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I can hear his unspoken question, canseeit reflected in all their eyes as they watch us.

Are you a huntsman, or are you the captain’s pretty little fiancée?

I’m both, I want to snarl at them. But they won’t hear me, perhapscannothear me, so I straighten my shoulders instead, meeting Frederic’s gaze and wrapping my fingers around his longsword. “Yes.” I bite the word, hoping he hears the snap of my teeth. Hoping theyallhear it. “I do happen to belong here. Thank you for asking.”

With a derisive laugh, he releases the blade.

Unable to bear its weight, I stagger forward, nearly impaling myself as my hem snares my feet, and the sword and I tumbletoward the ground. He catches my elbow with a beleaguered sigh, leaning close and lowering his voice. “Just admit it, ma belle. Wouldn’t you prefer the library?”

I stiffen at the diminutive.

“No.” Wrenching my arm away, I straighten my skirt and smooth my bodice, eyes and cheeks hot. I point to the longsword and struggle to keep my voice steady. “Iwould, however, prefer a different weapon. I can’t use that one.”

“Obviously.”

“Here.” Charles, who drifted to my side without notice, offers me a small dagger. The first drop of rain lands upon its needle-thin blade. “Take this.”

Before I joined the Chasseurs, I might’ve lingered on the smile lines around his eyes, the gallantry of such a gesture. The compassion of it. I would’ve imagined him as a knight in shining armor, incapable of associating with the likes ofFrederic. I would’ve imagined the same for myself—or perhaps imagined myself as a maiden locked in a tower. Now I resist the impulse to curtsy, inclining my head instead. “Thank you, Charles.”

With another deep breath, I turn toward Frederic, who twirls the longsword between his palms. “Shall we begin?” he asks.

Chapter Four

Our Girl

When I nod and lift my dagger, he flicks his wrist out casually and knocks my blade to the ground. “First lesson: you cannot use a dagger against a longsword. Evenyoushould know that. You certainly spend enough time poring over our old manuscripts—or do you only read fairy stories?”

I snatch my dagger from the mud, firing up instantly. “I cannotliftthe longsword, you insufferable cretin.”

“And how is that my problem?” He circles me now, like a cat with a mouse, while the others settle in for the show. Charles watches us warily. His companion has disappeared. “Have you sought to improve your physical strength? How will you apprehend a rogue loup garou if you cannot even lift a sword? Will you evenwantto apprehend them, I wonder, or will you call them your friends?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. “Of course I will if the situation calls—”

“It calls for it.”

“You’re living in the past, Frederic.” My knuckles whiten around the hilt of my dagger, and I want nothing more than to bash him over the head with it. “The Chasseurs have changed. We no longer need todebilitateorapprehendthose who are different—”

“You’re naive if you think your friends saved the world, Célie. Evil still lives here. Perhaps not in the hearts ofall, but in the hearts of some. Though the Battle of Cesarine changed many things, it did not change that. The world still needs our brotherhood.” He plunges his longsword into the chest of the straw man nearest us, where it quivers like a lightning rod. “And so our brotherhood continues. Come. Pretend I’m a werewolf. I’ve just gorged on a farmer’s cattle and feasted on his chickens.” Spreading his arms wide with the air of a showman, he says, “Subdue me.”

The rain begins to fall in earnest as I stare at him. As I roll up my sleeves to stall for time.

Because I don’t know the first thing about subduing a werewolf.

Eyes, ears, nose, and groin.Lou’s laughter cuts through the spiraling panic of my thoughts. She visited me in the training yard on the day after my initiation—on the day Jean Luc decided neither of us should ever visit the training yard again.It doesn’t matter who you’re up against, Célie—everyone has a groin somewhere. Find it, kick as hard as you can, and get the hell out of there.I square my shoulders as Basile starts to jeer, widening my stance and lifting my dagger once more.

More Chasseurs have trickled into the yard now. They watch us with unabashed curiosity.

I can do this.

When I lunge for his eyes, however, Frederic catches my wrist easily, twirling me in a sick pirouette and forcing my face into the straw man. Lights pop behind my eyes. He holds me there longer than necessary—with more force than necessary—rubbing my cheeks in the thatch until I nearly scream at the injustice of it all.Thrashing wildly, I elbow him in the stomach, and he relents with a mocking smile. “Those doe eyes give you away, mademoiselle. They’re too expressive.”

“You’re apig,” I snarl.

“Hmm. Emotional too.” He sidesteps when I swing wildly for his ear, missing completely and sliding a little in the mud. “Just admit you shouldn’t be here, and I will gladly forfeit. You may return to your dresses and your books and yourfireplacewhile I return to our cause. That’s our girl,” he croons as I push soaked hair away from my brow, struggling to see. “Admit you aren’t equipped to help us, and we’ll send you on your merry way.”

“Though I sympathize with your plight, Frederic—truly—I am notyour girl, and I pity any woman who is.”

He knocks me to the ground when I take a flying leap at his nose. I land hard, coughing, trying not to flinch or retch. Those shards in my throat stab deeper, as if they’re trying to draw blood.Silly little Célie, Morgane still croons.Such a lovely little doll.