"And if Moreau realizes we're coming? If Koval's invitation is a trap designed to eliminate the operative who stole their files and the Cerberus specialist who's protecting her?"
"Then we adapt." His voice carries certainty I don't feel. "But I don't think it's a trap. Koval was genuine when he extended the invitation. The Conductor is consolidating power, preparing for the next phase of operations. He wants talent, and from his perspective, you and I represent exactly that."
"From his perspective, I'm a traitor who betrayed the organization for freelance opportunities." My fingers find the crystal bracelets again, tracing the stones in the pattern that's become automatic. "Why would he trust me enough to bring me into leadership gatherings?"
"Because betrayal for personal gain is something he understands. It's transactional. Logical." Archer's gaze drops to where my fingers worry the bracelets, then returns to my face. "What he doesn't know is that you were never theirs. That every operation, every kill, every compromise was part of gathering evidence to bring them down."
Nocturne the traitor is someone the Conductor can respect, can potentially recruit. Marissa Vale the deep cover operative is someone he'd execute without hesitation. The mask has to stay in place, the performance flawless, even as the strain of maintaining it grows heavier with each passing day.
"I'm tired of performing," I admit quietly, the confession scraping past defenses I usually maintain. "Tired of being Nocturne, of slipping into that persona like putting on armor.Every time I do it, Marissa feels more distant. Like she's fading and eventually there won't be anything left except the mask."
"You're not fading." His hand reaches across the space between us, fingers brushing my wrist where the bracelets rest. The touch is deliberate, grounding. "When you surrendered, when you let me see you without the performance, that was real. That was Marissa, not Nocturne."
Heat floods through me at the memory of his voice commanding me to hold the headboard, his mouth on me skilled and devastating, the way he controlled every moment, every sensation, until I had no choice but to let go completely. The vulnerability of that surrender terrifies me more than any Iron Choir operation ever could.
"Last night was a mistake," I say, but my voice wavers.
"You keep saying that." His thumb traces the edge of one bracelet, the touch light but electric. "You said it in the elevator. You said it in the corridor. But you keep kissing me anyway. You keep letting me touch you. You keep looking at me like you're terrified and desperate all at once."
"Because I am terrified." My voice drops to barely above a whisper. "I'm falling for you, Archer. And that's the most dangerous thing I could possibly do. Because if this is manipulation, if you're playing me the way I've played so many others, it won't just destroy the mission. It will destroy me."
The words hang between us, raw and honest and impossible to take back. His hand stills on my wrist, fingers warm against my pulse point. I can feel my heart racing beneath his touch, betraying the fear and want tangled together until I can't distinguish one from the other.
"I'm not playing you," he says, his voice dropping into rougher territory. "This is real. The way I want you. The way thinking about you walking into danger in Marrakesh makesme want to lock you somewhere safe and handle the operation alone."
"That's not tactical." My breath catches on the words.
"No." His hand slides from my wrist to lace our fingers together, the gesture intimate and claiming. "That's territorial and protective and completely inappropriate for operatives working the same mission. But I can't seem to care about appropriate when all I can think about is keeping you alive."
The jet hits turbulence, sudden and violent enough that my free hand grips the armrest instinctively. My stomach drops with the altitude change. Archer's other hand covers mine on the armrest, his grip steady and reassuring, anchoring me through the rough air.
"I've got you," he murmurs, the same words he used last night when I fell apart in his arms. The same promise that I'm safe, that he won't let me break without catching the pieces.
The turbulence subsides, but neither of us pulls away. We sit there, hands linked, awareness crackling in the space between us. Professional distance has evaporated completely, replaced by awareness that makes it difficult to breathe.
"Tell me about Prague," he says quietly. "Tell me what happened that made you go under."
The question shouldn't surprise me, but it does. Most people don't ask about origins, don't want to know the moment when everything changed. They prefer the polished version, the tactical assessment, the mission parameters that make sense on paper. But Archer is asking for the truth beneath the operation, the human cost behind the intelligence.
"Prague was supposed to be simple," I begin, the words coming slowly at first. "I was supposed to track an Iron Choir weapons shipment, identify the buyers, report back to my handler with actionable intelligence. It was a standard surveillance operation for an operative with my clearance level."
"But it wasn't simple." His thumb traces patterns across my knuckles, the touch grounding.
"The buyers were there. The weapons were there. Everything was proceeding exactly as intelligence predicted." I close my eyes, the memory sharp and brutal even after all this time. "And then a child walked into the warehouse. A young girl looking for her father who worked in the building next door."
Archer's hand tightens on mine, understanding what's coming.
"The Iron Choir operatives saw her. Saw a witness who could identify them, who could compromise the entire operation. And they didn't hesitate." My voice has gone flat, the only way to get through this without breaking. "The lieutenant pulled his weapon, aimed it at her head. Execution-style. Professional. Like it was just another task to complete."
"Christ, Marissa."
"I was supposed to maintain cover. Supposed to observe and report without intervening. Those were the protocols, the rules that keep deep cover operatives alive." The crystal bracelets press into my palm where our hands are linked. "But I couldn't watch a child die and do nothing. So I intervened before he could pull the trigger. Killed the lieutenant. Saved the girl. And revealed myself as someone who cared about collateral damage."
"That's when you went under." His fingers lace tighter with mine. "That's when they recruited you."
"Koval was there. He saw one of the Iron Choir’s operatives kill the lieutenant, saw the girl run away, saw me standing there with a weapon and no viable cover story." I can still see his expression, calculating and cold. "He said the Iron Choir needed people with my skills. People who were willing to kill when necessary but who understood discretion's value. He offered me a choice: work for them, or die with the other witnesses."
"So you became Nocturne." His fingers lace tighter with mine, the pressure grounding. "You embedded yourself in their organization and spent years gathering evidence."
