The night had settled in comfortably, wrapping the countryside in a thick, quiet darkness. The sounds of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl filled the air, mixing with the faint rustling of leaves as the wind rolled lazily through the village. The warm glow of Adele’s cottage spilled onto the small porch where Emmett stood, one hand shoved into his pocket, the other gripping his crutch. His shoulders were slightly hunched as if he were reluctant to leave.

  Julien looked like he was asleep on his feet, his head bobbing slightly as he fought the inevitable pull of exhaustion. He leaned against the doorway, his eyes half open. Adele stood just behind him, arms crossed loosely over her chest.

  “Well,” Emmett finally said, clearing his throat. “Thanks for having me.” He glanced at Adele, his voice gruff but genuine. “And thanks for dinner. I can’t remember the last time I had a meal that good.”

  Adele’s lips quirked upward, amusement flickering in her eyes. “I should be thanking you,” she countered, nodding toward the nearly empty bottle of wine and the basket he had arrived with. “You brought the food.”

  Emmett shrugged. “Didn’t cook it, though. I just delivered it.” He smirked slightly. “The real work was done in there.” He motioned toward the kitchen with a nod.

  She tilted her head, considering him for a moment before speaking. “Remember, if you bring me more ingredients, I’ll cook for you again.”

  Emmett let out a low chuckle, shifting his weight. “I appreciate it. Honest.”

  She arched an eyebrow, her smirk growing. “And maybe, while you’re here, I can help improve your French?”

  That pulled a laugh from him. He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’d be appreciated. My mouth ain’t made for your language.”

  Adele chuckled softly, her voice warm. “It just takes practice, monsieur Granger.”

  Julien, now struggling to keep his eyes open, mumbled something unintelligible before giving up entirely, rubbing his face with one hand. Adele placed a gentle hand on his back, guiding him inside.

  “Goodnight, Emmett,” she said softly.

  Julien managed to lift his hand lazily, offering a tired wave. “Goodnight, cowboy.”

  Emmett smirked and gave a small nod in return. “Night, kid. Sleep tight.”

  The door clicked shut with finality. The warm glow of the candles inside flickered through the cracks in the shutters for a moment before Adele blew them out, plunging the home into darkness.

  And just like that, the warmth was gone.

  Emmett’s smirk faded almost immediately, his face twisting into a scowl as his thoughts turned cold.

  That damn conversation she overheard.

  He clenched his jaw, the words running through his head again.

  “They said he was OSS.”

  His scowl deepened. He turned sharply, limping toward the inn, the soft tap of his boot and crutch against the dirt road the only sound accompanying him.

  The night air was cool against his skin, the scent of the village settling into his lungs with every breath. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked lazily before falling silent again. Most of the village was already asleep, their windows dark and lifeless, save for the occasional glow of lantern light peeking through.

  Emmett exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cool air. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his pace as he approached the dimly lit inn. The old wooden building loomed ahead. Emmett pushed against the door without slowing his pace.

  The atmosphere in the Inn shifted the moment Emmett walked through the door. Henri, seated at a corner table nursing a drink, raised a hand in greeting, his mouth already forming some teasing comment. But he paused, his grin faltering when he noticed the stern, angry set of Emmett’s face as he approached.

  “Mon ami, what happened?” Henri asked, his voice cautious as he leaned forward.

  “Get the others,” Emmett said, his tone low but firm. “Meet me at the church. We need to talk.”

  Henri’s brow furrowed, but he nodded, setting his glass down. “As you wish,” he said, standing and moving to gather the others.

  Emmett stepped back into the cold night air, gripping his crutch tightly as he made his way toward the church. The familiar pain in his abdomen flared with every step, but he pushed through it, his jaw clenched.

  When he reached the church, the heavy wooden doors creaked as he pushed them open. Inside, Father Brenard was sweeping the floor, the rhythmic swish of the broom filling the otherwise quiet space. The priest looked up, his expression warm and welcoming.

  “Monsieur,” Father Brenard greeted him in French, pausing mid-sweep. “How can I help you this evening?”

  Emmett fought the bitterness rising in his chest and forced himself to nod politely. “Father, would it be alright if I held a private meeting here? It won’t take long.” He asked in his best French.

