Chapter 30 Norah
NORAH
Norah woke to soft, bluish light she didn’t recognize flickering against the inside of her eyelids.
For a moment, she didn’t move. Her body felt weighted, like she’d slept underwater. Muscles sore, temples throbbing with the dull ache of an adrenaline hangover. The last thing she remembered was leaning into Marshall’s chest until exhaustion claimed her in pieces.
Marshall’s jacket slid from her shoulders and pooled around her waist.
The leather smelled like him—clean, earthy, threaded with cinnamon and something steady underneath it all. She curled her fingers into the collar before she could stop herself.
She sat up more fully and turned, instinctively searching for him in the space. Cleo let out a meow of distress at being disturbed. A pang of joy filled her as she pulled Cleo into her arms. She buried her cheek in Cleo’s soft fur as her eyes found Marshall.
He sat on the far end of the couch, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. His profile was sharp in the shifting light—tired and unshaven, his eyes fixed on the screen though she wondered how much he was really seeing.
The TV volume was muted, but she recognized breaking news coverage when she saw it.
A broken window zoomed in on from far away.
Armed men in tactical gear patrolling outside a building while police vehicles flashed blue lights in the blurry foreground.
A banner across the bottom of the screen read PRESIDENT ATTACKED IN GENEVA.
Then, the closed captions in stark black boxes.
SOURCES SAY ABORTED RUSSIAN MISSILE STRIKE then COINCIDED WITH THE ASSASSINATION ATTEMPT.
“What happened?” she asked in horror. “Is President Coulter okay?”
Marshall turned his head slightly, eyes softening when they landed on her.
He inhaled deeply, shaking his head. “We don’t know yet.
We had a team over there, but intel is spotty.
I haven’t heard from Jackson yet. Coulter is stable .
. . Hasn’t hit the news yet, but apparently, he talked to the First Lady.
My boss, Ross, is married to Poppy’s sister, Andi.
We got the friends and family discount on the intel. ”
Another clip rolled, this time of a battleship. Then, analysts gesturing over satellite overlays. Accusations and denials scrolling in endless loops.
Tension. Escalation. Exactly what the Syndicate wanted.
“Every talking head on every network is speculating about World War III,” Marshall said solemnly.
She pulled the jacket around herself again, suddenly cold. What had Sidarov said? Tonight was a very important night.
“You should be asleep,” she said gently.
He stood up and moved to sit at her side. “Could say the same to you.”
As he walked across the room, his gaze searched her face like he was cataloging every sign of distress.
She shifted upright, tucking her knees under the jacket to make room for him next to her. Cleo jumped down and gave a dramatic swish of her tail before settling into Marshall’s vacated seat. “You watched over me all night.”
His jaw tightened. “Didn’t want you to wake up alone.”
“You got Cleo for me?”
“That was Miranda,” he countered.
Marshall turned back to the TV for a moment, though the tension in his shoulders said he wasn’t really absorbing the footage anymore. His thoughts were elsewhere—pulled taut between the mission, his friends on the other side of the world, and her.
Norah’s heart squeezed.
“You should rest,” she whispered.
“I will. Just . . . needed to make sure you were okay.”
Her heartbeat stumbled. She pulled the jacket tighter around herself, as if it could shield her from the weight of what she wanted to say.
For a long moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the building’s ventilation system.
She cleared her throat again, trying to will the heat out of her cheeks. “So . . . um . . . have you been watching the news this whole time?” she asked, voice soft but steadying.
“Mostly.” He rubbed the back of his neck, the movement slow. “Trying to see if anything connected back to Sidarov. Or the Syndicate. Or us.”
“And?”
His silence was answer enough.
She let her eyes drift back to the screen. The same broken window. The same screenshots of the skyline. Poorly generated renderings of a missile over a map of Europe.
She watched him, noticing how his hands were clasped loosely but his knuckles were white. He always carried tension like a silent alarm.
“Marshall,” she said softly.
He looked at her again, jaw tight, eyes a shade darker than before.
“I’m worried about Jackson,” he said. “He’s halfway across the world, and every instinct I have is telling me he’s in the blast radius of whatever Sidarov is planning. And I can’t shake it.”
He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, frustration tightening every line of his face.
“I hate this part—the waiting. The not knowing. Sitting still while people I care about are in harm’s way.
