Chapter 14 #2
My hands map her body with purpose—shoulders, back, the curve of her waist, her hips. Not to arouse, though I feel her relax into my touch. To prove she's here. To wash away everything we left behind in Morocco.
She leans back against me, trusting me to hold her up. "Your turn," she murmurs.
We switch positions. Her hands are gentle as she washes me, taking the same care I gave her. Intimacy of it—this quiet care after violence—feels more profound than anything that came before.
When we're both clean, I turn off the water and wrap her in a towel. Her eyes are clearer now. Less haunted. She touches my face, and I lean into her palm.
I dry her off slowly, carefully, then myself. When we emerge from the bathroom, the bedroom feels like a sanctuary. Soft light. Clean sheets. Safety, at least for now.
She stands by the bed, towel still wrapped around her, and I cross to her. Before I can reach for the towel, she catches my hand.
"We should talk first," she says, voice quiet but steady. "About practicalities."
I understand immediately. Operatives learn to have these conversations—clean, direct, no room for assumptions. "I'm tested regularly. Clean. Last results were two weeks ago."
"Same. I haven't been with anyone since my last screening." Her gaze holds mine. "And I'm on long-term birth control. No chance of pregnancy."
The relief that floods through me isn't just about the practicalities. It's about trust. About her choosing this, choosing me, without barriers between us.
"No condoms then," I say, and it's not a question.
"No condoms." She steps closer, eliminating the space between us. "Just us."
My fingers find the edge of the towel, and she lets it fall. I drink in every inch of exposed skin. She's beautiful in the lamplight, all curves and shadows and the faint bruises from Marrakesh that make my chest tighten with protective fury.
I let my own towel drop. Her gaze travels over me, and I recognize the same need in her eyes—not just desire, but the need to reconnect, to prove we're both here, both alive.
I guide her to the bed, following her down onto sheets that smell like lavender and sunshine. Softness beneath us is such a stark contrast to the violence we escaped that it feels almost surreal.
This feels different. Slower. More real than anything that came before.
I start at her collarbone, kissing the hollow of her throat where her pulse flutters wild and fast. The taste of her skin is intoxicating—clean from the shower but underneath, purely Marissa. "You're here," I murmur against her neck, teeth grazing lightly. "You're safe."
Her hands slide into my hair, fingers tightening, holding me to her. "So are you."
I work my way down her body, mapping every inch with lips and tongue and hands.
The swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hip.
Not just to arouse, though her breathing changes, her back arching into my touch.
To ground us both. To remind myself that she's here, that we have this moment even if tomorrow brings more danger.
My mouth closes over her nipple, and she gasps, back bowing off the bed.
I take my time there, alternating between gentle and demanding, learning what makes her moan, what makes her fingers dig into my scalp.
Her other breast receives the same attention while my hand slides down her stomach, feeling the muscles quiver beneath my palm.
She trembles beneath my touch, but not from the cold. From the emotion she's been holding back since Marrakesh. From the fear she couldn't let herself feel while we were running. From the relief that we're both here, together, safe for now.
"Archer," she whispers, breathless and wanting.
I kiss my way lower, across her ribs, her stomach, the sharp jut of her hipbone. Her legs fall open for me without prompting, and the trust in that surrender makes my chest constrict. I settle between her thighs, pressing kisses to the sensitive skin there, close but not where she needs me yet.
"Please," she breathes, hips shifting restlessly.
I don't make her wait. My mouth finds her, and she cries out, hands fisting in the sheets as I work her with lips and tongue.
Slow strokes, deliberate pressure, learning the rhythm that makes her thighs tremble against my shoulders.
She's already wet, already desperate, and the taste of her arousal goes straight to my cock.
But this isn't about rushing. This is about proving she's here, making her feel every sensation, grounding her in pleasure instead of fear.
I slide a finger inside her, and she clenches around me, gasping.
Another finger joins the first when she rocks against my hand, seeking more.
My tongue works her clit while I find that spot inside that makes her cry my name.
Her breathing goes ragged, uneven, punctuated by soft moans that drive me higher.
"That's it," I murmur against her. "Let go."
She comes apart on my tongue, back arching, thighs shaking, my name torn from her throat. I work her through it, gentling my touch as the aftershocks roll through her, until she's boneless and panting beneath me.
I kiss my way back up her body, settling between her thighs. My cock presses against her entrance, and she's so wet, so ready, that it takes everything I have not to thrust home immediately.
"Look at me," I say, voice rough.
Her eyes flutter open, dark and dazed and so beautiful it hurts. I watch her face as I enter her slowly, inch by inch, feeling her stretch around me. Her lips part on a shaky exhale, hands coming up to grip my shoulders. I give her time to adjust, to feel me, to ground herself in this connection.
When her eyes open again, they're clearer. More present. Less haunted by what we left behind in Morocco.
I start to move, slow and deep, rolling my hips to drag against all the places that make her gasp. Her legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper. I take her hands, lacing our fingers together and pinning them above her head, keeping her eyes locked on mine.
