The Reborn Duchess's Ruthless Revenge

While Isolde was setting fire to a senator's life in the capital, hundreds of miles away, on the sun-scorched border of the Karyan Desert, the sand was everywhere. It was in the water, in the food, in the folds of the bedsheets. It coated the back of the throat like a second skin.

Dr. Julian Harris stepped out of the surgical tent and pulled his mask down. He took a deep, ragged breath, but the air at the Forward Operating Base wasn't fresh. It smelled of diesel fuel and dried blood.

He was exhausted. His hands, usually steady as a rock, had a faint tremor. Twelve hours. He had been stitching bodies back together for twelve hours straight.

He walked toward the water station, his boots crunching on the gravel. That's when he saw her.

Lady Imogen Sterling.

She shouldn't be here. She belonged in a drawing room in the capital, wearing silk and drinking tea. Instead, she was kneeling in the dirt next to a wounded corporal, wrapping a bandage around his leg.

She was wearing oversized scrubs that swallowed her small frame. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a messy knot, strands escaping to stick to her sweaty forehead.

Julian felt a physical ache in his chest. It wasn't the fatigue. It was love. A terrifying, overwhelming love that had no place in a war zone.

He walked over and gently took the gauze from her hands. "Let me."

Imogen looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, but clear. "I had it, Julian. I'm not helpless."

"I know," he said softly. He finished the wrap with efficient, practiced movements. "But your hands are shaking."

He took her hand. Her skin was rough. The expensive lotions she used to use were a distant memory. Her fingernails were cut short, dirt embedded under the rims.

"You look terrible," he said, smiling.

"You look worse," she countered, but she didn't pull her hand away.

They walked to the edge of the perimeter, leaning against Julian's dusty jeep. The sun was setting, painting the desert in violent shades of orange and purple. For a moment, it was beautiful.

"General Stone says we might rotate out next week," Julian said. He unscrewed a water bottle and handed it to her. "Back to civilization."

Imogen took a sip. "I don't know if I remember how to be civilized."

"I have a plan for that," Julian said. He turned to face her. The impulse hit him hard. He didn't have a ring. He didn't have a speech. But he needed to say it. "When we get back... I'm going to speak to your father."

Imogen froze. The water bottle paused halfway to her lips. "Julian..."

"I'm serious, Imogen. I'm done waiting. I'm done pretending that we're just 'childhood friends'. I'm going to ask for your hand."

Imogen lowered the bottle. Her eyes filled with tears. She opened her mouth to speak, to say yes, to say he was crazy.

Thump.

The sound was dull. Distant. Like a heavy book dropped on a carpet.

Then the siren screamed.

It cut through the air, a high-pitched wail that made teeth ache.

"Incoming!" someone roared.

The first mortar shell hit the supply depot, fifty yards away. The ground heaved. The shockwave hit Julian like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of him.

He grabbed Imogen, throwing them both to the ground behind the jeep. Debris rained down on the metal hood-clods of dirt, shrapnel, burning pieces of crate.

"Stay down!" Julian yelled over the ringing in his ears.

"The patients!" Imogen screamed, trying to scramble up.

"No!" Julian pinned her down. "Wait for the lull!"

Gunfire erupted at the perimeter. It wasn't just shelling. It was a breach.

General Stone came running out of the command tent, his sidearm drawn. He was shouting orders, his voice booming over the chaos. "Secure the medical tent! Protect the wounded!"

A figure lunged from the shadows near the generator. He was dressed in the rags of a local villager, but he moved with the precision of a trained killer. He held a knife. A long, serrated blade that glinted in the flickering light of the fires.

He was heading straight for Stone's exposed back.

Stone was distracted, firing at a target near the gate. He didn't see him.

Julian didn't think. He didn't calculate the odds. He just moved.

He pushed off the ground, sprinting across the open space.

"General!" Julian screamed.

Stone turned, but it was too late to fire.

Julian threw himself between the assassin and the General. He felt the impact before the pain. It felt like being punched by a sledgehammer.

The knife sank into his side, just below the ribs.

The assassin snarled, twisting the blade.

Stone fired. One shot. The assassin's head snapped back, and he collapsed.

Julian fell to his knees. He looked down. The handle of the knife was sticking out of his abdomen.

He tried to breathe, but his lungs felt heavy.

Imogen was screaming his name. It sounded like she was underwater.

Julian pulled the knife out. It was a mistake. Blood gushed out, soaking his scrubs. But the blood...

The blood wasn't red.

In the light of the burning depot, Julian stared at his hands. The blood was dark. Almost black. And it carried a sharp, corrosive reek, like sulfur and burnt metal.

Poison.

His legs gave out, and the desert sky spun above him, turning into a blur of smoke and stars.