  The priest set the broom aside, studying Emmett for a moment before nodding. “Of course,” he said, his tone kind. “It’s a good night for a walk anyway.”

  Father Brenard paused, his expression turning thoughtful. “May I speak with you once you’re finished?”

  Emmett stiffened slightly but gave a curt nod. “Of course, Father.”

  “Thank you,” Father Brenard said, his smile returning. “Take your time.” He adjusted his robes and stepped out into the cool night, the doors creaking shut behind him.

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  Emmett sighed, leaning against the pew to take some of the weight off his injured side. The quiet of the church pressed in around him, the faint scent of incense lingering in the air. He glanced toward the large wooden cross hanging above the altar, its presence commanding yet strangely comforting.

  The sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Henri leading the other fighters into the church. They filed in quietly, their expressions a mix of curiosity and unease. Henri, as usual, maintained an air of calm, though a flicker of concern crossed his face as he took a seat in the front pew.

  Emmett waited until everyone was seated, his face impassive. Then, with a deliberate motion, he let his crutch fall to the floor. The loud clatter echoed through the church, drawing every eye to him. He straightened up, wincing as his gut ached. Emmett folded his arms, his gaze sweeping over the gathered men.

  “You all know who I am,” he began, his voice steady and firm. “And what I represent.”

  The men nodded silently, their expressions growing more apprehensive. Emmett turned slightly, his eyes lingering on the cross above the altar before shifting back to them.

  “I’ll refrain from swearing,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Since we’re in a house of worship.”

  Henri chuckled softly, but the rest of the men remained tense.

  Emmett’s expression hardened, and he looked each man in the eye, his voice dropping lower. “I’ve heard that someone’s been talking about me. About who I’m associated with.”

  The room fell deathly quiet. The men shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting to one another. Henri leaned back in his seat, watching the scene unfold with a passive demeanor, though his eyes betrayed his alertness.

  Emmett let the silence hang for a moment before speaking again. “Let me make this clear,” he growled, his tone sharp. “If anyone is caught talking about me or what I do, who I represent, that man will lose his tongue. And every fucking tooth in his head.”

  His words hung in the air like a guillotine, and the men visibly tensed. Emmett’s steely gaze swept over them again. “Do you understand me?”

  There was a chorus of nervous nods and murmured affirmations.

  “Good,” Emmett said, his voice cutting like a knife. He waved a hand dismissively. “Now go on. Get the fuck out of here.”

  The men quickly filed out, their footsteps echoing in the quiet church. Henri lingered, watching as Emmett bent down to retrieve his crutch, a grimace of pain crossing his face. Before he could reach it, Henri stepped forward and picked it up for him.

  “Here,” Henri said, handing it over. “I’m sorry, mon ami. If I’d known they were talking, I would’ve put a stop to it.”

  Emmett took the crutch with a nod. “I know you would’ve.” He leaned on it heavily, his eyes drifting back to the cross. After a moment, he muttered under his breath, “Sorry about the swearing.”

  Henri’s lips twitched into a smile. He clapped Emmett on the shoulder. “You’re forgiven, I’m sure.”

  Emmett sat heavily in one of the pews, letting out a weary sigh. Henri sat down beside him, leaning back comfortably. “So,” Henri began with a smirk. “How was dinner with Adele?”

  Emmett shrugged, avoiding Henri’s gaze. “She knows how to cook.”

  Henri laughed, standing with a groan. “You’ve earned some rest, mon ami. Relax a little. You’ve got time to recover before your next grand adventure.”

  Emmett snorted softly. “Yeah, sure.”

  Henri stretched, yawning. “Well, I’m off to bed. Are you coming?”

  Emmett shook his head. “Father Brenard wanted to talk to me.”

  Henri grinned, patting Emmett’s shoulder. “Goodnight, cowboy.”

  “Goodnight,” Emmett muttered, watching as Henri sauntered toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the quiet.

  Left alone, Emmett leaned back against the pew, staring up at the cross with a heavy sigh.

  Emmett sat in the quiet stillness of the church, the faint creak of the rafters the only sound. The flickering light of the candles cast dancing shadows across the stone walls. He rubbed his hands together absentmindedly.

