The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 325

Quinn drew a steadying breath. “When I was alone with Leander Fane, my guard slipped for a moment—that's all.”

“Do you think Leander is Rowan?” Harlan pressed.

“I don't know,” Quinn said. “While we spoke, I used several covert signals only Rowan and I would recognize, but he showed no reaction.”

If Rowan were under watch or forced to hide his identity, he would still find a way to answer those signals. Yet Leander gave her nothing—no flicker of recognition, no hesitation.

“And when I asked about where he'd been three years ago, he dodged the question,” she added.

Harlan's eyes sharpened. “Then we pull his DNA—hair, blood, anything—and settle it in a lab.”

Julius folded his arms. “Blood or hair means we have to drug him, or it won't be that easy. The man rarely fights, but don't doubt his skill.”

Quinn weighed the options. DNA was decisive, yet hair had to be plucked—three to five strands with follicles intact, tweezers in sterile gloves. Drawing blood, of course, would be even more obvious.

Just as Julius warned, unless Leander volunteered or they incapacitated him, collecting either sample would be near impossible.

Still, an idea began to form, faint but insistent.

Quinn's eyes sharpened with sudden resolve. Her voice, a soft yet startling blade, cut through the tentative hush. “We could always strip him down.”

Harlan froze. “Strip him?”

Julius, however, caught on in a heartbeat. “You want to see whether there's a scar on his shoulder?”

Quinn dipped her chin, calm but unyielding. “If he really is Rowan, even amnesia can't erase that scar.”

That mark had been carved into Rowan's flesh the night he threw himself between her and danger.

The memory of it still throbbed inside her like a hidden knife.

Elsewhere, Leander settled into a velvet couch beneath muted lights, his gaze fixed on the handkerchief resting in his palms.

Moments earlier, that square of fabric had brushed tears from Quinn's cheeks; the damp traces now glimmered like ghosts against the weave.

His fingertips grazed the faint stains, and an inexplicable heaviness pooled in his chest.

Serena wrinkled her nose. “Leander, that cloth touched her face. It's filthy—just toss it, okay?”

“That won't be necessary,” Leander replied, voice steady as still water.

Serena muttered, “Why not? Women like her who flirt with every man are disgusting. I can't imagine what Julius is thinking, dating someone like that.”

“Serena, I offered the handkerchief. And I've told you—she isn't that kind of woman,” Leander said.

The look she'd given him hadn't been hungry or calculating. It had felt like yearning for family.

Pure. Deep. Unmistakable.

Was she staring through me, searching for someone who shared my face?

After all, she had said he resembled a man she once knew.

Who is that man, and what story did he carry?

Yet he would not die. He must not die here, swallowed by this inferno. Faces waited beyond the fire—people he still had to meet, souls he had sworn to guard.

He clung to that promise, telling himself again and again that, whatever it cost, he had to stay alive.

A razor-sharp surge of instinct slammed through him. He snapped awake, heart punching against his ribs.

Someone had slipped into the room and left the lights off.

That ruled out Serena.

Then who is it?

The mattress dipped as the intruder crept closer. Leander exploded upward, a coiled spring suddenly unleashed, driving his fist toward the shadow.

The stranger's palm rose in a clean block, absorbing the blow with trained precision.

“Mr. Fane.” A woman's voice cut through the dark, low but steady, “it's Quinn Bridger.”

He yanked his arm away. “Quinn? Ms. Bridger?”

“Yes,” she said.

The overhead lamp blinked alive, flooding the room with stark, unforgiving brightness.

Leander studied her, brow furrowing. “Ms. Bridger, you need to explain yourself for breaking into my room at this hour.”