"Moreau played me." Direct. No hedging. "Won't happen again."
His hands find mine, and the grip is firm. Final. "I doubted you for thirty seconds. Saw through his bullshit. Chose you anyway. That's what matters."
"What exactly did he say?" I ask, because I need to know. Need to understand what almost broke us.
Archer's jaw tightens, but he doesn't look away. "He said you'd been with the Iron Choir so long you didn't know which side you were on anymore. That I had no way of knowing whether you'd been playing me from the start."
The words land like body blows despite expecting them. Knowing Moreau lied doesn't erase the sting of realizing howeasily doubt could take root. How quickly trust could corrode under pressure.
"You believed him."
"For thirty seconds." His grip tightens. "Then I watched you bleed for that mission. For that child. Moreau was wrong. I was wrong to listen. Done."
"Archer." I pull my good hand free to touch his face, making him meet my eyes. "You want to know the truth? I was terrified."
"Of what?"
"That I've been performing for so long I didn't know what was real anymore." The admission costs me, but honesty is the only currency worth trading now. "Every identity I've worn, every cover I've maintained, every mission where I became someone else. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I'm not sure which version is authentic."
"But with me?—"
"With you, I didn't have to perform." The words come easier now, truth flowing like water finding its level. "That's what scared me. Being Marissa instead of Nocturne. Wanting something beyond the mission. Needing you in ways that had nothing to do with operational efficiency."
Archer leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine in a gesture that's become our anchor. "I don't just choose you for the mission," he says, voice low and fierce. "I choose you for everything after. For whatever comes next. For all of it."
"Then prove it." I meet his intensity with my own. "Show me what everything looks like."
"I will." His mouth finds mine in a kiss that's tender and claiming all at once. "Starting now. You heal. You rest. You let me take care of you. And when you're ready, when you're cleared, I show you exactly what forever means."
"Deal," I whisper against his lips. "Sir."
The days blur together in a haze of healing and rebuilding. Archer refuses to leave my side, handling my care with a dominance that's protective rather than controlling. He changes my dressings with steady hands at regular intervals throughout each day, checking for signs of infection with meticulous attention. He brings me meals on trays, sitting beside the bed to make sure I eat enough to fuel recovery. He monitors my medication schedule with ruthless efficiency, appearing with pills and water at precise intervals that would be annoying if they weren't so clearly motivated by care.
We move to the cottage patio when I'm strong enough to walk, sitting in the afternoon sun while the Mediterranean stretches endlessly blue beyond the garden. Archer positions my chair in the shade, brings pillows to support my injured shoulder, wraps a blanket around my legs even though the temperature is warm enough that I don't need it.
"You're hovering."
"I'm ensuring you heal." He adjusts the chair without asking. "You'll follow medical protocol. Not negotiable."
"Is this the future? You hovering?"
"This is what caring looks like when you're mine." His hand finds mine, grip firm enough to feel the claim. "Get used to it. I'm not backing off."
Love. The word hangs in the air between us, acknowledged but not yet claimed. Too soon, maybe. Too raw. But the truth of it pulses beneath everything we do, every touch, every glance, every moment spent rebuilding what doubt tried to destroy.
Laurent's gift arrives a few days into my recovery. A small velvet box delivered by courier, no note necessary because the contents speak for themselves. Inside, nestled on white satin, lies a crystal bracelet that matches the ones Amelie wore during the gala. Her mother's bracelets. The identifier that confirmed she was real, not a substitute.
I slip it onto my wrist, and the weight feels right. Laurent's gratitude runs deeper than words. The bracelet on my wrist proves something I'd almost forgotten—that we don't just eliminate threats. We save lives. We protect people who matter.
Archer notices immediately, fingers brushing over the crystals with reverence. "It's beautiful," he says. "And appropriate."
"Why appropriate?"
"Because you fought for her." His gaze meets mine. "Not because of orders or mission parameters. But because she mattered. Because protecting her was right."
"She reminds me why I do this." I turn my wrist, watching light catch in the faceted stones. "Why any of it matters. When everything gets dark and complicated, remembering there are people worth protecting keeps me grounded."
"That's the difference between eliminators and protectors," Archer says quietly. "Eliminators remove threats. Protectors save lives. I spent years being the first. You showed me how to be the second."
