So I close my eyes and try to sleep, knowing the gala will test us in ways that have nothing to do with the Iron Choir.
Sleep comes eventually, fitful and restless. When I wake before dawn, Archer's side of the bed is empty again. The routine of preparation begins. Shower. Dress. Weapons. Gear. Coffee. Briefing.
Everything mechanical and precise because that's what gets you through missions when your head isn't clear.
Fitz runs through final positions one more time. Laurent will arrive at the gala with Amelie. Our embedded team will be in place. Archer and I will be visible, drawing Iron Choir attention while the real protection happens in the shadows.
"Stay sharp," Fitz says as he dismisses us to finish preparations. "Trust your training. Trust your partner. Come back alive."
I head down to the armory for final equipment check. My vest is exactly where I left it. Archer's vest is gone from my station—he must have retrieved it while I was upstairs.
I'm adjusting my communication gear when I notice something in my tactical bag. A folded piece of paper tucked into the front pocket where I keep spare magazines.
I pull it out, and my hands shake slightly as I unfold it.
The handwriting is Archer's—strong, precise, unmistakable.
Made a tactical error. Won't repeat it. You're mine. Come back to me. —A
The words blur as tears threaten. I read them again, and again, letting them sink into places where doubt and fear have been living since the Hotel de Paris.
Made a tactical error. Simple acknowledgment that Moreau's poison found purchase even briefly.
The rest is pure alpha male and probably as close as I’ll get to an apology.
Come back to me. Not come back. Come back to me. The distinction matters. He's not just asking me to survive themission. He's asking me to find my way back to him. To crack these walls I've built. To trust him again.
I clutch the note, and tears slip free before I can stop them. All the armor I've maintained cracks just enough to let emotion through—the fear and hope and regret and longing I've been holding back since yesterday.
The gala is tonight. We face the Iron Choir. We protect Amelie Laurent from an organization that's untouchable, unstoppable, unforgiving. We walk into a trap designed specifically for us and hope we're good enough to survive it.
And there's so much I need to tell him. That I choose him too. That I forgive him for a moment of doubt because I understand how convincing a good cover can be. That I want to find out what we are when we're not running or fighting or preparing for battle.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my vest pocket, right next to Amelie's photograph. My fingers rest against both pieces of paper through the fabric.
Come back to me.
I don't know if I can keep that promise.
18
ARCHER
Hotel de Paris glitters like a trap dressed in silk. Chandeliers throw light across marble floors and gilded walls, and Monaco's elite move through the ballroom in evening wear that costs more than most people make in a year. Champagne flows. Laughter rises. Orchestra music drifts from the stage at the far end of the massive space.
Perfect cover for an abduction.
I adjust my position near the north entrance, scanning faces, tracking movement patterns, cataloging threats. My tux fits perfectly—tailored specifically to conceal weapons and light weight protective clothing. The weapon holstered at my back feels reassuringly solid. Marissa is across the ballroom near the south terrace doors, stunning in a black gown that probably conceals the sane kind of protective measures.
She hasn't looked at me once since we arrived.
"All positions report," Logan's voice comes through my earpiece, calm and controlled from the command center at Opus Noir.
The embedded team checks in one by one. Security detail. Surveillance. Perimeter. Extraction. Everyone in place. Everyone ready.
"Laurent's arriving now," Logan says. "Amelie is with him."
I watch the main entrance as Deputy Director Laurent enters with his daughter. Dark hair swept back with clips, wearing a blue dress that makes her look like a princess. Crystal bracelets gleam on her tiny wrist—the identifier we've been waiting for.
