Chapter 31 Paul Prague
THIRTY-ONE
Paul: Prague
The light in Prague is different from Paris. Softer somehow, filtered through centuries of coal smoke and history that clings to the buildings like memory. It's perfect for painting.
I've been at the canvas since dawn, trying to capture the way Vivianne looked last night—wrapped in my shirt, standing on our tiny balcony, the city lights turning her skin to gold.
She doesn't know I'm painting this moment.
She was lost in thought, probably processing the latest batch of testimony she'd given, unaware of how the weight she's carried for months is finally starting to lift from her shoulders.
Three weeks of freedom, and she's still learning how to breathe without asking permission.
"Paul?" Her voice drifts from the bedroom, husky with sleep. "Are you painting again?"
"Always." I call back, adding another stroke of gold to her hair in the painting.
She appears in the doorway wearing the same shirt from last night—my shirt—and nothing else. Her legs are bare, her hair a beautiful mess, and she's holding two cups of coffee like a peace offering.
"You were supposed to stay in bed." She hands me a cup. "It's Sunday."
"You were supposed to sleep past noon." I set down my brush, pull her between my legs where I'm sitting on the stool. "Bad dreams again?"
She nods, not lying but not elaborating either. The nightmares come less frequently now, but they still come. Prescott's hands. Her father's voice. The feeling of drowning in white silk.
"Want to talk about it?"
"No." She sets down her coffee and frames my face with her hands. "I want to forget about it."
She kisses me, slow and deep, tasting of coffee and promises. When she pulls back, there's paint on her fingers from where she touched my cheek.
I smile against her lips, my hands settling on her waist, drawing her closer. She's all soft curves and quiet need, and I want nothing more than to chase away those shadows for her. My thumbs trace lazy circles on her hips, under the hem of the shirt that dwarfs her frame.
"Then let's forget." I pull her in for another kiss—this one lingering, unhurried, like we're savoring the morning light filtering through the window.
Her fingers thread into my hair, tugging gently as she deepens the kiss, her body melting against mine.
I wrap my arms around her fully now, hugging her tight between my legs, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath sync with mine.
The stool creaks under us as she shifts, climbing onto my lap to straddle me, her thighs bracketing my hips.
The shirt rides up, exposing the smooth expanse of her skin, and I can't help but run my hands along her legs, savoring the sensation.
We kiss like that for what feels like hours—slow, exploratory, my lips trailing to her jaw, her neck, nipping softly at the pulse that flutters there.
She sighs, arching into me, her hands working at the buttons of my shirt with deliberate slowness.
One by one, they give way, and she pushes the fabric aside, her palms gliding over my chest, igniting sparks wherever she touches.
I shrug out of it, letting it pool on the floor, and pull her closer, the heat of her core pressing against me through my jeans.
The laziness starts to fray at the edges as desire builds, her hips rocking subtly against me, drawing a low groan from my throat.
I capture her mouth again, hungrier now, my hands slipping under the shirt to cup her breasts, thumbs teasing her nipples until they're peaked and she's gasping into the kiss.
"Paul." She whispers, her voice breaking on my name, and it's all the encouragement I need.
My fingers find the button of my jeans, freeing myself with quick, earnest movements, and she lifts just enough to help, guiding me to her entrance.
We move together like that, still on the stool—slow thrusts that build into something deeper, more insistent, her arms around my neck, my hands gripping her ass to hold her steady.
The intimacy of it steals my breath; it's not just heat, it's us, reclaiming the space between nightmares and daylight.
But as the rhythm quickens, her nails digging into my shoulders, the stool feels too precarious, too small for the fire we're stoking.
I stand, keeping her wrapped around me, her legs locking at my waist. She yelps a soft laugh that turns into a moan as I carry her the few steps to the wall, pressing her back against the cool plaster.
The contrast makes her gasp, her body clenching around me, and I thrust deeper, earnest now, the steam of our bodies filling the air with the scent of paint and sweat and her.
