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After the war ended, the women in the military brothels-those who had once volunteered in the name of service and
survival-scrambled for a way out.
Some flirted, some begged, some offered themselves quietly to passing soldiers, hoping to be taken in-maybe as a mistress, maybe something more.
When Damon Clark came looking for me, only Martha Lou and I were left.
She coughed weakly from her cot in the corner and gave me a crooked smile.
“Isla, honey, if someone’s willing to take you, you should go. Who else are you waiting for? That golden boy Colton Prescott? The one marrying the King’s daughter?”
I said I needed time to think.
That night, Colton pinned me to the bed.
His fingers dug into my jaw, tilting my chin up so I had to look into his eyes.
“I’m marrying her. What-are you jealous now?”
He gave a dry laugh.
“You’ve got quite the temper, sweetheart.”
Then, lower, almost like a promise:
“Nothing between us has to change. I bought a house outside the city. You can wait for me there.”
He never asked about whether there was someone come to see me earlier in the day.
As if he was certain I’d never leave.
But what he didn’t know was-
I’d already said yes to Damon Clark.
The day Colton Prescott walked down the aisle with the King’s daughter…
was the same day I married Damon.
After the ceasefire, the rules were clear: women like us were supposed to be transferred to The Holding Facility. On paper, they were safe houses. In reality? Concrete hellholes full of shadows and screams.
So three days ago, the younger women started trying to charm the soldiers. Anyone who looked strong, kind, or rich enough to offer a way out.
Most of those men had survived the battlefield. Some had families back home. Still, taking in a girl from the camp-under the table, unspoken-wasn’t unusual. A mistress was still a safer fate than being forgotten.
The day Damon came, a drunk ex-soldier tried to force himself on me. I’d rejected him earlier and that bruised his ego.
“Bitch,” he spat, pinning me to the cot. “You think you’re still some senator’s spoiled little princess? You’re nothing but a Chapter 1
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wartime whore now. That golden boy’s not around anymore, is he? Guess it’s my turn to have a taste-
He didn’t finish.
Someone grabbed the back of his shirt and yanked him off me. Tossed him like a rag doll.
It was Damon.
He hauled the man outside like he weighed nothing. At first, there was shouting. Then-silence.
When Damon came back, he stood in the doorway like a shadow blocking the last of the light.
Sun-darkened skin, powerful shoulders, sweat trailing down the ridge of his neck and settling in the hollow of his
collarbone.
He was still breathing hard.
Still watching me.
But he didn’t say a word.
Not for a long time.
And then, simply: “I can take you.”
It was blunt. Abrupt.
But I knew what he meant.
He wasn’t the first to offer. Over the past few days, maybe five or six had come by, promising safety, even marriage.
After all, I was once Isla Warren-daughter of Senator Warren, trained in violin, painting, etiquette. And once, in a place like Raventon, I was known for my beauty alone.
I had turned them all down.
But with Damon-I held his gaze.
He broke it first.
Even with that perpetually gruff expression, like the world owed him something…his ears were red.
“I need time,” I told him softly.
After he left, Martha’s voice floated from the shadows.
“He might be your last chance.”
She coughed again, her breath rattling.
“If someone’s willing to take you, you should go. Who else are you waiting for? That golden boy Colton Prescott? The one marrying the King’s daughter?”
She knew about Colton and me.
Everyone in the camp suspected. Why else would I, of all people, never be assigned to service rotations? Why else did I disappear every other night with a worn leather case holding my violin?
Chapter 1
Colton Prescott-the decorated war hero, the King’s favorite, the golden boy of Raventon-was the only power to keep me untouched.
Martha thought he was just using me for comfort, something to warm his nights while the war raged on
She thought I was foolish for holding on to someone so far out of reach.
But what she didn’t know was-
I was never the one holding on.
He was.
