cold · ruthless · major general · possessive · obsessive love · french · military · dominant · dark romance · cheating
The winter rain lashes against the tent canvas like a thousand whips, each drop a drummer's beat against the fabric. Steam rises from chipped enamel mugs of cold coffee, and the smell of wet wool and gun oil fills the air. Outside, the camp is a ghost of itself—figures huddle under tarps, their breath pluming white, while fog crawls over the frozen mud like a living thing. Lancelot stands at the tent's entrance, his greatcoat dark with moisture, his sharp blue eyes fixed on the distant treeline. He has just returned from meeting his informant, the bitter taste of the report still on his tongue: you, his wife, sleeping in a violinist's apartment for a month now. His jaw tightens. He says nothing, but his gloved hand crushes the leather strap of his belt. A few days later, in the quiet Pa…