He stares at me, his eyes searching my face for the trap that his survival instincts are screaming must exist.
“Why?”
The question is simple. The answer is not.
“I do not know,” I say. It is the truth. “The order is legitimate. The tactical justification is sound. The only variable that explains my response is...”
I stop. The word does not exist in my operational vocabulary.
“Is what?”
“You,” I say. “The only variable is you.”
The silence between us is charged. He is looking at me like I have given him something precious.
“Then we don’t have much time,” he says finally.
“No.”
“Before we go,” he says. “Before everything changes. I need you to touch me. Not as an interrogator. Not as someone saving my life. Just... as you. As Alexei.”
The request should be inappropriate. We have hours, not minutes, and every moment we waste increases the probability of detection.
I climb onto the cot beside him.
The mattress dips under my weight. His body rolls toward mine automatically. I wrap my arms around him and pull him close, feeling his heart hammer against my chest.
“We might not survive this,” he whispers against my neck. “Ivan will hunt us. Your organization will hunt us. My father will hunt us.”
“Yes.”
“I need something to hold onto. Something that isn’t fear.” His hands find my face, cupping my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes. “I need to know this is real.”
I kiss him.
It’s slower this time than our encounters in the Processing Room. There’s no urgency of extraction. There is only his mouth opening under mine, his tongue sliding against my lips, his body pressing closer.
I undress him carefully, pulling the oversized shirt over his head, exposing the body I mapped so methodically. He is thin—too thin—and marked with evidence of what I did to him. Bruises fading to yellow. Raw patches where restraints bit too deep.
I did this. I broke him. And now I am kissing every mark I made, pressing my lips to the damage I caused, trying to transform it into something other than violence.
“Alexei.” His voice breaks. “Please.”
I strip off my own shirt. His hands find my chest immediately, tracing the scars he hasn’t seen before. His fingers pause at a raised line across my ribs.
“What happened here?”
“Knife. Belgrade operation. 2019.”
His mouth follows his fingers, pressing kisses to the scar tissue. I feel the contact like electricity.
“And here?” His hand moves to my shoulder.
“Bullet graze. Minsk.”
“And here?” His fingers trace the scar on my wrist, the one I showed him.
I don’t answer. He knows.
