The helicopter descends toward Opus Noir, and I see Logan already waiting at the landing zone with a full medical team. Fitz is beside him, arms crossed, expression grim but satisfied.
Everyone made it home alive.
We land. Laurent carries Amelie toward the main building where DGSI representatives are waiting. He pauses, turns back.
"You saved my daughter's life," he says quietly. "Both of you did."
"It's what we do," I say.
"It's more than that." Laurent's gaze is steady. "I've worked with a lot of operatives. None of them would have put themselves between my daughter and gunfire the way Nocturne did. None of them would have thrown themselves into a killbox the way you did for her."
I don't respond because he's right. This was more than mission parameters and tactical objectives.
"She's important to you," Laurent observes.
"Yes," I say simply. "She is."
"Then take care of her." Laurent looks down at his sleeping daughter. "Because people who matter are worth everything."
He carries Amelie inside. Cerberus will debrief him, then DGSI will take over his protection detail.
The medical team swarms Marissa, but I stay close while they work. They clean the wound properly, apply a fresh dressing, administer antibiotics. She's stable enough to move.
"Helicopter's waiting," Logan says. "Get her to the cottage. She needs rest more than debriefing."
I carry Marissa back to the helicopter despite the medics saying she can walk. The pilot lifts off, leaving Opus Noir behind as we head to the cottage.
The flight is short. Marissa sleeps through it, face peaceful despite the wound. When we land, I carry her inside and settle her in the bedroom.
Fresh medical supplies wait on the nightstand. I check her dressing, make sure the wound is clean. Her pulse beats steady beneath my fingers.
Outside, Monte Carlo's emergency response continues through the night.
Inside the cottage, I pull a chair beside the bed and settle in to keep watch. Marissa's breathing is steady, her pulse strong beneath my fingers. The Iron Choir tried to take a child tonight and failed. Moreau is dead. The mission succeeded.
But the Conductor is still out there, and this war isn't over.
19
MARISSA
Dawn filters through gauze curtains, painting the cottage bedroom in shades of rose and gold. My shoulder throbs with a dull ache that reminds me I'm alive, that I survived, that the bullet went through clean and left me intact. Pain is manageable. Pain means I'm still here.
Archer sleeps in the chair beside my bed, head tilted back against the cushion, his hand resting on the mattress near mine. Even in sleep, he's positioned himself as my guardian. Dark circles shadow his eyes, and exhaustion carves lines around his mouth that weren't there before Monaco.
He brought me to the cottage after the medics finished with me at Opus Noir last night. Since then, he hasn't left my side. He hasn't slept properly or done anything except watch over me like a sentry who refuses to abandon his post.
I study him in the soft morning light, this man who threw himself into a killbox for me. Who grabbed me when I tried to sacrifice myself for the mission. Who held my hand through a helicopter ride while I bled through his jacket and whispered commands that kept me conscious when pain wanted to drag me under.
My uninjured hand moves without conscious thought, fingers finding his where they rest on white sheets. His skin is warm beneath mine, callused from years of weapons and warfare, strong enough to kill but gentle when he touches me.
Archer's eyes open immediately. The transition from sleep to wakefulness happens in a heartbeat, with none of the grogginess or disorientation most people experience. Just instant awareness and focus that shifts to me with an intensity that steals my breath.
"You're awake," he says, voice rough from sleep. His free hand comes to my forehead to check for fever. "How's the pain?"
"Manageable." I squeeze his fingers. "You didn't have to stay."
"Yes, I did." His thumb brushes across my knuckles. "Orders from your Dom, remember?"
