• • •

I could feel the blood drain from my face when I heard the door click. The Officer and I watched Elisabet walk in.

"Imogen, I found the most darling dress! And a pair of-," Her cheery voice died when she saw us.

"Elisabet Bassin?"

"Yes." She answered, setting the bag of clothes down. She knew what was coming.

"You need to come with me." He coldly stated. His hand grabbed her harshly by the arm, making her wince.

"Wait!" I called, making haste to approach them.

He spun to me, striking me in the mouth. I fell to the ground, my cheek stinging as I fought back the tears.

"You were hiding her; if you don't want to be taken away too, then I suggest you stay where I have put you." He growled.

"I am a French woman. You cannot put me in a camp!" I argued.

"Half French, am I right, American?" He spat the last word like it was the grossest thing in the world.

That shut me up.

"It's all right, I'll be alright," Elisabet told me as he dragged her from the bakery. I followed them; a car was waiting outside.

"Elisabet!" I reached for her and was pulled back by the driver. His arms tight around my waist as he swung me around. A familiar scent caught my nose as he set my feet on the ground.

I looked up at Callan, my voice dying in my throat at the hatred he had in his eyes. He wasn't the Callan I knew- the one who had wanted a picnic and packed granola. In his place was the cold, dangerous, calculating SS Captain.

"Get in the car, Malik." He told his colleague, his eyes never leaving mine. Elisabet was already in the back, screaming at him.

"You bastard!" I yelled at him striking him in the chest over and over.

"Stop!" He yelled at me. His strong hands gripped my arms, and he growled in annoyance, shaking me harshly, "Shut your mouth!" He hissed, and I couldn't hold back the tears. They streamed down my face as he screamed at me to shut up.

"Let go of me! Let me go!" I yelled back, spitting in his face. It hit him with a sickening splat. And for a brief moment, I was glad I did it. The moment was concise as I looked at him, his face in shock. I was expecting him to hit me, but he only let me go and took a step back, harshly wiping my saliva from his face. My breathing was heavy as we stared at each other. I couldn't believe I had done that no more than he could.

"Bitch!" His comrade yelled, bolting form the car his baton high. It struck me across my cheek, causing me to fall to the ground before he struck me again. My glasses hit the ground, and I heard the sharp sound of glass breaking. Other Frenchmen were hollering in protest, screaming for him to stop.

"Stop!" I screamed, raising my arm to shield my face. The baton struck it hard. Hot searing pain swam through my body. I could barely hear Callan's voice as he ordered his man to stop. The blows didn't cease. My vision was blurring; I barely made out the image of Callan tackling his counterpart, striking him in the face.

"I said stop," he growled at the man whose nose was bleeding.

"American lover." He spat.

"No, there is no reason to strike a woman. No reason ever," He said, "Get in the car."

I sat up on my elbow, wincing at the pain in my arm as I glared at a blurred Callan. He was standing by the car, looking down at me.

"You," He ordered to someone from behind me, "get her inside." I felt pairs of hands from all around pull me to my feet.

As they coddled my injuries, I watched the car drive away with Elisabet.

"Come on, dear, let's get you cleaned up." A woman had said.

I pulled my arm from her grasp, "I can do it. Let go of me," They did, and I stumbled up the two stairs to my door. Hands reached for me, and I shouted, "Don't!"

I turned the knob and shut the large wooden door behind me, sliding down the wood. Sobs wracked my body as the pain, fear, and anger took over. My arm was bruised and tender to the touch; my glasses lay, bent, and shattered in the street. He didn't even stop him before he hit me. He struck me twice before he stepped in. My voice cried out until it was dead in my throat. I curled up into a ball, bringing my knees to my chest.

Elisabet won't live to see the end of the war.

I woke up to rain, pelting at the glass. It was dark, and all my lights were still on. As quickly as my crippled body would allow, I shuffled around the store, flicking off lights with a hiss of pain. Dried blood stained me, and I wondered where it came from. Which blow caused my skin to separate? I was barely up the stairs when I heard a rapping at my door. Scared and already shaking, I clutched the metal railing of the staircase. My breath was catching in my throat as I heard it again; this time, a voice was with it.

"Imogen, open up. I know you're in there!" Callan called out as he banged on the door. I stood my ground and forced back tears as he kept hitting on the old wood.

"I'll do this all night. I don't care I get caught," It was silent for a moment, "You know I don't."

I listened as the rain came down harder and he cussed in German.

"It's pouring!"

I had inched towards the door slowly. Thunder sounded, and I winced. The rain came down harder, screaming against the building to gain access. His attempts to get in stopped, and I panicked. I swung the door open, and he stood there, dripping and shivering. He managed a smile. I stepped to the side and let him in. His uniform shoes squeaked, and his uniform leaked water onto the rug.

"You have to take that off," I said, and he turned to me, raising an eyebrow, "I don't want water everywhere," I told him, walking past to throw logs into the fireplace. I winced and clutched my side after only throwing the first log in. His wet hand rested on the small of my back.

"I've got it. Just get me some clothes, towels, and a first aid kit. Your eyebrow needs to be stitched," He told me as he threw more logs into the fireplace. I turned and went to the bathroom. I set the first aid kit on the sink and stared at my broken image in the mirror. He was right; my eyebrow was split open. Dried blood was staining down my temple, and I had a swollen lip and a dark bruise on my jaw. The moment I touched it, a grimace escaped me - not the smartest idea. I kicked off my heels and slipped into my room. I know I had some of my dad's old clothes around here somewhere.

I rummaged through my closet until I found them in a box in the back. I found a pair of old Levi's with oil stains and a surprisingly clean cream shirt. Grateful to see that my mother hadn't tossed his sweaters. I grabbed one and threw it on my bed and clutching at my head as the world spun. I need to slow down. But I couldn't; he was soaking wet downstairs. I grabbed the pajamas I had on earlier and slipped them on quickly, sliding my arms through my robe before gathering the clothes and first aid kit. I went back for the towels on my way down the stairs.

The crackling of the fire could be heard, and I spotted Callan leaning against it his arms crossed over his bare chest. He had only taken off his jacket and blouse. His poor legs were still in his wet pants.

"Here, they're my dad's," I dropped the jeans, shirt, and sweater into his lap. He looked up at me and stood up.

"Let me fix your cut before I change," He said, reaching for the kit.

"You really should change, first," I told him.

"And why's that?" He asked.

"You have goosebumps," I pointed out, touching his forearm as he reached to clean my cut.

"It's not from the rain," he told me, cupping my face with his other hand as he put disinfectant on the gash. I could feel the skin tug against the swab.

"Please, just get out of that uniform," I said bitterly. I didn't want to look at it anymore. I hated it.

With a sigh, he dropped his arms and tossed the swab into the trash, picking up the clothes.

"It's upstairs. First door on the right," I said when he looked at me at the base of the stairs. I grabbed the remaining of his uniform and tossed it away. I then proceeded to clean my cut. I wasn't doing that great, but I didn't want him to touch me again. Not right now. Not after what had happened tonight. I heard him come down the stairs and didn't bother looking at him.