"She would be proud of you." He whispers. "You have her courage."
"And you have your justice." Her reply is quiet but certain. "Finally."
"Speaking of which—" Jenny cuts in, all business. "Faulks will mobilize everything he has to get the Swan back."
We load into new vehicles—clean ones, with false plates and no connection to the morning's chaos. Merlin clutches the Swan like a lifeline. Seventy years of searching ended. A love story that became a tragedy, finally finding something like a resolution.
But as I help Vivianne into the van, her wedding dress train catching on everything, I realize we've written a different ending. Where Anthony and Brigitte were torn apart by war and circumstance, we've fought through to the other side.
The Swan brought us together—a ruby born from pressure and time, holding secrets and sorrow. But we're not going to let it define us the way it defined them.
THIRTY-ONE
Paul: Prague
The lightin Prague is different from Paris. Softer somehow, filtered through centuries of coal smoke and history that clings to the buildings like memory. It's perfect for painting.
I've been at the canvas since dawn, trying to capture the way Vivianne looked last night—wrapped in my shirt, standing on our tiny balcony, the city lights turning her skin to gold. She doesn't know I'm painting this moment. She was lost in thought, probably processing the latest batch of testimony she'd given, unaware of how the weight she's carried for months is finally starting to lift from her shoulders.
Three weeks of freedom, and she's still learning how to breathe without asking permission.
"Paul?" Her voice drifts from the bedroom, husky with sleep. "Are you painting again?"
"Always." I call back, adding another stroke of gold to her hair in the painting.
She appears in the doorway wearing the same shirt from last night—my shirt—and nothing else. Her legs are bare, her hair a beautiful mess, and she's holding two cups of coffee like a peace offering.
"You were supposed to stay in bed." She hands me a cup. "It's Sunday."
"You were supposed to sleep past noon." I set down my brush, pull her between my legs where I'm sitting on the stool. "Bad dreams again?"
She nods, not lying but not elaborating either. The nightmares come less frequently now, but they still come. Prescott's hands. Her father's voice. The feeling of drowning in white silk.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." She sets down her coffee and frames my face with her hands. "I want to forget about it."
She kisses me, slow and deep, tasting of coffee and promises. When she pulls back, there's paint on her fingers from where she touched my cheek.
I smile against her lips, my hands settling on her waist, drawing her closer. She's all soft curves and quiet need, and I want nothing more than to chase away those shadows for her. My thumbs trace lazy circles on her hips, under the hem of the shirt that dwarfs her frame.
"Then let's forget." I pull her in for another kiss—this one lingering, unhurried, like we're savoring the morning light filtering through the window.
Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging gently as she deepens the kiss, her body melting against mine. I wrap my arms around her fully now, hugging her tight between my legs, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath sync with mine. The stool creaks under us as she shifts, climbing onto my lap to straddle me, her thighs bracketing my hips. The shirt rides up, exposing the smooth expanse of her skin, and I can't help but run my hands along her legs, savoring the sensation.
We kiss like that for what feels like hours—slow, exploratory, my lips trailing to her jaw, her neck, nipping softly at thepulse that flutters there. She sighs, arching into me, her hands working at the buttons of my shirt with deliberate slowness. One by one, they give way, and she pushes the fabric aside, her palms gliding over my chest, igniting sparks wherever she touches. I shrug out of it, letting it pool on the floor, and pull her closer, the heat of her core pressing against me through my jeans.
The laziness starts to fray at the edges as desire builds, her hips rocking subtly against me, drawing a low groan from my throat. I capture her mouth again, hungrier now, my hands slipping under the shirt to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until they're peaked and she's gasping into the kiss.
"Paul." She whispers, her voice breaking on my name, and it's all the encouragement I need.
My fingers find the button of my jeans, freeing myself with quick, earnest movements, and she lifts just enough to help, guiding me to her entrance.
We move together like that, still on the stool—slow thrusts that build into something deeper, more insistent, her arms around my neck, my hands gripping her ass to hold her steady. The intimacy of it steals my breath; it's not just heat, it's us, reclaiming the space between nightmares and daylight. But as the rhythm quickens, her nails digging into my shoulders, the stool feels too precarious, too small for the fire we're stoking.
I stand, keeping her wrapped around me, her legs locking at my waist. She yelps a soft laugh that turns into a moan as I carry her the few steps to the wall, pressing her back against the cool plaster. The contrast makes her gasp, her body clenching around me, and I thrust deeper, earnest now, the steam of our bodies filling the air with the scent of paint and sweat and her.
Our kisses are frantic, tongues tangling, breaths mingling as I drive into her, each movement a promise to erase the past, to fill her with only this—us, hot and alive and unbreakable. She comes undone first, crying out against my shoulder, her bodyshuddering, and it pulls me over the edge with her, spilling into her with a guttural sound I can't hold back.