  The sound of footsteps echoed softly through the nave, and Emmett turned his head as Father Brenard approached. The priest moved with a measured pace.

  "Good evening, Monsieur Granger," the priest said, his voice calm yet weighted with concern.

  "Evening, Father," Emmett replied, his tone tired. He managed a nod, though his shoulders sagged under the weight of recent events.

  Father Brenard raised a hand in greeting as he lowered himself heavily onto the pew beside Emmett. He let out a quiet sigh as he settled, folding his hands over his lap. “I speak some English… would you like a break from our language?”

  Emmett Laughed, leaning back and nodded. “I’d appreciate that father.”

  The priest nodded and looked to Emmett’s Crutch. "How is your recovery coming along?"

  Emmett shrugged, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Slow, but sure," he said after a moment.

  The priest nodded, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "That’s better than the… alternative," he said lightly. His expression grew more serious as he studied the man beside him. "Emmett, you’ve been here some time now. Your comrades have all come to me. Each one seeking counsel, seeking forgiveness in these trying times. But not you."

  Emmett shifted uncomfortably, glancing toward the altar. He felt the priest’s gaze on him, steady and unyielding, but didn’t look back.

  Father Brenard tilted his head slightly, his tone softening. "May I ask what faith you were raised in?"

  "Baptist," Emmett replied. "Back in Montana." He let out a dry chuckle. "Haven’t been to church since I left America, though."

  The priest considered this for a moment, then asked, "Why not Monsieur?"

  Emmett shrugged again, avoiding the question as much as answering it. "I’ve been busy, I guess. And… truth be told, I feel a bit out of place in church these days."

  Father Brenard nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Why is that, Emmett? What makes you feel out of place?"

  Emmett’s jaw tightened as memories flickered through his mind.

  "A lot of reasons," he muttered finally, his voice low and guarded.

  The priest studied him quietly, his gaze both probing and compassionate. "The world-weary, the sinful, and the unclean are the ones who need Christ the most," he said gently.

  Emmett’s mouth twitched into the faintest semblance of a smile, but it was fleeting. He said nothing, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a physical force.

  After a moment, Father Brenard rose to his feet. "Wait here," he said simply, his tone kind but firm. Without another word, he disappeared into a small room off to the side of the sanctuary.

  Emmett watched him go, his brow furrowing in confusion. He leaned back against the pew, wincing slightly as his wound protested the movement. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the quiet settle over him like a blanket.

  The priest returned a few minutes later, carrying a small bundle wrapped in cloth. He approached Emmett and held it out to him.

  "What’s this?" Emmett asked, sitting up straighter as he took the bundle.

  "Something I carried during the Great War," Father Brenard said. "I purchased it before I was sent to the front. It’s sat unused in a box for decades now, gathering dust."

  Curious, Emmett unwrapped the cloth to reveal a dagger in its sheath. The blade was long and thin, tapering to a wickedly sharp point. The hilt was simple but sturdy, its dark wood polished smooth with age.

  Emmett unsheathed the knife, letting the firelight glint off the steel. The double-edged blade felt perfectly balanced in his hand, and he turned it over slowly, admiring its craftsmanship.

  The priest watched him with a calm expression. "It served me well once, many years ago." he said. "It’s a painful reminder for me now, one I no longer wish to keep. Perhaps it will do more good in your hands than rusting away in a forgotten box."

  Emmett looked up at him, his expression unreadable. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

  Father Brenard nodded. "I am. It is yours now, Monsieur. Use it wisely."

  Emmett stared at the blade for a moment longer before nodding. "Thank you," he said quietly. He slid the knife back into its sheath and tucked it into his belt.

  The priest placed a hand on Emmett’s shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "If you ever wish to talk, my doors are always open," he said.

  Emmett stood with a soft grunt, extending his hand. "I’ll keep that in mind," he said.

  Father Brenard clasped his hand firmly, offering him a small smile. "Goodnight, Emmett. May God watch over you."

  Emmett nodded and stepped out into the cool night air, the dagger resting heavily against his side. The weight was oddly comforting, even as his thoughts swirled with uncertainty.