His fingers curl into the sheet, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
"You're not bulletproof, Keira. You're not untouchable."
"I don't need to be untouchable. I need to be bait."
His expression twists like he wants to argue, like he is trying to form a sentence strong enough to stop me, but in the end, he does not speak.
Instead, he reaches out and pulls me back into his arms.
I let him.
I go willingly.
There is no one else I would rather have at my back, no one else I would trust with this much of myself, and maybe that is why this is so hard.
"When you've made up your mind, there's no telling you to change it," he says finally, his voice low in my ear. "So I'll say yes. Just don't expect me to enjoy it."
I press a kiss to his shoulder, breathing him in.
"You'll manage."
"I'll leave for Wicklow in the morning," he says.
"The guards here will see, and I expect some of them will let the word spread. And I'll make damn sure they think it's for good."
"I'll stay here. Take the house, take the meetings, take the questions. Niamh will spread the story fast. Her people are already watching the street. Lena's cousin can drop the story to Liam's handler by noon."
"And what if Moretti moves before we're ready?" he asks.
"Then we'll see it coming."
He pulls back just enough to study my face.
His fingers brush my cheek, then fall to rest over my stomach, his thumb tracing a slow line above the curve of it.
"You don't have to do this," he says.
"I do."
He sighs, then nods, and I know he hates it, every part ofit, but he'll do it anyway.
Because he believes in me.
Because he trusts me.
Because this is war, and there are no rules left that either of us is willing to follow.
The moment I have the go-ahead from him, I brief Niamh and Lena over the secure line.
They see the logic, although they're not too happy about it.
Once this is done, I kiss my husband again, softer now, not hungry or frantic, but grounding.
When I pull back, I press my forehead to his.
"We have an hour before the performance, maybe two."
There's a window between this fading night and consequence, and we slip through it like fugitives.
