The words hung between us, fragile and honest. The kind of truth soldiers aren’t supposed to admit—they never know when the next mission will come, when the next fight will find them.
But right now, there was only this moment.
Elara shifted closer, her breath warm against my neck. “You saved me,” she said softly.
I shook my head. “You saved yourself. I just refused to let you do it alone.”
That earned a laugh—quiet, broken, beautiful. She slid her hand along my chest, fingertips tracing the scar over my ribs. “You always say the right thing, even when you shouldn’t.”
I caught her wrist gently, my thumb circling her pulse. “Then tell me to stop.”
She didn’t.
The space between us disappeared. Her lips found mine—slow at first, then fierce, the kind of kiss that didn’t care about logic or war or time. My hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer until the rest of the world faded completely.
When she pressed her forehead against mine, her voice was barely a whisper. “No more running.”
“Never again,” I promised.
The rest of it was wordless—heat and breath and the quiet urgency of two people who had nothing left to prove, only something left to hold on to. Every touch felt like a vow. Every sigh, a reminder that we were still here, still human, still capable of wanting more than survival.
Outside, the sun climbed higher, lighting the dust in the air like gold. Inside, we moved together until the fear was gone, replaced by something softer, stronger, entirely ours.
When it was over, she curled against me, her heartbeat steady against my chest. I pressed a kiss to her hair and closed my eyes.
Hydra was ashes. Viktor was gone. And for the first time since the war began, I let myself believe that peace—no matter how temporary—might actually be real.
87
Elara
By mid-morning, the safehouse smelled like coffee, antiseptic, and victory.
The others were awake, moving slower than usual—like men who’d finally remembered what it felt like to breathe. Cyclone sat cross-legged on the floor, his laptop open, a half-empty mug beside him. Oliver was cleaning his rifle, calm and methodical, humming under his breath. River leaned against the counter, teasing Gage about the singed edge of his jacket. For once, Gage didn’t argue—he just grinned, eyes bright under the bruises.
When Beckett and I stepped out of the back room, the noise quieted. River caught my gaze first and smiled. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Morning,” I said, voice still rough.
“Coffee?” Cyclone offered, not looking up. “It’s strong enough to kill whatever’s still in your bloodstream.”
Beckett accepted two cups and handed me one. The warmth of it settled through my fingers like a heartbeat.
For a moment, none of us spoke. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was sacred. The kind that follows the kind of night that changes everything.
Oliver finally broke it. “Viktor’s gone. The city’s quiet. Hydra’s network is scattered. But Grand—he’s still out there.”
Beckett nodded slowly. “Then we rebuild and wait. He’ll come looking for what he lost.”
Cyclone tapped a few keys. “Already tracking encrypted chatter. There’s movement in Eastern Europe—Hydra loyalists trying to regroup. Nothing solid yet.”
River smirked. “Guess we’ll get our vacation when we’re dead.”
Beckett looked at him, one brow raised. “When you’re dead, I’m taking your gear.”
Laughter rippled through the room—tired, genuine, real.
Elara sipped her coffee and leaned against the doorframe, watching the men she’d nearly died beside. Brothers, every one of them. The Golden Team.
