"What do you want from me?" The question comes out almost angry. "What do you want me to say? That I can't stop thinking about you? That I haven't felt this way about anyone in years, maybe ever? That the idea of you getting hurt tomorrow night makes me want to burn the entire Iron Choir to the ground just to keep you safe?"
"That's a start."
"And then what?" She steps closer, close enough that I can smell the subtle spice of her perfume mixed with jet fuel and adrenaline. "We acknowledge this thing between us, and then what, Archer? We're still operatives. Still targets. Still people who might not survive the week."
"Maybe that's exactly why we should stop lying to ourselves and each other."
Her crystal bracelets catch the light as she reaches up, fingers ghosting along my jaw. The touch sends electricity down my spine. "I'm terrified," she admits. "Because if I let you in, really let you see me, and this is all just strategy on your part?—"
"It's not." I catch her wrist gently, thumb finding her pulse point. It races under my touch. "I don't do strategy well when it comes to you. Haven't since the villa. Since you stood in front of me without fear and offered me truth instead of begging for your life."
"Then what do you do well?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with possibility. A dozen answers crowd my mind. Interrogation. Elimination. Patience. Control. But with her, those words take on different meanings.
"Let me show you," I say.
Her pupils dilate, wariness mixing with want. "What did you have in mind?"
"Trust me."
"That's asking a lot."
"I know." I release her wrist but don't step back. "That's the point."
We stand in the courtyard, fountain murmuring behind us, late afternoon sun filtering through the open roof above. Tomorrow we'll walk into the Iron Choir's gathering and play our parts with lives on the line. But tonight, for whatever hours we have, I want to give her something no one else has.Safety. Release. The freedom that comes from choosing to trust someone enough to let go.
"Upstairs," I say. "The master bedroom overlooks the courtyard. Privacy, comfort, everything we need."
"For what, exactly?"
"For showing you that yielding doesn't mean losing yourself." I let my voice drop to that register I use in interrogations, the one that bypasses conscious thought and speaks directly to instinct. "It means finally being safe enough to let someone else hold the weight for a while."
Her breath catches. Just for a second, but I hear it. "And if I say yes?"
"Then you go upstairs, get comfortable, and wait for me. I need to secure the perimeter and make sure we're not being watched. Then I'll show you what I mean."
"How long?"
"Not long. Less than half an hour." I study her face, looking for hesitation. Finding only that careful consideration she applies to tactical decisions. "And Marissa?"
Her real name gets her attention in a way her cover never does.
"If at any point you want to stop, you say the word and we stop. No questions, no judgment. This only works if you trust that I'll listen."
"What word?"
"Your choice."
She thinks for a moment, then says, "Prague."
The city where everything changed. A word weighted with memory and meaning, impossible to say by accident. Smart choice.
"Prague it is," I confirm. "Now go upstairs. Door on the left. I'll join you shortly."
For a heartbeat she doesn't move. Then she nods once and heads for the stone staircase, her steps echoing off the tiles. I wait until she's disappeared from view before I allow myself to exhale.
This violates operational protocols. Good. Those rules were written by men who never had to choose between the mission and what matters. I made my choice at the villa, and I don't second-guess decisions.
