"Love resembles war. She did not surrender, she let herself be conquered."

—From The Empress Josephine,
By Imbert de Saint-Amand

ALASTAIR HAD THIS recurring dream, one that would infiltrate his sleep every so often. It was a little different every time, the details or circumstances or scenario slightly altered, but the main players and the same themes never changed. The starring actors: himself and Jovana. It always began with her faith in him and ended with his betrayal and her slow, gruesome death. He would tear her apart as he had seen the Mordanian advisors do to his sister all those years ago, savouring each pained noise.

Sometimes, if he was feeling merciful, it was fast and brutal. A twist of the neck until it snapped, or even a guillotine.

Sometimes, he would hold her and watch the light fade from her angry green eyes. At other times at was enough simply to hear news of her death. In some dreams she would curse him as she lay bleeding. In others she would only glower or stare at him, her mouth agape in a shocked O as her throat was slit.

He hadn't had one of the dreams since coming into the queen's service, however, so tonight... well, tonight was not quite a pleasant surprise. Not after hearing Jovana cry after holding herself together during the makeshift trial of Holly Brown. Those agonizing, wrenching sobs had somehow been like daggers to his heart. Had he truly once savoured in her pain, had he once smiled at the thought of seeing her cry? Even when they were children and he had pestered her, it had only been with the pleasure of having an equal adversary, not the intent of seeing her weep. He had not stayed outside her room all night out of obligation but because he simply could not tear himself away.

Tonight, they were dancing. Jovana was clad in a purple silk dress, with gold beading at the bodice that drew attention to her bust and brought out the similar undertones in her green eyes. Alastair wore Mordanian formalwear, a matching purple cloak fastened at his throat and spun her effortlessly across the room. She laughed, a pure sound of childish glee that soothed his hurts and erased his wounds in a way that made him want to do the same for her. But he could not.

He knew there was a dagger at his hip. Knew that he was destined—no, doomed—in this dream, to use it. She killed your sister, he tried to remind himself. She's the reason that Mireille is dead. But the more he held her in his arms and saw the chandelier light glitter, drawing lines of gold in her dark waves, the less he wanted to let her go, to push her away, to end her life. She smelled as she always did, of flowers and iron and blood. She looked at him like she always did, like he was a mystery she could not figure out but wanted to spend eternity solving.

He didn't want to kill her, not this time. He wanted to kiss her.

There was utter trust in her eyes as the music ended and he drew her close. An utter trust that he used to enjoy shattering. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers. She kissed him back, red lips flush against his, her body all slight curves and smooth muscle, all silky hair and soft skin. The world seemed to pause for one blistering, exquisite heartbeat as they held each other. They pulled apart and she smiled up at him, easy, natural. Like they did this every morning; like he woke up every day with her in his bed and in his arms.

Did he want a life like that? In this dream... in this dream he did. It was only a dream, after all. It meant nothing of substance, only a synthesis of wishful thinking, complicated desires, and confusing emotions that manifested themselves in one complex whole. All that he knew for certain was that in this dream, he wanted to be with her and she wanted to be with him.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked, her tone soft in a way that it never was in real life, not even when she had been on the verge of tears.

"Taking you to bed," he said simply and she laughed again.

"Then why don't you do so?" Her green eyes were shaded beneath her thick lashes, wearing a seductive look that he had never seen on her face in reality. "Unless you are too much of a coward?"

His body, his lips, his voice all moved of their own accord, magnetized by her. His hands grasped her wrists, moving them above her head and walking forwards until her shoulder blades hit the wall as a gasp parted her lips. Her wrists were pinned to the wall by his fingers now. He was not gentle with her; he knew she could handle anything he gave her. "Do not call me a coward."

"What was that?" She smiled—smiled—and fixed her gaze on some point behind his shoulder as he wedged his foot between hers and essentially pushed her legs apart beneath the gown. "I could not hear you over the sound of your... cowardice."

He shifted so that her wrists were pinned together with one hand and used the other hand to grip her chin firmly, tilting her head back. "Emotions make no sound. I'm afraid you will need to make another attempt at insulting me."

Those green eyes were mischievous, lit up with trouble that he had seen a thousand times throughout their childhood though it had never affected him quite this way when they were children. "I disagree. Laughter is the sound of happiness. Crying is the sound of sorrow—"

She stopped talking when he let go of her face and reached up to unknot his cravat. Just that one move, not even touching her, and she was as speechless as if he'd kissed her. The only sound in the room was the brush of silk against his skin, the shallow pants of her breaths as her chest rose and fell against his, her rhythm slightly faster than his. Still clutching her wrists in one hand, he let the silk hover above her them, a wordless question.

"What," he murmured, "pray tell, is the sound of lust?"

She just smirked up at him, still silent. Still reluctant to give in to what she clearly wanted—not wanting to give in to him. Though that complete trust was still in her eyes, one that said I would let you do anything to me.

The silk inched closer and he let it drape across her skin without any force. "Personally I think it is a lot like the sound you are making right now."

Her breathing hitched and he saw her desperate attempts to mask the disruption.

"Perhaps a little..." he moved his other hand and let the silk tighten around her wrists, but not tying a knot just yet. "Louder."

Alastair leaned closer, his lips grazing her neck. "Perhaps a little more..." she glared at him now, green eyes darkened as her pupils dilated. "A little more pleasured noises."

She moaned when he bit down on her neck. His teeth sank into her neck hard enough to break the skin, to taste the iron of her blood. Something coursed through his veins, feeling incredibly right, as thought this was where she was meant to be: in his arms. She shuddered in pleasure against him, whispering his name. He tightened the bonds around her wrists and let go, stepping back. Jovana remained speechless, staring up at him, the crescent mark freshly red on her neck. All of a sudden, his muscles moved involuntarily, seizing the dagger at his side and sinking it into her chest. She was helpless, vulnerable, utterly at his mercy.

Blood sprayed everywhere, coating him in it. There would be no getting it off; he would never be rid of her, not even in death—

///

ALASTAIR WOKE UP.

For a moment, he glanced down at his clothing, thinking he would still be blood-spattered. Thinking he would still taste her on his lips. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his heart thudding erratically as he tried to shove the dream out of his mind.

He needed a bath, needed to wash even the mere memory of the dream off of his body and out of his head. His hands shook as he carded his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands to try and remain calm. Saints, he still wanted her.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

It was just a dream.

"Lambert? You're on the verge of missing breakfast," Hugo said, sticking his head through the door of the room in the barracks they shared. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"Could you get me something from the kitchens?" Alastair pulled his sweat-soaked tunic away from his chest and made a disgusted face for emphasis. "I think I just need a bath."

Hugo agreed and left the room, shutting the door. Silence fell and he had to leave, had to do something to drown the thoughts that resonated in his mind and echoed as loudly as church bells. He decided to go take a bath after all, even if he would have to lug his own hot water buckets from the kitchen. Or perhaps if he was feeling brave he would even take a dip in one of the cold ponds dotted around Hartfall—though that might end in his demise. Perhaps if the hot springs where he had played as a boy were unoccupied, he would go there...

There. That was it—making plans. He could get on with his day even if he'd just dreamed about seducing and stabbing the queen. He had never in all the dreams wanted to seduce her, to join their bodies, to make her fall for him and then kill her. That had never been one of his plans and the thought that he had enjoyed being with her, more than he had her death, was like a tug of war between his mind, heart, and soul.

And she somehow had managed to take control of all of them.