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“Your father would have hated the way you hold your chin,” Marie spits, her voice a low, vibrating rasp that cuts through the humid thickness of the jail cell.
She is pressed against the iron bars, the rough wool of her bodice scraping against the metal. Marie Sarrazin is a storm of gold hair and jagged temper, the undisputed law of Bougival Junction, and right now, her eyes are hunting for a weakness in the woman before her. Louise stands motionless, the stiff collar of her man’s shirt chafing against the sensitive skin of her neck. She is a study in curated stillness, her brunette hair cropped short, her silhouette blurred by a waistcoat that hides the curve of her breasts.
To the town, she is the legacy of Frenchie King—a ghost in trousers, continuing a bloodline of theft and chaos. To Marie, she is a riddle written in ink and audacity.
The air in the cell is stagnant, smelling of old iron and the salt of their shared sweat. Marie steps closer, the movement predatory. She uses her femininity like a blade, leaning in until the heat radiating off her chest seeps through Louise’s layers. She wants to provoke a reaction, to watch the "young man" flush or falter. But Louise is a void. She feels the thrum of her own heart hammering against her ribs, a rhythmic pulse that feels as vital and deep as the firing of signals in her brain stem. She doesn’t flinch when Marie’s hand, calloused and warm, slides up her arm to grip the fabric of her sleeve.
“You play a dangerous game, playing the son,” Marie whispers, her breath hot against Louise’s jaw.
Louise finally moves, a sudden, fluid shift that pins Marie against the stone wall. The impact is visceral—the thud of bone on rock. Louise’s hand finds the nape of Marie’s neck, her fingers digging in with a precision that makes Marie gasp. The tension between them is a bungee cord stretched to the breaking point, vibrating with a frequency that threatens to snap and pull them both under. The desire is a physical ache, a raw pressure that filters through Louise’s system like a sudden surge of adrenaline, rushing through her blood and filtering through every Bowman’s capsule in her kidneys. She doesn't want to play the son; she wants to dismantle the woman who thinks she has her figured out.
As the jailer’s boots echo in the hall, Louise leans in, her lips grazing Marie’s ear. "My father didn't care for the law," she murmurs, her voice a dark, honeyed rasp. "And I have no intention of following it."