Minerva watched from across the camp as her wife laughed with a group of soldiers, who were hanging on her every word. Her wife always had that effect on people—there was a glow about her, a quiet confidence that drew them in like moths to a flame. She never seemed to notice the attention, her smile genuine and her laugh soft and lilting. Minerva knew the effect well. She knew the power of it, but it never ceased to amaze her.

From behind her blank expression, Minerva noted every detail of the scene with a calm, steady gaze. She didn't let her eyes linger too long, just long enough to see one of the privates—Wheeler, fresh out of training—lean in a little closer than necessary. His gaze was hungry, and he wore that foolish, boyish grin Minerva had come to know too well. And why wouldn't he? Her wife's presence was like a beacon in a place of grit and sweat, the perfect storm of beauty, poise, and charm.

Minerva crossed her arms, jaw set as her eyes narrowed just a fraction. She would never admit it—never even let the thought cross her mind fully—but something about the way those men looked at her wife twisted a knot of jealousy in her chest. It was stupid, she told herself. Childish. Her wife was her wife. She had nothing to worry about.

But watching Wheeler, and the others like him, try their luck so boldly was infuriating. Minerva knew she didn't always show it—she wasn't one for grand displays of affection or flowery words. She was a soldier through and through, efficient and detached, bound by orders. But the longer she watched, the more that stubborn knot tightened, until she felt her feet moving before her mind could catch up.