The night felt heavier now, suffused with the quiet hum of tension. Élodie sat beside the makeshift cot where Liam rested, his fever still a constant and unnerving presence. Her hand, though steady as it wiped his brow with a damp cloth, betrayed the tumult brewing beneath her calm exterior. She had never anticipated this—never thought that war would weave its way so intricately into her heart, wrapping her in a web of conflicting desires and allegiances.
As the hours passed, the weight of the decision she had made—the choice to shelter Liam, to risk everything for him—began to feel unbearable. Every rustle outside, every distant footfall of a Gestapo patrol, made her jump, her eyes darting to the door with every sound. She had no illusions about how perilous their situation had become. Each second, each breath taken within the walls of Saint-Céleste, was a step closer to catastrophe.
Liam stirred again, his brow furrowed as though struggling to escape some terrible dream. He moaned softly, his words incomprehensible, but Élodie leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper.
"It's okay, Liam. You're safe. Just rest."
He didn't respond at first, his body trembling beneath the blanket. But then, with a ragged breath, he opened his eyes, though they were still clouded with fever and confusion. His gaze locked onto hers, and for the first time, she saw it—something raw in his expression, something that spoke of fear and gratitude intertwined.
"Élodie," he rasped, his voice hoarse but still strong enough to break through the tension. "You're risking too much. I didn't expect this... I didn't think anyone would—"
"You didn't think anyone would help you?" she interrupted softly, her hand resting on his, steadying him. "You're not alone in this. We all have our roles to play. But now it's my turn to help you."
Liam's lips parted, but before he could respond, Luc's voice cut through the fragile silence from the entrance. "Élodie." His tone was terse, barely controlled, a note of frustration threading through the word.
She turned, startled by his abruptness, and met his stormy gaze as he stepped into the room. Luc's eyes flickered briefly to Liam, and Élodie saw the tightening of his jaw, the barely masked resentment that had taken root since the moment Liam had entered their lives.
"He's still burning up," Élodie said, trying to keep the frustration from her own voice. "We need more time. The fever won't break yet."
Luc's gaze lingered on Liam, cold and unreadable. "We don't have time, Élodie. The Gestapo will be here soon, and when they are, they won't care about your sympathy. You're playing with fire."
Élodie's heart thudded painfully against her chest. She had heard these words before, countless times in the past few days. Luc's worry was palpable, but it was not just worry—it was fear, and beneath that fear, a deep possessiveness that she could no longer ignore.
"I know the risks," she replied, her voice quiet but resolute. "But I won't turn my back on him. Not now."
Luc's hand gripped the doorframe with such force that his knuckles whitened, but he didn't move toward her, not yet. His voice softened, and there was an edge of something she couldn't place in it. "And what about us, Élodie? What about the choices we've made together? You can't just... throw it all away for him."
Her stomach twisted, torn between her loyalty to Luc—the man who had been with her through this hell, who had shared in the pain and the blood—and the unspoken bond that had begun to form with Liam, a bond forged through suffering and shared purpose.
"You don't understand," she said, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. "You think I'm doing this for him. But I'm not. I'm doing this for all of us. We're all in this fight together."
Luc stepped forward then, his face only inches from hers. His eyes were intense, searching hers for something, anything, that would make sense of the chaos she had brought upon them. "I understand more than you think, Élodie. I just... I don't want to lose you. I can't. Not to this war, not to him."
For a moment, they stood there, locked in a battle of wills, the air thick with unsaid words and unresolved emotions. It was as if the war outside had seeped into their very souls, turning them into strangers caught in the currents of fate.
Then, as if a dam had broken, Élodie's shoulders slumped, and she turned away from him, her gaze falling to the floor. "I don't want to lose you either, Luc. But I can't... I can't walk away from what's right. Not again."
Her words hung between them, heavy and final. There was no turning back now, no erasing the choices she had made. Luc remained silent, his hands balled into fists at his sides, but the look he gave her—dark, torn—was all she needed to know. He wasn't just angry; he was afraid. Afraid that he was losing her, and that the cost of his own choices would be her.
"I'm sorry, Luc," she whispered, more to herself than to him. "I never meant for it to come to this."
But Luc was already moving toward the door, his footsteps heavier than before, his face set in a mask of resolve. "You've made your choice. I'll make mine."
The words were sharp, like the bite of winter's first frost, and Élodie watched him leave, the door creaking shut behind him with a finality that echoed in the hollow space of her heart. She returned to Liam's side, her thoughts a whirlwind of uncertainty and fear, and tried to block out the sound of Luc's retreating footsteps, the distance between them widening with every passing second.
But as she reached for the basin of cool water to clean Liam's brow once more, the distant rumble of engines reached her ears, growing steadily louder. Her heart skipped a beat.
No.
The Gestapo. They were coming.
She turned to Liam, her voice urgent but calm. "Stay quiet. Stay still. Don't move."
The urgency in her voice broke through the haze of fever. His eyes blinked open, more focused than before, though still weak. He nodded, understanding the severity of the situation.
Élodie's heart raced. They don't have much time.
She had to act. Fast.