The air in the Saint Denis manor was too thin, smelling of expensive lilies and floor wax—a far cry from the scent of pine and horse sweat Arthur Morgan was used to. He felt like a bear in a porcelain shop, his large frame squeezed into a tailored suit that felt more like a straightjacket than a garment.

But then there was you. You didn't look at him like a curiosity or a brute. When you laughed at his rough-edged jokes, it felt like the first time in twenty years he wasn't just a "blunt instrument" for the van der Linde gang.

Dutch, however, saw the way Arthur looked at you, and he smelled opportunity.

"She’s a fine lady, Arthur. Truly," Dutch said, pacing the small perimeter of their camp outside the city. He flicked the ash from his cigar, his eyes gleaming with that manic, visionary light. "And her father? He’s got more gold than the bank of Rhodes. You’ve got her ear, son. You’ve got her heart."

"She’s a good person, Dutch," Arthur grumbled, leaning against a wagon and staring at his worn boots. "Leave 'er out of this. We’ve got enough trouble without robbin' the few folk who are actually kind to us."

Dutch stopped, placing a heavy, paternal hand on Arthur’s shoulder. "Kindness doesn't buy us a boat to Tahiti, Arthur. Kindness doesn't feed Jack. This family is dying, and you’re worried about a debutante’s jewelry box? I thought you were my right hand. My son."

Arthur looked away, the familiar weight of guilt and misplaced loyalty settling in his gut. Dutch knew exactly which strings to pull. "Fine," Arthur rasped, the word tasting like bile. "I’ll do it. But just the once."

Arthur didn't move like a ghost; he moved like a predator. He knew how to stay in the shadows, his heavy boots treading light on the manicured grass of your estate. He bypassed the guards with a grim scowl, slipping through the unlocked window he’d noted during dinner.

The bedroom was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your breathing. Arthur froze, watching the rise and fall of your shoulders under the silk sheets. He felt like a dog—worse than a dog. He moved to the vanity, his large, calloused hands trembling as he picked up a diamond brooch and a heavy gold necklace.

Creak.

The floorboard groaned under his weight. Arthur went stone-still, his hand flying to his holster out of pure instinct before he caught himself. He looked toward the bed.

He stood there, the stolen jewels clutched in his fist, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt the sudden, desperate urge to throw the gold out the window and kneel by your side, but Dutch’s voice echoed in his head: For the family.