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The room lay hushed, the only sound the fire's soft crackle beyond the door. He pushed it open and found her where he expected: on the armchair in front of the hearth, asleep from too much drink, heart bruised by rejection. He knew her—knew she’d try to drown sorrow in liquor—and, as with everything she willed, she had succeeded. He paused at the threshold, drinking her in: the curve of her cheek catching the flames, lashes casting fine shadows on skin warmed to a pale, luminous glow, blond, wavy hair loosened and spilling like silk across the backrest. Even in that fragile, unruly state she looked impossibly beautiful, as if the firelight had painted her with a tenderness the world had denied. Her fingers clutched the glass in her lap, limp and desperate, a castaway clinging to a drifting plank. He stepped forward quietly and eased it from her hand before it could slip and shatter.
His fingers brushed hers as he reached for the glass; she snapped awake and seized his wrist. “Kiss me!” she demanded.
André blinked, his chest jolting. He had always wanted to kiss her. Oh God, how much he wanted to kiss her, but not like this—this wasn’t the gentle, mutual moment he’d imagined countless times. His pulse hammered. “What?! Oscar… you’re drunk,” he murmured, forcing calm into his voice.
“So? Kiss me!” she insisted, tightening her hold. Her eyes were swollen and red, the tracks of long crying still visible. “No. I won’t. You’ll regret it tomorrow,” he said, outwardly steady though he felt as if he might break.
She flung his wrist free and collapsed into sudden sobs, shoulders trembling as tears spilled down her cheeks. André hesitated, trying to read her pain; after a few quiet breaths he knelt on one knee beside the armchair and gently set his hand on her arm, supportevly.
She managed to speak between sobs. “My youth is already gone, André, and… and I’ve never kissed anyone... I don’t know how it feels like… I… I want to know.” She paused to look him to the eyes, with an intensity that disarmed him. “Am I so unlovable that no man wants to kiss me? Is something wrong with me?” She kept her gaze fixed on his. “I looked like a normal woman in a dress, why did…” she swallowed the rest of her thought, unwilling to let it slip from her lips. “Damned!” She hit her fist against the armrest in frustration.
André stood frozen for a beat, the part of him yearning to shout what propriety forbade — Oh God, Oscar, to kiss you it’s all I’ve wanted since I was fifteen… how can you say that? You’re the most lovable woman I know — pressed back under restraint. He looked down, rubbing his forehead and sighing almost in annoyance, as he lifted his gaze to catch hers.
“Oscar, what are you saying? There is absolutely nothing wrong with you. Listen to yourself. What are those words? Where is the brave, fierce, confident commander of the Royal Guard?” he said, his voice firm, calling her back to order as he tightened his hand reassuringly around her arm.
“Since when do you need a man’s attention to feel comfortable in your own skin?” His tone softened and the question lingered in the air, answered only in his mind. Since she fell in love with Fersen, you idiot… now you’ve pressed the knife she already drove into herself even deeper… your lack of tact is remarkable.
“You looked like a goddess that day you went to the ball,” he whispered softly, trying to undo the stupid remark from before.
She looked at him—wounded, exposed; the kind of rejection that had no script, leaving her unmoored.
He wanted more than anything to kiss her, to take her into his arms and, with his lips, press the sorrow from her. But not like this. Not while she was driven by resentment. He would not be a consolation prize, not even for Oscar.
She leaned into him, sliding forward out of the armchair, clutching his shirt and seeking refuge against his chest as she sobbed uncontrollably. He had no choice but to comfort her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders while his other hand stroked her hair, the touch sparking something fierce and tender in him. Oh Oscar! Don’t waste your tears on that blind man. He doesn’t deserve you… you are too much of a woman for him.
“Shh… it’s okay, Oscar. I know how you feel… just—let it all out. I’m here for you,” he whispered, his voice low, each word threaded with a warmth that made his own pulse quicken as he held her close. Seeing her so broken and exposed unraveled him; every instinct shouted to lean down and press his lips to hers, to tell her without words that she was wanted—desired—more than she knew. Instead he stayed, fighting the urge, letting the ache build behind his restraint until it hummed through his chest.
