We sit in comfortable silence, watching sailboats drift across the horizon while the sun tracks toward evening. Recovery isn't linear. Some days my shoulder throbs with sharp pain that makes me want to scream. Other days the ache is manageable, almost forgettable until I move wrong and remember the bullet tore through flesh and muscle. But every day I'm stronger. Every day I heal.
Physical closeness returns in increments. Archer's hand on my uninjured shoulder while we walk the garden paths. His arm around my waist when I need support climbing stairs. His body pressed against mine on the patio couch, mindful not to jostle my injury, just holding me while evening falls into night.
We don't have sex during the early days of recovery. I'm still healing, still medicated, still dealing with pain that wouldmake intimacy uncomfortable at best. But the intimacy we build through patience might be more powerful than anything physical. Trust rebuilt through daily acts of care. Connection forged through vulnerability rather than passion.
"Tell me something true," I say during the evening while we're curled together on the couch, his fingers tracing idle patterns on my good arm.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." I shift to look at him, mindful of my shoulder.
"That's more than something." But he doesn't deflect, doesn't retreat behind walls. "I told you how Cerberus found me and how they offered me a different way.”
"And you found it?"
"I found competence." His expression goes distant. "Found out I was exceptional at elimination work. Found meaning in removing threats that governments couldn't touch through official channels. But I never found connection. Never let anyone close enough to matter."
"Until me," I say softly.
"Until you." His focus returns, intense and unwavering. "Until a woman who fights in an evening gown and protects children she's never met and surrenders in ways that require more courage than any battle. You changed everything, Marissa. Changed me."
Marissa. Not Nocturne. The name feels more natural every time he uses it. Like I'm shedding an old skin and discovering who exists beneath the operative's mask.
"What about after?" I press. "What do you want after this?"
"I want you. In the field. In bed. Everywhere." No hesitation. "We're partners now. In everything."
"Partnership," I test the word.
"Partnership." He pulls me closer. "No separation. No walls. That's how this works."
"I want it." The certainty settles low in my chest, solid and real. "I want all of it."
Days pass in this pattern of healing and building. My shoulder improves steadily, wounds closing clean, range of motion expanding. Pain fades to background noise. The medics finally clear me for gentle activity, though they emphasize the word gentle with pointed looks at both of us.
Archer receives the news with satisfaction and restraint that makes me want to laugh. He's been so careful, so controlled, so determined not to rush my recovery. But I see the heat in his eyes when he looks at me. Feel the tension in his touch when we're close. Know he's been holding back for my sake.
Evening settles over the cottage with warmth that makes skin hypersensitive and awareness acute. I shower with care, testing my shoulder's range of motion under hot water. The ache is minimal now, manageable, nothing that should stop what I'm planning.
When I emerge, wearing simple silk that slides over bare skin like a whisper, I find Archer lighting candles throughout the bedroom. Soft light flickers across walls and ceiling, painting everything in shades of amber and gold.
He looks up when I enter, and desire crashes across his features so intensely I feel it like a physical touch. "Marissa."
"The medics cleared me," I say, moving toward him. Heat pools low in my belly just from the way he's looking at me. "My shoulder's healing well. And I need you. Need to reconnect fully. Need to feel whole again."
"Your injury—" he starts, but I cut him off.
"Will be fine if you're careful." I reach him, placing my good hand on his chest. "And you're always careful with me when it matters. You know how to push me right to the edge without crossing lines I can't handle."
"This is different." But his hands find my waist, pulling me close with a gentleness that makes my breath catch. "You were shot. Nearly died. I won't risk hurting you."
"You won't hurt me." I lean up, brushing my lips across his. "You said you'd show me everything. I'm ready now. Show me."
Something shifts in his expression. Dominance rising to meet my surrender. "Then you follow my orders," he says, voice dropping into that command tone that makes heat pool between my thighs. "Exactly. Without hesitation. If anything hurts beyond good pain, you tell me immediately."
"Yes, Sir," I whisper.
"Strip for me. Slowly."