"Stay with me," I say, the words heavier than they should be.
"I'm here," she breathes. "I'm not going anywhere."
Pleasure builds between us, coiling tighter with each thrust. She surrenders to it completely, lets go of the fear and the doubt and just feels. Her inner walls flutter around me, gripping me tighter, and I know she's close.
I release one of her hands, sliding mine between us to circle her clit with my thumb. The added sensation makes her cry out, head falling back, exposing the line of her throat. I lean down to kiss her there, teeth scraping over her pulse point, and she shatters.
She comes with my name torn from her throat, inner muscles clamping down on my cock in rhythmic pulses. Her nails dig into my shoulders hard enough to leave marks and watching her unravel beneath me drags me over the edge with her.
I bury myself deep and let go, spilling inside her with a groan that tears from my chest. Pleasure whites out everything except her warmth, her scent, her body trembling in my arms.
We stay locked together in the aftermath, breath coming hard, pulse hammering. I press my forehead to hers, eyes closed, grounding myself in her presence beneath me.
"Stay with me tonight," she whispers eventually. "Don't go to another room. Don't leave. Just stay."
"Always," I promise, easing off her but pulling her immediately against my side. "I'm not going anywhere."
She burrows into my chest, and I wrap myself around her completely. One arm beneath her neck, the other across her waist, leg hooked over hers. Cocooning her. Protecting her even in sleep.
"We're going to be okay," she murmurs, already drifting. "We'll stop them. We'll save Amelie. We'll make it through this."
I press a kiss to her temple. "We will."
She falls asleep within minutes, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I stay awake longer, listening to her breathe, feeling her heartbeat against my ribs.
The cottage is quiet around us. Secure. Safe for now.
But I know it's temporary. The Gala is coming.
The Iron Choir is planning. And Moreau is on his way.
But right now, in this moment, Marissa is safe in my arms. We survived Marrakesh. We made it to Monte Carlo. And whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
I finally let sleep take me, holding her close, her warmth and presence anchoring me through the darkness.
Morning light filters through the windows, soft and golden. I wake to find Marissa still curled against me, still breathing steady and deep. I don't move, don't want to disturb her. She needs the rest. Needs the peace before reality crashes back in.
A knock at the door shatters the quiet.
"Kingslayer." Fitz's voice, muffled but urgent. "We need to talk."
Marissa stirs, blinking awake. Her hand automatically reaches for the weapon on the nightstand before she remembers where we are. Old habits.
"What is it?" I call, keeping my voice low.
"Laurent's requesting an immediate meeting," Fitz says through the door. "And we have a problem. Moreau just landed. He's in Monte Carlo now, not in a couple of days. We're out of time."
Marissa's eyes meet mine, and I watch her shift from exhausted woman to operative in seconds. Her armor going back up. Her professional mask sliding into place.
"We'll be down in a few minutes," I tell Fitz.
His footsteps fade away. Marissa sits up. Pauses. Looks down at the clothes we stripped out of last night—still stained with Marrakesh.
"I have nothing to wear," she says flatly.
I cross to the closet, pull it open. "Sweats, leggings, sweaters. Safe house standard issue." Logan must have stocked it before we arrived. Then I notice the jeans and sweater folded on the top shelf—men's size, exactly my measurements. Logan thought of everything.
Marissa rifles through the options, pulls out black leggings and a grey sweater. Efficient. Practical. She dresses quickly while I pull on the jeans and sweater Logan left.
"We better handle it," she says, tugging the sweater down. "Because if Moreau's here already, that means the Conductor's timeline is moving faster than we thought."
Marissa transforms back into Nocturne, piece by piece. Weapons. Confidence that comes from years of training. But underneath, the woman who slept in my arms is still there. Who whispered my name like a prayer. Who chose to stay with me even when everything's falling apart.
"Ready?" she asks, checking her weapon.
I finish dressing, holster my own gun, and meet her at the door. "Ready."
We head downstairs to the ops center beneath the cottage.
It’s a stark contrast—the modest cottage above gives way to sleek technology below.
Fitz paces near the main command station, phone pressed to his ear.
Logan's at the surveillance hub, multiple screens glowing with live feeds from across Monte Carlo.
The tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
Fitz ends his call and turns to us. "Moreau landed an hour ago. Hotel de Paris. He's requesting a meeting."
"A meeting?" Marissa's voice is sharp. "With whom?"
"With us." Fitz's expression is grim. "Says he has information about the Conductor's plans. Claims he wants to help."
I feel Marissa go rigid beside me. "It's a trap."
"Probably," Fitz agrees. "But Laurent arrives in less than an hour, and he wants answers about why our operation is compromised."
Logan looks up from the surveillance feeds. "And there's more. We're picking up increased Iron Choir chatter in the city. They know Moreau's here. They know Cerberus operates in Monte Carlo. Question is whether they've pinpointed this location yet."
The timeline just collapsed from a few days to right now. And Moreau's playing games we don't understand yet.