.” My heart trembled, Marcus’s face flickering in my mind.

Derek Shaw circled behind me and kissed my back. “Does he know your body is as soft as water?” His hands were already working at the rest of my dress, impatient and sure.

I turned and wrapped my arms around his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to whisper, “From now on, only you will know.”

This art of feigned reluctance—Madame Quinn from The Velvet Room had taught me well. “Men want to conquer,” she’d said, applying cheap perfume in a room lit by neon signs and buzzing with the sound of slot machines. “Let them think they’re taking something precious. It makes them feel like gods.”