"Then we adapt." I lean forward, closing the distance between us deliberately. "But you don't go into Berlin without backup. You don't approach Koval without support. And you don't take risks that could get you killed before we stop this kidnapping."
"Protective?" Curiosity colors her voice, something softer than the tactical assessment she's maintained until now.
"Invested," I correct. "I vouched for you. That means keeping you alive long enough to prove I wasn't wrong."
"And if you were wrong?"
"Then I'll deal with the consequences." Admission feels dangerous, too honest for the distance we should be maintaining. "But I don't think I'm wrong. I think you're exactlywhat you claim to be. An asset trying to salvage something from years of moral compromise."
She holds my gaze, vulnerability flickering across features that have maintained perfect control until now. "Thank you," she whispers.
Monaco disappears beneath us as we lift off, climbing toward Berlin and whatever verification awaits. The Laurent kidnapping looms ahead, Moreau's network still intact, the clock running down faster than any of us want to acknowledge. And sitting across from me is the woman who either holds the key to stopping it all or who just played me better than anyone has in years.
I watch her across the cabin—exhausted, injured, still maintaining that edge of awareness that says she's never truly off-duty. Anger simmers between us. Suspicion. Something else I don't want to name.
Berlin first. Then the truth about whether I've just saved an asset or invited a threat directly into Cerberus operations.
5
MARISSA
The jet's cabin feels smaller than it should. Leather seats, polished wood trim, sophisticated communications array that probably costs more than most people earn in a year. Everything designed for comfort and discretion. But there's no escaping the fact that I'm trapped in a metal tube with a man who came to kill me and is now apparently tasked with deciding if I'm worth keeping alive.
Archer sits across from me, near enough that I notice the shadow of exhaustion beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw that speaks of too many operations and too little sleep. He hasn't looked away since we boarded, hasn't given me space to breathe or regroup or rebuild the walls I usually keep between myself and anyone who gets too close. The tactical assessment never stops with him. He's reading every micro-expression, cataloging every tell, measuring the distance between what I say and what I mean.
I try to settle deeper into my seat, angling my body toward the window. Creating distance where the confined space doesn't allow for it. The pain medication they gave me at Opus Noir has dulled the worst of the throbbing in my arm and ribs, butexhaustion sits heavy in my bones. I want to close my eyes. Want to stop performing for just a handful of hours.
"Don't," Archer says quietly.
I turn back to face him. "Don't what?"
"Don't retreat. Don't build walls. Don't give me the version of yourself you think I want to see." He leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing the distance between us deliberately. "We have hours before Berlin. I need to know who I'm vouching for."
Anger flares hot and immediate. "You already vouched for me. You brought me into Cerberus operations. You gave me back my weapon. Little late for second-guessing."
"Not second-guessing. Verifying." His voice stays level, professional. "Fitz accepted my assessment based on monastery evidence and gut instinct. But I need more than that before I take you into Iron Choir territory. I need to know if you're salvageable or if you crossed the line somewhere back there."
The words hit like a physical blow. Crossed the line. Like I'm compromised equipment, damaged goods, an asset that might have shifted from useful to liability. My hands curl into fists against my thighs, nails biting into my palms hard enough to center me.
"What do you want to know?" The question comes out sharper than I intend. "What questions will satisfy your need to catalogue my sins before deciding if I deserve redemption?"
"Start with the kills." He doesn't flinch from the anger in my voice. "The dossier lists operations where you participated in Iron Choir eliminations. Were those real?"
"Yes." The admission tastes like ash. "I killed people while maintaining my cover. Targets the Iron Choir wanted eliminated. Some were rival organization members. Some were witnesses who saw too much. Some were assets who got burned."
"How many?"
"Does the number matter?" I meet his eyes, refusing to look away even though every instinct screams to hide from this examination. "Would you believe me more if I said a handful? Trust me less if I said dozens? The kills were real, Archer. I pulled the trigger. I watched them die. And I filed reports with my handlers documenting every operation while pretending to be exactly what the Iron Choir needed me to be."
He studies me in silence, processing the confession. "You feel guilt about it."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Every single one. Even the ones who deserved it. Even the ones who would have killed me without hesitation if our positions were reversed." My fingers find the crystal bracelets on my wrist, tracing the smooth stones in the pattern that's become automatic over the years. "But guilt doesn't change what I did. Doesn't make me less culpable. I made those choices. I live with them."
"And the seductions?" His gaze drops to where my fingers worry the bracelets, then returns to my face. "The dossier mentioned close relationships with Iron Choir leadership. Intimacy used as cover."
Heat crawls up my neck, anger and shame twisting together. "You want details? Want to know how far I went to maintain credibility? How many times I let them touch me, use me, believe I was theirs?" The words come faster now, fueled by exhaustion and the desperate need to make him understand. "I did what the mission required. I became what they needed to see. And yes, that meant intimacy I didn't want with people I was gathering evidence against."
"I'm not asking for graphic details." Something softens in his voice, empathy flickering across his features. "I'm asking if you knew where the line was. If you maintained enough of yourself to distinguish between cover and complicity."
