The Braun estate to the east was a sprawling complex of ancient limestone and vibrant, climbing vines. Unlike the capital's manor, which was built for the performative theater of the court, the Eastern estate was a place of industry and old money. Here, the air was thick with the scent of fermenting grapes, damp earth, and the metallic tang of the river. It was a place where things grew, were harvested, and were crushed—a metaphor Mary Anne Braun found particularly fitting for her current endeavor.
She had declared an immediate inspection of the accounts and the physical security of the wine cellars. It was a masterful pretense. It pulled Gerry away from the prying eyes of the capital and the watchful presence of William Mahlsberg, placing him in a secluded landscape where she held every key and commanded every shadow.
The sun was high over the eastern grounds, scattering light across the manicured gardens and glimmering off the river that served as the estate's primary trade vein. Gerry Waddell had settled into his role with the quiet, unsettling efficiency of a career soldier. Even here, amidst the luxury of the guest quarters and the softness of the summer grass, his mercenary instincts never rested.
Gerry moved through the gardens not as a guest, but as a man marking exits, identifying cover, and calculating the speed of a threat. He was a creature of the wild, and the manicured hedges of the Brauns felt to him like a maze designed to confuse a predator.
Mary Anne watched him from the stone terrace, her fingers trailing over the balustrade. She had traded her heavy, constricting court silks for a lighter traveling gown of pale cream and gold—practical for an "inspection," yet tailored to catch the morning light in a way that made her appear almost ethereal. There was no one to witness the calculated choreography of her obsession today. Here, she could refine her approach.
She saw Gerry kneeling by the riverbank. His copper hair was a vivid, defiant strike of color against the green reeds. He was focused, his large, calloused hands moving with surprising gentleness as he guided his young son, Leo, in the art of skipping stones. A few steps away, his daughter Sarah chased a dragonfly, her laughter ringing out across the quiet grounds like a silver bell.
For a moment, Mary Anne's breath hitched. She wasn't looking at a leverage point. She was looking at a man who possessed a wholeness she had never known. He was a father, a protector, and a ghost of a royal line all at once. The "mercenary boy" was gone; in his place was a figure of raw, magnetic authority.
Mary Anne moved down the terrace steps, her movements fluid and deliberate. She maintained the pretense of inspecting the stone masonry, pausing here and there to touch a vine or peer at a crack in the wall. Her eyes, however, never left the small family by the water. She waited for the precise second—the moment the little girl, distracted by a shimmering wing, strayed toward the moss-covered, treacherous stones near the river's edge.
"Careful there," Mary Anne said softly, appearing as if she had materialized from the sunlight itself. She knelt, her silk skirts pooling in the dirt without a second thought, and caught the child's hand just before her foot slipped on the slick moss. "That's slippery, little one. You could fall, and the river is very cold and very deep today."
Gerry's head snapped up with the speed of a spring-loaded trap. His blue eyes—sharp, predatory, and undeniably Seymour—scanned the terrace, then his daughter, then Mary Anne. A faint, deep crease appeared on his brow. The speed of his reaction was a reminder that no matter how much silk she bought him, he remained a wolf.
"Thank you," he said, his voice a cautious rumble. He approached and scooped his daughter up, tucking her against his broad chest. "She tends to wander when she's chasing things. I've got to keep a closer eye on her."
"I can see that," Mary Anne replied, her voice smooth and devoid of its usual social sharp edge. She remained kneeling for a moment, looking up at him from a position of feigned vulnerability. "It's a tricky path. A child could get hurt easily if one isn't... vigilant. But then, you are the most vigilant man I have ever met, Gerry."
Gerry's suspicion lingered like a foul smell. Her presence was too convenient, her timing too perfect. He had spent years in the camps; he knew when a scout was being tracked. Yet, her demeanor was calm, almost maternal. He accepted the help silently, guiding his children back toward the safer patch of clover, but his eyes never entirely left her. He felt the weight of her gaze on his back like a physical heat.
~
From the deep, cool shadows of the storehouse doorway, Thornn watched the exchange. His hand was white-knuckled on the hilt of his dagger, the metal biting into his palm until it bled.
He had served Mary Anne since they were children—him the stray dog brought in to do the dirty work, her the rising star of the Braun name. He had loved her in a silence so profound it had become his entire identity. Every life he had taken, every secret he had buried, had been a gift to her.
But this was a new kind of torture. He saw the way her gaze lingered on the mercenary's shoulders. He saw her kneel in the mud for a commoner's brat—a girl who usually wouldn't let a speck of dust touch her hem. He didn't know why she was so interested in this man's life, but the sight of her softening for a married man from the mud made his blood turn to acid.