“Come on, I’ll help you to your bed,” he said softly as he rose, Oscar still clinging to his shirt. He lifted her into his arms and carried her to bed. She was a wreck: flushed from drink and tears, eyes swollen, cheeks wet, her fingers not letting go of his shirt as if it were the only thing keeping her from falling apart—while every step he took felt charged, the air between them taut with an unspoken promise.
He eased her onto the matress and peeled off her boots. As he moved to tuck the blankets around her, she suddendly seized his shirt with both hands and yanked him toward her, off‑balance—so that he toppled over her. Instantly she threaded a hand behind his neck and crushed her mouth to his, catching him breathless.
He tried to push away, palms braced on the mattress at her sides, but she tightened her grip and curled her legs around him, pinning him where he’d always longed to be. Shock flared, then softened into surrender: trapped and achingly where he’d dreamed of, he closed his eyes and let himself answer her, despite every caution. His mind wanted to pull back; his body leaned in, fingers tangling in the golden waves he had ached to touch.
Her kiss shifted from urgent to inquisitive, then tender, unmaking him. She eased her hold little by little, but he stayed, tilting his head to meet her, unleashing the passion he'd kept buried for years. She melted into his warmth and parted her lips when his tongue brushed them; the kiss deepened, a small sigh slipping from her. Their hearts pounded together—felt through the thin fabric between them—every beat tightening the electric pull.
A soft moan escaped her lips, and André snapped awake to how far he had gone. He seized her wrists above her head, breath coming quick, and forced out, “Oscar! What are you doing?” He hadn’t expected her to act like this — hadn’t expected himself to be so helpless beneath her.
She met his gaze, wordless, chest heaving — not asking him to stop. Something had ignited in her: fierce and consuming. It had always been there, concealed at the bottom of her heart behind layers of unconditional loyalty, lifelong friendship, and genuine affection — a powerful force that surfaced only when André was in danger. A powerful force that was showing itself just now, as an irresistible blaze that ignited her blood and consumed every restraint, leaving only a fierce, aching need.
When she became aware of his body’s reaction pressing against her, she blinked, startled back into words. “I… I’m sorry, André… I—”
He felt the admission land and let his hold slacken, an evident tightness in his breeches. She watched him, raw and exposed. “You discovered me,” he whispered. “This is how much I…” He sat on the bed’s edge, eyes dropping away as if to buy courage. Air thrummed between them. “This is how much I want you. You’re utterly irresistible—more beautiful and magnetic than any other woman I’ve seen. Never doubt that you outshine them all; every glance you draw confirms it.”
Finally he stood, voice barely steady: “I love you, Oscar. I’ve been loving you from the shadows for ten years.” He straightened his clothes, the confession lingering in the charged silence.
He stood at the bedside with his back to her, unable to look at her, voice tight. “Please—don’t play with me. I may be your servant, but I’m not your toy. I have feelings—strong feelings—for you. Don’t keep breaking my heart over and over.”
Then he walked away without looking back.
Oscar watched him go, her chest torn by a raw, gnawing ache. How had she been so blind? The truth crashed over her — his feelings were not the easy, protective tether of siblinghood but a fierce, searing love that set every nerve alight. She hadn’t seen it coming.
Liquor fogged her thoughts, yet memories slammed through the haze with painful clarity: him riding through a downpour until he was drenched, just to hand her a sodden cape; him slipping into that black, dangerous outfit, risking everything without hesitation; him hoisting her up and carrying her from the bloody chaos of a barfight as if she were the only thing that mattered. Each image hammered the same verdict — this was no brotherly care; it was beyond his duty as a servant, a relentless devotion that ignored duty and defied every boundary, just to protect her.
She remembered, with a sting of disbelief, what she had felt in that kiss — and how utterly blind she'd been until now. Even through the brandy haze something raw and undeniable had shifted inside her: the world had narrowed to Andre’s heat, his tender lips pressing into her as if nothing else could exist. A single kiss had unmoored her; it left her hollow and whole at once, every thought, every breath pulled toward him. She pressed trembling fingers to her mouth where his lips had been and the memory flared like a live wire, a physical ache that pooled in her chest and spilled down into her belly.
