"I remember." Warmth spreads through my chest despite the ache in my shoulder. "You told me to stay. So I stayed."
"That's right." He leans closer, pressing a kiss to my forehead that's tender and claiming all at once. "And now you rest. You heal. You follow every medical instruction until you're cleared."
"Yes, Sir," I whisper, and the words feel right. They aren't performance or pretending, just truth spoken in the space between us.
The moment hangs between us, fragile as spun glass, before reality crashes back with a knock on the door. Archer pulls away, instantly alert, hand drifting toward the weapon holstered at his side even in the safe house.
"It's Fitz," comes the familiar voice from the hallway. "Medical team is here for Nocturne's examination."
Archer glances at me, and I nod permission. He rises from the chair with fluid grace despite spending the night in an uncomfortable position, opening the door to admit Fitz and a pair of Cerberus medics carrying equipment.
Fitz looks between us with an expression that's knowing but professional. "Good to see you awake, Nocturne. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got shot," I say dryly. "But alive."
"Alive is the goal." Fitz steps aside while the medics approach my bed, their movements efficient and practiced. "The medical team needs to examine your wound, make sure infection hasn't set in overnight. Then we'll debrief about the gala."
The medics work fast, unwrapping the dressings Archer changed sometime in the night. They probe the entry and exit wounds with professional detachment that makes me grateful I spent years learning to compartmentalize pain. My shoulder is swollen and bruised in spectacular shades of purple and green, but the wounds themselves are clean. The medics find no signs of infection or complications as they work.
"Healing well," the lead medic pronounces, applying fresh dressings with practiced efficiency. "Keep it clean. Change the dressing twice daily. Take the full course of antibiotics even when you feel better. No strenuous activity for at least a week, preferably longer."
"Define strenuous," I say, and Archer makes a sound that might be a laugh.
"She'll follow orders," he says before the medic can answer. "All of them."
The medics finish and pack their equipment, leaving bottles of antibiotics and pain medication on the bedside table with stern instructions about dosing schedules. They file out with professional nods, and Fitz waits until the door closes before pulling a chair close to the bed.
"Amelie Laurent is safe," he starts, and relief floods through me so intensely my eyes sting. "DGSI has her in protective custody with her father. The Deputy Director wanted me toconvey his personal thanks for what you both did. He's also sending something for you, Marissa."
Marissa. Not Nocturne. The name sounds strange and right coming from Fitz's mouth.
"He doesn't need to send anything," I say. "We did the job."
"You did more than the job." Fitz's gaze is steady. "You put yourself between his daughter and gunfire. That goes beyond mission parameters."
Archer's hand finds mine again, and I grip his fingers harder than necessary. We both know what happened in that ballroom. Know how close it came to going wrong. Know that luck played as much a role as skill in getting Amelie out alive.
"The Iron Choir's European operations are severely disrupted," Fitz continues. "We eliminated most of their operational capability in Monaco, and the intelligence we extracted from Moreau before his death gave us enough to coordinate strikes with Interpol across the continent. They're fractured now. Scattered."
"But the Conductor escaped," Archer says, making it a statement rather than a question.
"Yes." Fitz's expression goes grim. "Best intelligence suggests he left Monte Carlo before the gala even started. Probably suspected we were waiting for him. We're tracking leads, but he's gone to ground."
The Conductor escaped, vanished into whatever network keeps the Iron Choir functioning. He's still out there, still dangerous, but for now his organization is crippled, his plans disrupted, his reach shortened. Victory isn't always absolute in our world. Sometimes it's just buying time until the next fight.
"And Moreau?" I ask, though I already know the answer. Archer told me in the helicopter. Told me about the explosion and Nitro's voice confirming the kill.
"Dead," Fitz confirms. "Tried to escape during the chaos at the gala. Nitro had a little surprise waiting for him on his boat."
A man who betrayed both Interpol and Cerberus, who manipulated Archer, who sold us out to the Iron Choir. Part of me wishes I could have watched him die. The rest of me is grateful Nitro handled it so that weight doesn't sit on my conscience.
"Rest and recover," Fitz says, rising from the chair. "You've earned it. Both of you."
He leaves us alone again, and silence settles over the room like morning mist. Archer stands by the window, looking out at the Mediterranean beyond the cottage garden, and I watch the tension in his shoulders that speaks to thoughts he's not yet ready to voice.
"Look at me." I wait until his eyes meet mine. "Whatever you're thinking—tell me. Now."
He turns from the window, and the expression on his face is raw in a way I've never seen. Vulnerable. Uncertain. Human in ways that Kingslayer never allowed himself to be.
