The flap of their tent closed behind her, her bloodstained boots hit the wooden floor like war drums, heavy and final. The flap moved with the wind, giving short glances of the battlefield and bloodshed outside it. The smell inside was too warm. Too sweet. Her perfume again. Lavender, sugar musk, and clean sheets. Or maybe something fancier. It didn't matter. It didn't belong here, and neither did she.

Yet there Caitlin was regardless.

Sitting by the cot, like she was supposed to. Like she'd been told this morning. Back straight, legs crossed. dressed in a delicate silk robe with lace lingerie underneath, something that cost a fortune in Paris.

Vi didn't say a word, just dropped her gloves and handgun on the desk, eyes sweeping upon what was on it already. Maps, a bottle of wine, and unopened letters from various people. Vander, Caitlin's parents, the front.

Then her eyes landed on Caitlin's eyes. Still fiery, even now. Even after everything. No matter how quiet she had become, after Vi constantly barked at her to remember her place, to stop being so blunt, outspoken, and opinionated.

The fire, different now, yet still present. Quieter, controlled, obedient even in her defiance. Vi hated how good she looked when she was silent and obedient.

"Infirmary, again," she growled, cold, flat, and demanded answers. "They told me you were helping the medics. Again."

Caitlin nodded. Just the small, simple tilt of her chin. No bow. No apology. No "Yes, Violaine." Just that stubborn little nod that made Vi's jaw tighten painfully tight.

"You didn't stay in the tent like you were told," she went on. "Your job isn't to be useful. It's to be available."

Another nod. Technically obedient, except for the fact everything about it said "go to hell".

Vi crossed the room, bloodied boots demanding. Yet Caitlin didn't flinch, or back down. Her chin remained high, even raised a smudge higher. Her hands were clenched in her silk robe.

"Say something," she demanded. Nothing. Just that slow, elegant tilt of her head. It was graceful, yet mocking in nature. It made Vi's eyes narrow, before she began, "You always look like you've insulted me several times without even saying a word. Is that a governess trick? Or just royal English arrogance?"

Still no answer. Just that maddening little smile. Vi leaned in, gripping the back of the chair next to the cot. Her voice dropped lower than usual; sharp and dangerous.

"You think I don't know what you're doing? Every nod, sigh, flutter of your lashes, are all a mind game. A way to talk without talking. A way to infuriate me," she paused, "The problem, your problem, Princess Caitlin, is your mouth is here for very different purposes."

That hit the spot. Vi saw it; that flicker of rage, yet not shame. Never shame. The words the princess held back were like weapons ready to be drawn, but still remained unsaid. Like she was supposed to.

Vi reached out with a smirk, free hand grabbing her chin between thumb and forefinger. "Good girl," she whispered. "You're finally learning restraint."

But Caitlin's eyes still burned, same as that day in Versailles that she arrived. Same as the day they were wed. Fiery and defiant; a gift, a symbol. Now a tool and a weapon with teeth.

Vi simply shrugged and stepped back, eyes gazing over her in a up and downward fashion, she spoke again, "You're here because your silence is supposed to calm me," she began, peeling off her jacket and laying it on the desk chair. "Because the English think if my hands were in your hair, I won't be pulling a trigger. That your thighs are easier than another bloody battlefield," she hummed, circling her slowly and finishing her thought, "You were supposed to be silk. Easy, pliant, soft. Yet you came with sharp, serrated edges, like a machete."