She had heard whispers about kissing in the salons and corridors of the court, but never imagined it could cleave her in two — mind-splitting, breath-stealing. She found herself sighing, helpless and hungry, as if the mere thought of him could steady her and dissolve her at once.
She undressed in trembling silence, put on her nightgown and lay down, but sleep would not come; the kiss kept returning, relentless and luminous, dragging her back to Andre until the dark felt thin and full of him.
She woke the next morning with her skull splitting and the room tilting; the night’s drink had carved a sour trail through her. Through the fog came the memory of the kiss she had forced on André — and the way he answered, with and initial surprise that turned into a tenderness so fierce it felt predestined, as if he’d been waiting his whole life for that single contact. The memory seared her and she let out a ragged sigh, then his words struck like a blade: he loved her.
A shame so cold it made her fingers go numb settled over her — she had toyed with him. A monster, she told herself, for taking the gentle soul who had never wavered by her side and turning his heart into a casualty of her wounded pride. How could she have been so blind, so thoughtless? To trifle with his love before she’d even faced the truth of her own was an act of cruelty that stunned her with its enormity.
Upon recalling those landmark moments of their shared life, a weight settled on her — dense, suffocating, ready to crush. She saw herself at the throne room, standing defiantly against the King to buy André a heartbeat more of life; she remembered the hot, dizzy relief when he hauled her from the Saverne blast; the hollow, raw despair that flared when the Black Night maimed his eye. If that was not love, then what else could it be? It wore the shape of siblinghood, yes — but then there was the phantom warmth of that stolen kiss after the barfight, soft and scandalous against the silence of the night; the sudden tenderness that flooded her when he draped his cape over her beneath the relentless rain; the sweet, selfish ache that bloomed every time he swept her into his arms, as if she had always, irrevocably, belonged there. His voice, calm and careful, smoothed the jagged edges of her fury like balm, and in that sound she found a harbor. Siblinghood did not sing with such heat. Not even close.
Bewildered, she turned her head to the side and spotted a glass, a water pitcher, and two oranges on the nightstand. “André…” she breathed, a small, guilty smile twitching at her mouth—of course he’d thought to leave them, foreseeing she’d need them when she woke. She let out a long, broken sigh.
Oh God—he was an angel, and she had treated him so badly. She didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve his love.
Her chest tightened at the thought. She had to tell him what had happened the night before—and she had to own what it meant for her. She needed to put her feelings into words, to face him with the newfound truth.
She drank cool water and bit into an orange, the bright scent slicing through the fog and easing the throb at her temples. After a short, trembling rest she rose, every limb charged with a single, inevitable purpose. She knew where he would be at this hour; readiness turned to urgency, and she crossed the yard toward the stables with her heart hammering as if it might burst from her ribs.
She halted in the doorway, breath snagging as her gaze found him—sleeves rolled, shirt loose, hands moving over a horse with a focused gentleness that made her chest contract. Morning light pooled across his skin, turning him incandescent—ravishing in a way that unmoored her. How had she never seen him like this? His broad, unpretentious strength; the dark sweep of his hair; the warm bronze of his skin; those deep green eyes that held a quiet, dangerous tenderness; the faint, clean scent of him that seemed to pull at the air around her.
Panic fluttered under her ribs. What were these thoughts? She shouldn’t be burning for him. Yet as she watched, a hot, guilty yearning unfurled—daydreams she scolded herself for, then surrendered to in a trembling, secret way. She forced her feet forward and stepped into the stall, every small sound amplified: the scrape of straw, the soft snort of the horse, the dull clink of metal as he set the brush down.
She kept her voice steady. “Good morning, André.”
He looked up, eyes catching hers with a brief, appraising pause that sent an unexpected warmth pooling low in her chest. “Good morning, Oscar,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”
A crooked smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “I have a bit of a headache, but it’ll be completely gone soon. Thank you for the first‑aid kit you left for me.”
He nodded once, the motion small but deliberate, as if the world had narrowed to the space between them.
