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Jacques nods without looking up. “Good stew.”
“Charles,” my sister calls from her seat at the dressing table. I’m sitting behind her, on the bed, her toddler daughter on my thighs. I bounce my legs, giving the little girl a horsey ride. She giggles in glee.
“Did you remember to grab the theatre tickets?” Hazel calls to her husband, who is downstairs. She puts on her pearl earrings, the finishing touch to her beautiful burgundy gown. The low back reveals her pale skin and shoulder blades, and the hem of the skirt pools around her feet. My gaze shifts to the mirror in front of her, to the dress’s deep V-neckline. The gown is stunning. My sister looks truly stunning.
“Are we going to have fun while your mummy and daddy are out tonight?” I ask the little girl, grinning at her. She bounces on my legs, indicating she wants the horsey ride to go faster.
A loud bang comes from downstairs as if the front door has been blown open by the storm brewing outside. The sound is followed by the stomping of boots on the stairs. So many boots.
The little girl presses her hands over her ears, trying to block out the terrifying noise. The bedroom door flings open and SS soldiers flood in. My blood turns to ice. Oh, God. This can’t be happening.
One grabs my crying niece and hauls her off my lap.
“Noooo!” I scream. “Leave her alone! Please give her back!”
Several others grab me and Hazel and drag us struggling and screaming to the bedroom door.
And then I’m standing in the village square, staring at the dangling body of a woman dressed in a beautiful burgundy gown that flutters in the wind. Her head is covered with a sack, but there’s no doubt who it is.
I release a scream, and I keep on screaming. “Oh, God, nooooo! Please, no. Please.”
I jerk awake, gasping for air, and push up to sit in the bed. The room is dark due to the blackout curtains, but I know without a doubt where I am. It was only a nightmare. Hazel is still alive.
Tears wet my face. I pull my feet to me and wrap my arms around my legs. My body is trembling at how real the dream felt. I close my eyes, trying to push away the memory of the nightmare, but I cannot stop the loud sob that escapes me.
The floorboard creaks with the weight of someone walking across it. A moment later, a hand rubs my back, the gesture soothing. “It’s okay.” The words are in French and spoken softly against my temple. “You’re safe, Angelique. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” A slight German accent is buried within the words.
My eyes snap open. The bedroom now glows softly in the light of a candle, and Johann is sitting next to me, shirtless. The flickering candlelight dances over his muscular stomach and chest.
My gaze darts to the doorway. Jacques is standing there, his night clothes and hair rumpled, his expression more drawn than usual. Fear flares in his eyes, and it takes me a few seconds to understand why. Did I cry out in my sleep? Or worse yet, did I cry out in English or in French?
I close my eyes briefly. When I reopen them, Jacques is gone.
Johann wipes his thumb under my eyes, drying the tears away, and tenderly kisses my forehead. The heat of the candle flame is nothing compared to the one in my belly at his touch.
Johann’s expression holds a mix of understanding and fear, but most of all, desire shines back at me in his eyes.
I should feel embarrassed a man who is not my husband is seeing me dressed in my nightgown. I should, but I don’t. It’s not as if I am still a virgin. I foolishly gave that to the man I thought was going to be my husband one day.
“I’m scared,” I whisper in French, being more honest with Johann than I have been with anyone lately.
He kisses my temple. “I am too. I’m scared for my mother and my sister. I’m scared for Oskar and his family. And even though I haven’t killed anyone, I’m scared for my soul.”
With those last words, the final barrier between us is pulled down. I search his eyes for the truth hidden there, the way I suspect he’s doing the same to mine. Then we shorten the distance between us, and our mouths brush. We pause, our lips a hair’s breadth apart, our rapid breaths misting over them.
Our mouths touch once more and move together in a soft kiss.
My heart flutters in my chest in a way I can’t remember it doing before. We pull away a fraction of an inch, our breaths still intermingling.
I don’t say anything, but he must see the plea in my eyes for him not to stop. He lowers his mouth to mine once more.
Our kisses become a slow exploration, a source of comfort, the weaving of souls.
I lie back in bed, and the kisses continue. Some are nothing more than a tease, a taste of what is to come. A promise. Others are more heated, taking my breath away. And with each kiss, tiny pieces of me the war has stolen are restored.
Johann’s hands roam over my body, but he takes care not to overstep any boundaries. Mine do the same to him. His touch is addictive, making me buoyant, but all too soon it’s not enough. I crave more. I crave him.
“I want you,” I whisper. “I want to have you inside me.” I press my lips to his. “I want you to help me forget my nightmare.” Another kiss. “I want you to help me momentarily forget everything else.” I search his eyes, their depths reflecting my feelings for him.
