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Paul’s face turned red, then crimson, then edged to purple. Henry eased his pressure just enough to allow the man a thread of air.

“You came after me alone,” Henry seethed. He knew, but wanted to hear it from the mouth of his enemy.

“Father is an idiot for not killing you when he had the chance.” Paul’s face contorted. “I would never let a patriot-sympathizer desert.”

Henry restored the full force of his arm and Paul gasped, but Henry spoke over his fight for breath. “You know nothing about me.”

“Gah…” Paul tried to answer, tugging on Henry’s arm. He eased the pressure and Paul blinked as he gained a small breath. “I know enough.”

“I did what was right.” Somehow his muscles hardened even more. It seemed the army cared less and less about what was honorable. Which is why he left.

“You’re a deserter—”

Henry slammed Paul’s wrist against the wall, forcing the gun to drop from his enemy’s fingers. He kicked it away and grabbed a fist-full of fabric at Paul’s throat then yanked him out the door. Teeth clenched, Henry all but lifted him from the ground as he spoke to him nose to nose

. “There are reasons your father trusts me and not you.”

He released with a shove and Paul stumbled back, barely staying on his feet. With a swift move of his arm, Paul reached for the dagger at his side and jabbed. Henry sidestepped. The incoming blade sliced through his shirt. A roar bellowed from Paul when he swiped again. Henry dodged and planted the heel of his boot in the center of Paul’s ribs. He dropped to the ground with a wild groan.

One hand on his chest, the other still wielding the blade, Paul gasped for air through contorted lips. His eyes turned black as hatred etched itself into the lines of his mouth.

A quick brush of the breeze calmed the rage that threatened to force Henry’s hand. He stepped back and stared at the man, who of a sudden seemed more like a scared boy than a seasoned man of war.

“I don’t wish to fight you, Paul.” Every letter of the sentence held more veracity than the man would ever know. But he had to go on. “I cannot continue in something I don’t believe in.”

Paul peeled himself from the ground, the blade and his gaze never once dropping. “Your charade of goodwill will not shadow the truth.” He took a step back. “I know who you really are.” This time, his eyes faltered and his throat bobbed. “As does my father, make no mistake.”

The two held their stance. Henry glanced at the knife, the sunlight glinting off the red stone in the hilt. He readied his fists. “You will not take me, Paul.”

“Will I not?” His knife-hand thrust forward until it waited only inches from Henry’s face.

Henry refused to move his stare from the enemy. Paul’s frame might have matched Henry’s in height, but his strength was not near equal. And Paul knew it.

Paul’s neck muscles worked, and the twitch in his face revealed the war within him. “You’re a traitor.” His hand trembled. “You’re a rebel traitor, you son of a—.”

“Get out.” Henry barely contained the urge to lunge and strangle. He opened and closed his fists to stem the aching for Paul’s throat.

Still facing him, Paul stepped backward toward the wood, face contorted. “You cannot hide forever. Do not doubt I will find you and give you the justice you deserve. I will find you, Donaldson.”

Blinding fury turned Henry’s vision red. “And I will be ready.”

CHAPTER TWO

The familiar smell of tobacco smoke stung Paul’s throat as he inhaled, but it was the bitter stare in his father’s eyes that stiffened his back. “Sir, I believed you would wish him found. I took it upon myself to—”

“You pursued your own directive, is that it?” Ezra Stockton didn’t look up as he walked from the window to stand in front of Paul. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead while the familiar cloud of discontent shadowed his face. Paul’s muscles went hard. It would be a blessing if the perspiration stemmed from the oppressive summer heat and not anger. But Paul knew better.

Empty but for the desk and chair that rested woefully in front of the window, the room seemed to breathe apologies in the stale, humid air. Even nature felt pity for Paul’s misbegotten plight. All the while his father inhaled his pipe and piled looks of ill-will upon his offspring.

When Ezra refused to speak, Paul labored to ameliorate the poisonous silence. “We looked everywhere—”

“Did you? Did you?” The flash of black in Ezra’s glare slapped Paul like a hand against his face. “If that were the case, which I know it is not, then would not Donaldson be standing in front of me now?” He paced the room then stopped with such a start his shoes scraped against the floor. “You deliberately went against my orders. Again!”

More than a slap this time. The words slugged Paul in the chest and suddenly Donaldson’s hateful words buzzed in his ears. There are reasons your father trusts me and not you. “I did what was right—”

“Silence! Your actions were a blatant dereliction of duty,” Ezra barked. “You sought your own interest. As usual.” He sneered, as if the words tasted bitter. “Donaldson is too clever. Smarter than you, and aye, smarter than even myself.”

Longing waved behind the dark gray of Ezra’s eyes as he stared into the corner of the room. “He took to soldiering like a horse takes to running.” He gestured to Paul. “You, on the other hand, despite my endless and careful training, have never learned to follow orders. You have never learned that your place is not to question, it is to obey. Aye, I have been hard on you, but only because I see your potential for greatness. A potential that you have never embraced. Your actions bring shame upon me and upon His Majesty’s Army, and I will have no more of it.”

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