“About last night…” they both said at once, then fell into an awkward, charged silence. Oscar swallowed, gathering courage; André watched her, quiet and patient, as if the space between words might make them truer.
Oscar let her shoulders drop and met André’s eyes. “I just came to say… I… have no regrets.” Her voice was small; color rose to her cheeks and she looked at the floor as if it held the answer. “I mean—I regret hurting you. I didn’t know I was causing pain. But about the kiss…”
André stepped forward, each movement deliberate, closing inches that made the air between them taut. Oscar’s breath hitched. “I… I actually liked it. A lot. And I… I wished I—” The sentence crumbled under the weight of feeling; words failed her.
“You wished what, Oscar?” he asked, voice lowered until it was almost a caress, closing the few inches between them so the heat rolling off him brushed her face.
“…I wished I wasn’t drunk.” She exhaled. “You’ll think it was a sudden impulse, which in a way it was, but…” She trailed, breath thin as she hunted for words. His gaze pinned her with an insistence that made her knees soften. “…but I thought about you all through the night afterwards. Couldn’t keep you out of my mind.” She finished, breathing out like a confession.
“Me too,” he said, the words a quiet hammer against the hush.
She shook her head, fingers trembling. “I wanted to tell you th-… I thought you should know…” The sentence threatened to fall apart; she clenched her jaw to steady it.
“Know what, Oscar?” His voice was softer now, needy; his hands hovered on his sides as if they could no longer bear to wait.
“That you make me feel something…deep inside.” Her palm rose to her sternum, fingers pressing as if to hold the feeling in.
André closed the last inches, took her free hand with a careful possessiveness, and brought it to his chest. His skin was warm beneath her palm, sending an electric flare through her; his heartbeat thudded — fast, sure — and the rhythm slid into hers until they matched, a private, urgent echo.
“Something like this?” he whispered, voice low, full of intent.
She could only nod, eyes locked on his. The air between them pulsed; his smile was small, reverent. He sighed, the sound low and tender, and for a suspended second the world narrowed to the charged press of their proximity, the promise in his look, and the helpless, exquisite answer beating under both their hands.
“It is called love, Oscar… and just like me, it seems you are feeling it too.”
He stepped closer until the space between them vanished, then cupped her face without asking. Her breath snagged; she closed her eyes as his thumb traced her cheek with a tenderness that burned. Her hand, still curled in his shirt, pulled him down closing the last inch, and their mouths met.
The kiss began as a feathered brush, then deepened—slow and inevitable as a tide—until it became a full, consuming embrace: lips parting, hands tangling in hair and shirt, the world narrowing to the heat of skin and the press of breath. Each beat of their hearts seemed to push them further into one another, until they both melted and gasped, undone.
They broke apart only for air. She felt her knees weak and a strange warmth fluttering in her stomach, as a deep, long sigh escaped from her lips. What was this unknown feeling consuming her? Heat rose to her cheeks when she found his eyes again, shining with a brilliant expression full of love, and something else she couldn’t quite find the words for. This time, It hadn’t been the emotional outburst from last night, but a mutual, irresistible gravitation toward one another that inevitably pulled them together.
Absentmindedly her fingers drift through the curls at his temple while he kept his arms locked around her waist, their chests rising together.
André could not give credit to the current course of events. Last night, even though Oscar surprised him with her blunt request, it was something not totally foreign considering her impulsive temper. He was certain she’d act like nothing happened the morning after and forget about it. Never, not in a million years had he imagined he’d have her in front of him, sighing—for him!— in his arms. It was just was unbelievable. His heart was one beat away from escaping his chest.
He tenderly pressed his forehead to hers, breathless, as if to confirm she was flesh and bones and not just another one of his numerous hopeless fantasies. He was expecting to wake up on the hay covered floor of the stable any minute.
Her eyes lidded again, overwhelmed by the proximity of him, as if it suddendly, was too much for her heart to bear. Her arms wrapped around his neck with an incredible ease, like she’d done it since forever, anchoring him back to reality and reminding him this moment was real.
A whisper slipped through her parted lips, sweeter than anything he’d heard from her before: “I don’t regret any of this, André. And I never will…”