” His gaze flicked toward the muted news broadcast again, jaw clenching.
“I’m wired to move. To intervene. But when it’s my brother .
. . ?” He exhaled, low and rough. “It messes with my head.”
He shook his head once, as if trying to dislodge the fear. “I keep coming back to the same thing. I was in the right place last night. Exactly where I needed to be.”
He looked at her then, his eyes clearing with something like conviction.
“I don’t have a lot of practice with trusting God,” he admitted, the words rough but unashamed.
“But every nudge, every instinct . . . all of it pointed me to you. And if I hadn’t listened—if I’d ignored it—” He swallowed hard.
“I don’t like thinking about what could’ve happened. ”
For a moment, neither of them breathed.
He continued, quieter now, as if stepping onto holy ground. “Jackson’s out there, and yeah—I’m scared for him. But I’m also trying to believe that the same God who shoved me into your orbit last night and over the last several weeks . . . is watching over my brother too.”
His shoulders eased. Not fully, but enough to show the weight had shifted.
Norah’s chest tightened, emotion rising unexpectedly at the quiet faith in his voice. “You don’t have to hold all of this by yourself. I’m here for you.”
A strange flicker moved across his face—something like relief, something like grief, but also hesitation. As if he wanted to say something but didn’t know how the words would land.
She shifted closer, resting her hand lightly on his forearm. His skin was warm, tense under her fingertips. He didn’t pull away. He looked wrecked.
Not physically—though there were bruises along his brow and a thin bandage near his temple—but emotionally. Like every hour of the last twenty-four had hit him at once and he was too stubborn to let any of them knock him over.
He pulled her into his side and her heart melted with relief. Part of her had feared that the confessions last night were simply the result of too much adrenaline and not enough sleep. An overreaction to the miracle that they were both, somehow, still alive.
She nuzzled into his warm, hard body, resting her cheek against the spot just below his shoulder that seemed created to cradle her head.
“You don’t owe me anything,” she said softly.
It was easier to say when she wasn’t looking at him.
“Not after all this time. Not after everything that’s happened since.
If this—” She gestured vaguely with the hand that rested on his chest. “If this is just about the mission, or adrenaline, or feeling protective . . . I understand. I don’t want you to feel obligated because of what we used to be. ”
Marshall pulled away, forcing her to look at him. His expression carried something fierce and wounded and reverent all at once.
“Norah.” His voice was a low, broken thing. “This isn’t about the mission.”
She blinked, waiting for more.
“It’s never been about the mission.”
He sat up straight and pulled her into his lap, giving her every chance to pull back. She didn’t. Couldn’t.
“You think I stayed up all night because of a mission?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
“You think I tore through that loading dock because it was protocol?” His hand lifted toward her cheek, hesitated—then rested against her skin like he was afraid she’d vanish. “I came back for you. I always have.”
Her eyes stung.
He brushed a tear with his thumb, and that gentle movement undid the last of her composure.
The kiss happened not with heat but with gravity.
Soft. Slow. Trembling. A meeting of breath more than mouths. Recognition instead of passion. A quiet answer to a question neither had asked out loud.
Marshall cupped her face carefully, as if she were breakable.
Norah rested her hands against his chest, feeling the steady, uneven rhythm of his heartbeat against her palms.
When they finally parted, Marshall leaned his forehead against hers, breath warm, voice a rough whisper.
“I’m choosing you,” he said. “Not because of the past. Not because of what happened. Because I want to. Now. Today. I don’t know what’s coming next. But I want to face it with you.”
Her eyes closed, tears slipping free with relief so deep it almost hurt. She straddled his lap, grateful for the soft sweats that she’d found in the bedroom, and tucked her head back on his shoulder.
Then she said the words that had lived in her chest for fifteen years.
“Back then . . . I shouldn’t have told you to stay gone.”
His entire body stilled.
“I only left,” he said quietly, “because I thought you wanted me to.” His words rumbled in his chest under her hand.
Norah swallowed. “Marshall—”
“You told me to go,” he said, voice low but steady. “And I . . . took you at your word. I thought—” He paused, jaw flexing. “I thought staying would make things worse for you.”
She had imagined a hundred versions of this conversation over the years. None of them prepared her for how raw he sounded.