"Where are we going?" I ask, voice hoarse.
"Monte Carlo," he says. "We have a safe house there. We'll regroup, get our orders, figure out next steps."
Monte Carlo. Where the diplomatic gala will take place. Where the Iron Choir plans to move on Amelie. Where everything we've been working toward converges into whatever comes next.
"The mission," I say, but it sounds hollow even to my own ears.
"Screw the mission," Archer replies, and there's heat in his voice I've never heard before. "You almost died tonight. The mission can wait until I'm sure you're okay."
"I'm fine," I lie.
His hand moves to my face, tilting my chin up so I have to meet his eyes. In the dim cabin lighting, his expression is fierce and tender all at once. "Don't lie to me. Not about this."
I'm not fine. I'm terrified and exhausted and so far past my limits that I don't know how I'm still functioning. But admitting that feels like weakness, and I've spent so many years refusing to be weak.
"I'm scared," I whisper, giving him the truth because he asked for it. Because he deserves it. "I'm so scared, Archer. Of what happens next. Of losing you. Of failing Amelie. Of everything."
"I know," he says quietly. "But we'll figure this out. You and me."
I nod, not trusting my voice. His arms gather me close again, and I let myself melt into his embrace. Let myself be vulnerable in ways Nocturne never could be. Let myself feel the terror and relief and love all tangled together.
"Thank you," I say eventually. The words feel inadequate for everything he did tonight. For protecting me. For choosing me. For loving me even when it complicates everything.
"Always," he replies, and I believe him.
The jet climbs into the sky, leaving Morocco behind. Dawn breaks across the horizon through the small windows, painting the sky in shades of gold and rose. The light catches on Archer's face, highlighting the exhaustion and determination etched into every line. He looks like hell. Like he fought his way through an army to keep me safe.
Hours pass in a blur of altitude and exhaustion. Archer shifts his position, making me more comfortable without ever loosening his hold. I settle deeper into his arms, my head tucked beneath his chin, his heartbeat a steady rhythm against my ear.
"Status on Moreau?" Archer asks Logan through the comms.
"He made contact with the Conductor," Logan's voice crackles through my earpiece. "They know you're coming to Monte Carlo."
I feel Archer's entire body go tense beneath me. I lift my head to look at his face, and whatever I see there makes my stomach drop.
"Does the Conductor know our timeline?" Archer asks, voice tight.
"Unknown. But Moreau had access to the full operation details. We have to assume they know the gala is our target window. The diplomatic event is still scheduled in a few days, but now they know we're coming."
The pilot's voice crackles over the intercom. "Beginning descent into Monte Carlo. Private strip. ETA ten minutes."
I look out the window as the Mediterranean coastline comes into view, glittering in the morning light. Somewhere down there, the Iron Choir is waiting. We could be flying straight into their trap.
14
ARCHER
Monte Carlo, Safe House
A private airstrip sits on the edge of Monte Carlo, the Mediterranean sprawling blue and endless beyond the tarmac. Marissa hasn't let go of my hand since we landed. Her fingers lace through mine with a grip that's part anchor, part lifeline. She's stopped shaking, but barely. Adrenaline crash from Marrakesh is hitting hard now that we're on solid ground with time to process what happened.
I keep her close as we cross to the waiting vehicle. Two Cerberus operatives meet us at the car, both faces I recognize from previous operations. Logan must have called in local assets. One opens the rear door, and I guide Marissa inside before sliding in beside her. She immediately curls into my side, and my arm goes around her automatically. Every instinct I have screams to protect her, to keep her close, to make sure nothing touches her again.
Our drive takes us along the coast, past the gleaming excess of Monte Carlo's casino district and down toward the water. White stucco with a terracotta tile roof, the cottage sits right on the rocky Mediterranean coastline. A wooden dock extends into the water where a boat is moored. It looks like a charmingvacation rental, the kind of place tourists would pay a fortune to stay in for a week. That's exactly the point.
I've been here before, know what lies beneath the innocent exterior. Real security isn't visible—it's the sophisticated surveillance hidden in the landscape, the reinforced structure that could withstand an assault, and the high-tech operations center buried in the rock beneath our feet. That boat isn't just for show—it's a fast escape route if we need it. Cerberus doesn't do anything halfway.
Inside, the cottage maintains the illusion. Stone floors, open concept living area with a big stone fireplace and comfortable leather furniture, a well-equipped kitchen. Windows offer stunning views of the Mediterranean. But I know what's below—a fully equipped operations center that rivals Opus Noir. Backup command, redundant systems, and a hidden helicopter bay that can deploy from underground if extraction becomes necessary. I've used that helicopter before. I hope I don't have to again.
