"You perverted butcher, get your filthy hands off me!"
Her closed eyes snapped open. She seized the roaming, lecherous hand working its way over Elena's body and glared at Allen's half-smile, wishing she could bite this deviant to death. Seeing Elena's face—angry, mature yet tinged with girlish freshness—Allen's mood lifted, and the question he'd been holding back slipped out. He wrapped an arm, bandit-bold, around her supple waist and pulled her tight. At once he felt two small, hardened points brush him as her struggles set every oversensitive nerve alight.
"Did you come to 'assassinate' me just to sleep with me?"
At that, Elena stopped struggling. The room fell to nothing but their faint breaths.
After a moment, without a word, she slipped from his grasp, gathered the clothes strewn across the floor, and dressed piece by piece. She stayed silent the whole time. Truth was, she didn't know how to answer. Maybe Allen was right—maybe she did come to kill him just to end up in his bed. Maybe it was something else. Her heart was a mess. He was a butcher—a butcher who had slaughtered over a hundred thousand of her people—yet in Elena's chest, attachment and hatred lived side by side.
To kill Allen, she had wandered alone through western cities, until she met a woman—an alchemist named Izumi—and became her disciple. Once she learned alchemy, she began planning how to send this perverted butcher to hell.
Maybe it was Ishvalan conservatism. Maybe it was simply that Allen was the kind of man who drew women in. After years of abstinence, when a female assassin who fit his tastes crossed his path, passion exploded in that blood-red night.
"When are you coming back?" Allen lit another cigarette and watched quietly while she finished dressing.
His question scattered the awkwardness. Color rose in Elena's cheeks—thankfully hidden by her complexion. Otherwise he would have teased her and thrown her down again. The thought of their battle just moments ago sent a flush of heat through her.
She didn't answer. She opened the window and placed a foot on the sill, ready to jump. Allen added, "I'm free in two days. Take a bath before you come."
The single sentence nearly sent Elena tumbling from the fifth floor. She shot him a murderous look and vanished into the night.
She was gone, but her scent filled the room, thick and heady. He gathered the clothes from the floor and peeled back the sheets. Whatever perfume Elena used, it ruined the bedding every time—each visit meant a fresh set.
Habit asserted itself: not long after Elena left, the door swung open. The logistics staff all knew—around this hour, Major Allen needed a new set of sheets, and the old ones were to be destroyed, or heads would roll.
He lay back, glanced at the clock on the wall pointing to eleven, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow, the fighting resumed.
At the same time, in a mansion near the temporary Ishval command, Duke Porter L. Wilkinson sat beaming on an extravagant white-bearskin sofa. In his hand was a confidential report; the more he read, the happier he grew. Allen hadn't strayed from his expectations. The duke was sure that once the war ended, Allen would become a new star of the army.
The old butler stood to the side, pleased for his master. After topping off the duke's glass, he said, "Sir, should we make contact? You've sacrificed plenty for that boy these years. He ought to show gratitude—repay you properly."
Porter set the report down, leaned back, swirled his wine, drew in the rich aroma, then shook his head with a sigh. "Your vision's too short. Our ties with those old men in the military are purely transactional. From the look of things, the President doesn't trust us much. The moment he has an excuse, they'll cut us off. I need an absolute bargaining chip for the family. That boy isn't stupid. If we send someone now, at best it's a deal—nothing that binds him to us." He paused to catch his breath, then added, "Send Carlos Jr. Tell Allen I intend to marry my granddaughter to him."
The butler hissed a breath. Marriage!
Contracts mean little—tear them up when you're displeased. Words mean even less. The only thing with any weight is marriage. It isn't foolproof—history's full of alliances turned sour—but for the family, it's a gamble worth taking. And Allen was ambitious. He wouldn't pass up such a chance.
The butler's inner waves calmed as he thought it through, though he still felt aggrieved for the young lady. He'd watched her grow up—he loved her, perhaps more protectively than the duke himself.
"It's settled. Tomorrow, set me a meeting with our general. Time he did his part." Porter tossed back the half glass in one rough swallow and flicked his hand before retiring. He knew the butler disliked putting the granddaughter on the scales to buy Allen's cooperation. But who could know—no one felt the pain more than a grandfather.
That night, countless souls lay awake.
With the sun already high, Allen finally woke from pleasant dreams, washed up, and hurried to camp. There would be a battle in the afternoon. They were close to Ishval now. Victory was in sight, but resistance remained fierce; regular troops simply couldn't push another step through the Ishvalan defensive ring.
In camp, Mustang and Armstrong sat to either side. When Major General Mokhfat saw Allen lift the tent flap, he personally hurried over to greet him. Allen was his lucky star. If they won today, Mokhfat would likely become one of the youngest full generals—and Allen would be the maker of that legend.
"This afternoon, we break the western defense line—stab in like a bayonet and shatter their defense from within. It won't be long before you all can return to Central to collect your ranks, hahahahaha!" The moment he pictured himself as the nation's youngest full general, Mokhfat couldn't stop grinning, laughing loud—
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