She's obsessed, Thornn thought, his heart hammering a rhythmic, jealous beat against his ribs. He's a husband... a father... a man of no standing. And she looks at him like he's the only sun in the sky. He didn't care about whatever her plans for the man; he only cared that the woman he worshipped was falling for a man who didn't even know her real name.
The afternoon stretched on, lazy and golden, but the atmosphere was far from peaceful. Mary Anne continued to "coincidentally" appear wherever the children were. When Leo dropped his wooden knight, she was there to retrieve it. When Sarah's shoelace came undone, Mary Anne was the one to note it with a gentle word.
Each interaction was a calculated thread in a web. It gave her the excuse to be close to Gerry—to smell the woodsmoke, the salt, and the raw masculine heat of him. She was cataloging everything: the way he smiled at his son, the way his jaw tightened when he thought of his wife, the way he moved with a grace that was entirely unearned by his station.
Gerry's unease grew into a low-grade fever. He didn't understand why the daughter of a Duke was so interested in the trivialities of a mercenary's family. He felt like a bird being watched by a cat that wasn't hungry yet—a cat that just wanted to play with the feathers before the kill.
~
As the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruised purples and blood-reds, the "inspection" moved indoors. After a tense supper where Gerry sat like a stone statue at the end of the table, Mary Anne retired to the private study.
The flickering candles cast long, dancing shadows against the oak-paneled walls. She was reviewing the estate ledgers—or pretending to—when the door clicked shut with a deliberate, heavy sound.
Thornn stood by the door, his shadow stretching across the rug until it touched the hem of her skirts. He didn't offer a bow. His face was a mask of restrained, agonizing fury.
"You've spent more time with his children today than you did with the vineyards," Thornn said, his voice low and jagged. "You're making a spectacle of yourself, Mary Anne. The servants are whispering. Even the mercenary looks at you like you've lost your wits. You're the 'Angel of Praeven,' not a wet nurse for the commons."
Mary Anne didn't look up from the ledger. She turned a page with a crisp, dismissive snap. "The servants are paid to whisper, Thornn. It keeps them from doing anything more dangerous. And Gerry is paid to stay. I don't see the problem."
"The problem is that you are distracted!" Thornn stepped into the circle of candlelight, his hands trembling. "Bringing him into the estate was one thing. Giving him a job, paying his debts, playing 'helper' to his brats... what is the plan? Why him? Why this man? He's a married mercenary with nothing to his name!"
Mary Anne finally looked up. Her eyes were not the warm, caring eyes she had shown Gerry by the river. They were cold, flat, and terrifyingly sharp. She saw the sweat on Thornn's brow and the desperate, pained longing in his gaze. She had known of his affection for years; she wore it like a comfortable cloak, using it to ensure his absolute silence.
"My plans are my own, Thornn," she said, her voice dropping to a silk-wrapped blade. "You have been with me long enough to know that I do nothing without a purpose. If I choose to spend my time 'helping' a man like Gerry, it is because it serves a design you aren't meant to understand yet. You are a tool, Thornn. Do tools ask the mason why the stone is shaped a certain way?"
"I've done everything for you," Thornn whispered, the jealousy finally breaking through his mask of discipline. "I've killed for you. I've bled for you. And now I have to watch you obsess over him? A man who doesn't even know who you really are? I see the way you look at him, Mary Anne. It isn't 'design.' It's hunger."
Mary Anne rose slowly, her movements fluid and predatory. She walked around the desk until she was standing directly in front of him. She was smaller than him, but in that room, she was the giant. She reached out, her cool fingers grazing his jawline—a calculated touch that she knew would burn him.
"You are my right hand, Thornn," she murmured, watching his breath hitch as he leaned unconsciously into her palm. "Don't let your petty feelings cloud your utility. Gerry is a project. A very important, very delicate project. If you want to remain by my side—if you want to continue to be the one I trust with my shadows—you will stop questioning my 'distractions' and start ensuring that no one interferes with his loyalty to me."
She withdrew her hand, the coldness returning to her face instantly. "Go. Check the perimeter. I want to be sure the King's brother isn't still lurking in the vineyards. He is a far greater threat to us than a 'married mercenary'."
Thornn stood frozen for a moment, the ghost of her touch still stinging on his skin. He knew she was using him. He knew she felt nothing for him but the cold appreciation a craftswoman has for a sharp blade. But as he turned to leave, his jealousy toward Gerry Waddell didn't fade; it hardened into a cold, murderous resolve.
Mary Anne watched him go, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. She didn't trust Thornn with the truth of the King's blood—she didn't trust anyone with that—but she knew that as long as he loved her, he would be the perfect hound to keep the wolf in check.
She turned back to the window, looking out toward the dark silhouette of the guest quarters where Gerry and his children slept. The "inspection" was over, but the harvest of the Mahlsberg secret was only just beginning.