She opens her mouth, and I brace for the rejection that tactical sense demands. But instead of pushing me away, she pulls me closer, her lips finding mine in a kiss that's desperate and angry and anything but professional.
The world narrows to the taste of her mouth, the way her body presses against mine, the small sounds she makes when I deepen the kiss. I pull her flush against me, and she gasps into my mouth, fingers tangling in my hair.
This isn't the controlled dominance from last night. This is raw need stripped of pretense, two people who've been circling each other finally colliding. Her mouth is hot and demanding against mine, tongue sliding past my lips with desperate hunger. She tastes like the whiskey we drank at Kronos and something uniquely her, intoxicating and addictive. She kisses me like she's drowning and I'm air, like she's been starving and I'm sustenance, her fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
I kiss her back with matching desperation, every restraint I've been maintaining finally breaking. My hand tangles in her hair, angling her head to deepen the kiss, to take more, to claim what she's offering. Her body presses flush against mine, soft curves against hard muscle, and I can feel her heart racing, can feel the way her breath hitches when I bite her lower lip. The small sound she makes goes straight to my groin, heat flooding through me until all I can think about is getting her horizontal and finding out what other sounds I can wring from her throat.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, her eyes are wide and dark with desire.
"This is a terrible idea," she whispers against my lips.
"The worst," I agree, but I don't let her go. "We're compromising operational security. Crossing lines we can't uncross. Making decisions based on emotion rather than tactical assessment."
"We should stop."
"We should," I say, then kiss her again, deeper this time. When I pull back, we're both shaking. "But we won't."
Her door lock beeps as she fumbles for her keycard, and then we're moving inside, mouths finding each other again. The door closes behind us.
Tomorrow, we'll face the consequences. Tomorrow, we'll figure out what Marrakesh means and how to keep her safe while walking into the Conductor's trap.
Tonight, she's mine.
9
MARISSA
The private jet climbs through the morning sky, Berlin disappearing beneath clouds and distance. I sit across from Archer in the leather seat, the space between us charged with last night. His mouth on mine. My hands in his hair. The desperate way we collided in that hotel room after the door closed behind us, tearing at each other's clothes like we were drowning and each other was air.
Professional boundaries should be easier in daylight, reinforced by the mission parameters we're flying toward, by the Conductor's invitation waiting in Marrakesh, by the intelligence we need to gather. But detachment feels impossible when I can still taste him, when the memory of his hands on my body makes it difficult to focus on anything except the ache building between us.
He's on his secure comm unit, speaking in low tones to someone at Cerberus, probably Fitzwallace, coordinating intelligence about the Interpol leak, the Cardinal, the mole who authorized my operation and then sold my handler out to the Iron Choir.
The revelation sits heavy in my stomach, acidic and nauseating. I've spent the morning since we left Berlin tryingto process what Koval told us. Every operation I participated in was filtered through the Cardinal. Every piece of intelligence I sent back to my handlers was compromised before it reached anyone who could act on it. My handler died in Vienna not because of operational exposure but because someone inside Interpol, someone I trusted implicitly, someone who had access to everything I gathered over years of deep cover work, fed the Iron Choir his location and meeting time.
My hands curl into fists against my thighs, crystal bracelets pressing into my wrist. The smooth stones that have grounded me since Prague feel inadequate now, too small to anchor the rage and betrayal churning through me. Years of moral compromise, of becoming someone I barely recognized, of killing people and sleeping with men who disgusted me, all so I could gather intelligence that would bring down the Iron Choir. And someone inside Interpol was ensuring that intelligence never became actionable.
"Marissa." Archer's voice pulls me from the spiral. He's off the comm now, studying me with those dark eyes that see too much. "Whatever you're running through your head right now isn't helping."
"I'm thinking about how many people died because Moreau fed the Iron Choir our operational plans," I say, my voice rougher than I intend. "I'm thinking about my handler shot in the head in Vienna because someone he trusted gave him up. I'm thinking about how I spent years gathering evidence that was compromised before it ever reached anyone who could use it."
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, closing some of the distance between us. "You couldn't have known. Deep cover operatives trust their handlers because they have to. Without that trust, the entire structure collapses."
"Trust is what got him killed." The words taste bitter. "Trust is what's kept the Iron Choir operating with impunity acrossEurope while Interpol chases shadows and dead ends. Trust is the weapon the Cardinal used to dismantle everything we were trying to build."
"Then we'll take that weapon away from him," Archer says quietly. "Fitzwallace is building a case against Moreau. Cross-referencing the financial records and communications from your files with Interpol's operational failures. Looking for patterns that will prove his guilt beyond any reasonable doubt."
"How do we expose him without tipping him off?" The question matters because Moreau still has power, still has access to operational intelligence.
"Carefully. Cerberus is coordinating with select contacts at Interpol—people outside Moreau's immediate sphere of influence. Building the evidence package before making any moves." He pauses, weighing his next words. "But it takes time. Moreau's been careful. He's maintained deniability, used cutouts and intermediaries. The files you stole prove the connection, but Interpol will need corroboration before they can act."
Moreau's face appears in my memory—distinguished features, silver hair, the kind of authority that made junior operatives stand straighter when he entered a room. I sat in his briefings before Prague. Heard him talk about the importance of intelligence work, about protecting assets in the field, about bringing down criminal organizations that threatened European security.
And he was the threat the entire time.
"How long until Cerberus can move against him?" The question carries weight because every day Moreau remains in position is another day he can compromise operations and kill assets.
"Days, maybe longer. They're being careful. If Moreau suspects we're building a case, he'll destroy evidence anddisappear." Archer shifts, his knee brushing mine in the confined space. The contact is brief but electric, awareness sparking between us despite the gravity of what we're discussing. "In the meantime, we focus on Marrakesh. On meeting the Conductor and gathering intelligence that gives us leverage."
