I woke in Archer's arms this morning with sunlight streaming through the riad windows, feeling safer than I have in years. Now, dressed in silk and lies, I'm heading into the kind of danger that safety was meant to prepare me for.
The estate sits in the foothills outside Marrakesh like a sleeping predator, half fortress with its high stone walls and guard towers, half palace with its sprawling courtyards and ornate archways, all danger wrapped in beauty.
Our car winds up the private road as dusk bleeds into darkness. Lanterns flicker to life along the drive, casting shadows that dance across Archer's face. He hasn't spoken much since we left the riad, but his hand rests on my thigh, thumb drawing slow circles through the silk of my dress. Grounding. A reminder that last night happened, that the rope and blindfold and tears were real, that somewhere beneath Nocturne and Kingslayer, Marissa and Archer chose each other.
I'm hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect. His hand on my leg. His shoulder against mine in the back seat. His breathing changes when I shift closer. Last night stripped awaypretense, left me raw and exposed in ways I'm still processing. And now I have to walk into a room full of arms dealers and assassins and pretend I'm still the weapon they think I am.
"Stop fidgeting." Archer's voice cuts through my thoughts, quiet but absolute.
My hand stills on my crystal bracelets. Amethyst for clarity, smoky quartz for releasing negative energy, hematite for grounding. I chose these specifically for tonight. The stones press cool against my skin, a tether to something real beneath all the lies.
"Just getting into character," I tell him.
"Marissa." The way he says my real name makes my breath catch. "Look at me."
I turn, and his hazel eyes hold mine with that intensity that sees straight through every mask I wear. Last night he proved he could handle all of me, the broken parts and the lethal ones. Now I have to trust that he'll see the difference between Nocturne's performance and the woman beneath.
"You're not alone in this." Not an offer—a statement of fact.
"I know."
His hand closes on my thigh with possession that brooks no argument. "Then stop acting like you are. I'm here. You'll accept that."
The car slows as we approach the main entrance. Armed guards flank the massive wooden doors, their weapons visible but not raised. They're expecting us. Koval extended the invitation in Berlin, and refusing would have been more suspicious than accepting.
Archer's hand leaves my leg as the car stops, and I immediately miss the contact. But then he's out of the vehicle and offering me his hand, and when I take it, his fingers lace through mine with deliberate intent. Anyone watching will see aspecialist who's claimed his asset. His thumb brushes my pulse point, checking my heart rate, making sure I'm steady.
"Ready?" he asks.
I smooth my dress with my free hand. Black silk clings to every curve, the slit high enough to show calculated vulnerability. The jewelry at my throat and wrists sparkles—expensive, elegant, and actually tracking devices. My hair sweeps up to expose my neck. I look like Nocturne, the Iron Choir's phantom operative, the woman who's killed for them and never flinched.
But underneath, I'm Marissa, and I'm terrified. One wrong word tonight, one slip in the performance, and everything falls apart. Amelie stays in danger. Moreau wins. The Iron Choir continues operating unchecked. And Archer and I become corpses in the Moroccan desert.
"Ready," I lie.
We walk through doors that close behind us with the finality of a trap snapping shut. The entrance hall opens into a massive courtyard lit by countless lanterns hanging from wrought iron frameworks. Water features murmur at strategic intervals, the sound designed to prevent conversations from carrying. Moroccan tilework covers every surface in intricate geometric patterns, creating an aesthetic that's both beautiful and disorienting. Exactly the kind of environment the Iron Choir favors.
People move through the space in clusters. Expensive clothes, calculating eyes, wealth and power that doesn't need to announce itself. I recognize faces from intelligence briefings—arms dealers, corrupt politicians, financiers who launder money for terrorist organizations. The dregs of humanity dressed in designer suits and priceless jewelry.
Archer's hand finds the small of my back as we enter the courtyard proper. Light but unmistakable. Anyone watching willread it as a specialist maintaining control of his asset. The message beneath is different:I'm right here. You're not alone.
"Nocturne!" Koval's voice carries across the courtyard. He separates from a group near one of the fountains and approaches with fluid confidence. His smile is warm, his eyes are calculating, and he's dressed in a charcoal suit that probably costs more than most people make in a year. "I'm delighted you could join us."
"The invitation was too intriguing to refuse," I say, letting Nocturne's smooth confidence coat every word. I offer my hand, and he takes it, bringing my knuckles to his lips in a gesture that's more threat than courtesy.
"Mr. Hayes," Koval says, gaze shifting to Archer. "I'm pleased you both accepted. I trust you'll find tonight's gathering educational."
"I'm sure I will," Archer says. His voice is polite, but there's an edge beneath it that makes Koval's smile widen.
"Protective, isn't he?" Koval's attention returns to me. "Admirable quality in a specialist. Come, let me introduce you properly. There are several people who've been eager to meet the legendary Nocturne."
He guides us deeper into the courtyard, and I let myself be led while cataloging everything. Guard positions. Exit routes. Who's armed and who's pretending not to be. The gathering is larger than I expected, which matches what Logan told Archer yesterday. The Conductor's guest list tripled. That could mean increased security for us or increased danger. Probably both.
We stop at a cluster of people near an elaborate fountain. A woman in red turns as we approach, and I recognize Angelique Toussaint the Parisian art dealer who launders money for the Choir, suspected arms broker with connections spanning from Monaco to Morocco. Beautiful in a sharp way, all cutting edges beneath the charm.
"Angelique, may I present Nocturne," Koval says. "And her specialist, Mr. Hayes."
"Enchanté." Angelique's gaze travels over me with the assessment of someone pricing merchandise. "I've heard so much about your work. The Prague operation was particularly elegant."
