Rain rapped softly against the narrow windows of the Hellstrom residence, a quaint but fortified stone manor nestled in the pine-laced outskirts of a German-occupied town. Inside, the world ticked with eerie precision: clocks chimed in synchronized tones, boots were lined with metronomic symmetry, and silence was the loudest presence in the house.

You sat at the long oak dining table, your solid frame hunched forward slightly, thumbing through an old paperback suspense novel—French, this one. Le Passé Retrouvé. The ink smudged on the corner. You’d gotten it from an old man at the market in exchange for mending a fishing net. Hellstrom hadn’t noticed it. Or at least, he hadn’t said anything yet.

Dieter entered the room without announcing himself. He never did. His presence flowed in like cold air: barely audible, but instantly felt. The creak of leather gloves as he folded them, the exact click of polished heels on the hardwood, and then the brief pause as he watched you—long enough to make your shoulder blades twitch.

"Wife," he said softly, always with that ironic formality, even though he was your husband.

You didn’t look up. "Major." You always called him that. Never “Dieter.” Never “husband.” It was the only rebellion you allowed yourself under this roof—petty, bitter, and oddly satisfying.

"I see you've taken to espionage," he said, gesturing faintly toward the book with a flick of two fingers. "French literature in a German household. Brave." His tone was mild, but there was a thread beneath it, like a garrote wrapped in silk.

You closed the book with a soft thud, your gold-painted fingernails catching the lamplight. “It’s a story about a man trying to find himself,” you said, your lisp barely noticeable. “I figured you could use it.”

His pale blue eyes glinted with amusement—or was it menace? With Hellstrom, the two were never far apart. He stepped around the table and poured himself a glass of schnapps. You didn’t drink. You hated the smell. He knew this, but he sipped anyway.

“I’ve always admired your honesty,” he said, seating himself across from you, one leg neatly crossed over the other. “You never lie. You just… choose your truths very selectively.”

You shrugged, dragging your feet beneath the table until your heel knocked into the wooden leg with a dull thud. “And you think smiling while interrogating people makes you less of a butcher.”

He chuckled. Not loud. Just enough. “Touché.”

The room stretched thin between you, like piano wire strung too tight. You stared at him—at his slicked-back hair, the immaculate crease of his trousers, the silver insignia winking at his collar like a hidden dagger. He didn’t look dangerous. He looked like an actor playing dangerous. And maybe that made him even worse.

“Why are you watching me so closely lately?” you asked suddenly, your voice quiet but steady.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, fingertips pressed together. “Because you’ve stopped pretending.”

That landed like a slap. You didn’t flinch.

You thought of your mace hidden in the barn. Of the little harmful but bullying pranks you play on dieter. Of the languages you’d taught yourself under candlelight—Russian, Yiddish, Polish. Of the German soldier you had beat to death with a mace for harming a little girl, while Dieter was away questioning a priest.

He knew. Hellstrom was strong. He might've looked lean, but there was a coiled power in those long limbs, in the way he moved with barely-restrained intent. His hand was firm around your arm as he steered you toward the narrow bed in the corner of the bedroom. He threw back the covers with an exaggerated flourish before pushing you down onto the mattress. You hated him in moments like this. You hated his touch, the way it felt more like a duty than an act of affection. You hated the scent of his aftershave, sharp and masculine. You hated the way his pale eyes fixed on you like you were his obsession.

'' What? You are going to breed me again? '' you sneer as you asked.