Our kisses are frantic, tongues tangling, breaths mingling as I drive into her, each movement a promise to erase the past, to fill her with only this—us, hot and alive and unbreakable.
She comes undone first, crying out against my shoulder, her body shuddering, and it pulls me over the edge with her, spilling into her with a guttural sound I can't hold back.
We stay like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, pulses pounding in unison, the world reduced to the press of our bodies and the quiet intimacy of after.
"You've got cerulean blue in your hair again." Her smile is lazy, satisfied.
"You've got cadmium yellow on your nose."
We're both laughing when the encrypted phone rings. The laughter dies immediately. That phone only rings for important things.
Vivianne answers, putting it on speaker. "Yes?"
"Ms. Faulks." The voice is crisp, professional. "Agent Harrison, FBI Financial Crimes Division. Are you ready for your deposition?"
She moves to the laptop, already set up with an encrypted video connection. I stay out of frame but close enough to hold her hand if she needs it.
The next hour is grueling. They walk her through every detail of her father's operations—the Swiss accounts, the art in the vault, the connections to Sentinel.
She's steady, clear, devastating in her precision.
This is the fifteenth deposition she's given to various agencies.
Each one peels back another layer of the criminal empire her father built.
"Can you confirm the defendant's connection to the organization known as Sentinel?"
"Yes. I heard him identify himself as 'the Fifth' during a phone conversation. He mentioned someone called Malfor, who I now understand was the head of the organization."
"And Malfor's current status?"
"Dead, as I understand it. Found in his Swiss compound two weeks ago."
The agent's expression doesn't change. "The investigation into his death is ongoing. Professional execution, no organization has claimed responsibility."
Vivianne's gaze meets mine. We have our suspicions about who might have ordered that hit. Jenny and her team were very clear that Sentinel needed to be completely dismantled. Sometimes that requires more than legal measures.
"Moving on to the recovered assets." The agent continues. "The coordinates from the Swan pendant have led to the recovery of approximately eighteen billion dollars in gold, art, and currency so far. Is that your understanding?"
"Yes." Vivianne confirms. "Though I believe there's still more to be found."
What she doesn't mention is the five billion that will never be officially recovered.
Merlin and I made that decision together.
Guardian HRS has saved too many lives to operate on hope and good intentions.
They need funding, resources, and the ability to move without asking permission.
Five billion ensures they can keep saving people like Vivianne for decades to come.
Forest and Sam didn't even pretend to be surprised when we made the offer. Just nodded, said "It'll be put to good use," and that was that.
The deposition ends with the usual warnings about ongoing testimony, maintaining security, and the importance of her continued cooperation. Vivianne closes the laptop and slumps in her chair.
"How many more times?"
"As many as it takes." I pull her up into my arms. "Your testimony is destroying them. Your father, Prescott, and the entire network. You're giving those families justice after seventy years."
"I know. It's just—" She presses her face into my chest. "I want it to be over. I want to stop being Vivianne Faulks, star witness. I want to just be... us."
"Soon." I press a kiss to her hair. "The trials are moving fast. Your father's assets are frozen. Prescott's family is abandoning him to save themselves. Six months, maybe less, and we can disappear completely."
She pulls back, looks up at me with those extraordinary eyes. "Where would we go?"
"Anywhere you want. New Zealand. Japan. Argentina. Somewhere no one knows our names."
"What about your chalet? I liked it there."
"Then we stay there."
She kisses me again, different this time. Hungrier. Her hands slide under my paint-stained t-shirt, nails dragging lightly across my skin.
"Vivianne—"
"Shh." She pushes me backward toward the bedroom. "Less talking. More forgetting."
The morning light streams through our bedroom window, turning everything golden and sacred.
I lay her down carefully, like she might disappear if I'm not gentle enough.
But she's having none of that. She pulls me down, demanding, taking what she wants with a freedom that still makes my chest tight with emotion.
After, we lie tangled in sheets and each other, her head on my chest, my fingers tracing patterns on her bare shoulder.
"I love you." Quiet, certain. "I don't think I've said that enough. I love you."
"I love you too."