Chapter 17
MARISSA
Morning light filters through the bedroom windows, and I wake to find Archer's side of the bed already empty.
Relief washes through me before guilt can follow.
I don't have the energy to navigate the silence between us right now, don't have the capacity to see regret in his eyes and pretend it doesn't affect me.
I dress quickly in clean tactical clothing and head downstairs to the ops center.
The mission—that's what matters. The fracture in whatever this thing is or was between us can wait.
The doubt I saw flash across his face in the Hotel de Paris lobby can wait.
The wall I've built to protect myself from feeling that particular knife twist again stays exactly where it is.
Fitz and Logan are already at the command station when I arrive, reviewing security feeds from the gala venue. Archer stands near the surveillance hub, coffee in hand, attention fixed on the monitors like they hold answers to questions he's afraid to ask.
He doesn't look at me when I enter. Doesn't acknowledge my presence beyond a slight tension in his shoulders that tells me he knows I'm here.
"Morning," Fitz says without looking up from his tablet. "Final briefing in a few hours. Get some food, review your assignments, make sure your gear is ready. Tomorrow night is go time."
The gala. Protecting a child who doesn't know she's a target. Stopping the Iron Choir from whatever they're really planning. Keeping Laurent's daughter alive while the world's most dangerous organization watches our every move.
And doing it all while the man I was starting to trust looks at me like I might be the enemy.
I pour coffee and settle at a workstation, pulling up floor plans for the gala venue. Hotel de Paris—where Monaco's elite will gather for a charity benefit. Multiple entry points, limited exits, too many blind spots. A perfect hunting ground for an abduction.
Logan moves to the station beside me, pretending to review security protocols while watching me with concern I don't want to address.
"You two okay?" he asks quietly enough that Fitz and Archer can't hear.
"We're fine," I say without looking at him. "Mission first."
"Marissa—"
"I said we're fine, Logan." My voice comes out sharper than intended, and he raises his hands in surrender.
"Alright. Just checking."
He moves away, and I force myself to focus on the venue layouts. Embedded team positions. Communication frequencies. Emergency extraction routes. All the tactical details that keep me grounded when emotions threaten to pull me under.
But I'm not fine. Not even close.
Because Archer's doubt cut deeper than any betrayal I've faced in the field. With targets and marks, I expect suspicion. I build covers designed to withstand scrutiny. I prepare for the moment they see through the facade and turn on me.
But with Archer, I let my guard down. Let him see parts of me I keep hidden from everyone else. Let myself believe that someone could know the real me and still choose to stay.
And then I watched him question it. Watched doubt flicker across his features while Moreau planted poison between us. Watched him wonder if everything we've shared was just another cover, another role I'm playing.
It reminded me of every time I've been burned. Every operation where someone I trusted turned out to be working the other side. Every moment I've had to run because the person I relied on sold me out.
I thought Archer was different. Thought what we had was real.
Now I don't know what to think.
The morning bleeds into afternoon. Fitz calls the full team briefing, and we gather around the central command station. Logan's embedded operatives appear on screen from various positions around Monte Carlo. The gala team. The extraction team. The surveillance team monitoring Iron Choir movements.
Everyone has their assignments. Everyone knows their role.
"Tomorrow night," Fitz says, and his voice carries the weight of everything riding on this operation.
"Laurent brings his daughter to the gala at the assigned time.
Our embedded team maintains close proximity without appearing to be anything more than standard security.
Nocturne and Kingslayer draw Iron Choir attention as the visible threats. "
I feel Archer's gaze on me, but I keep my eyes on Fitz.
"We have confirmation that the Conductor's people are in Monte Carlo," Fitz continues.
"They know you're coming. They'll be watching for you specifically.
" He looks at me, then at Archer. "Which means you need to be convincing.
Make them believe you're the primary threat.
Keep their focus on you while the embedded team secures Amelie. "
"And if they move before we're in position?" I ask.
"Then you adapt," Fitz says simply. "This operation depends on flexibility and trust. You need to work together, anticipate each other's moves, have each other's backs.
" His gaze sharpens. "Whatever personal issues are happening between you, sort them out before tomorrow night. I need you both sharp and unified."
The words land heavy in the silence that follows. Logan shifts uncomfortably. One of the embedded team members clears their throat on the video feed.
"Understood," Archer says, voice steady but careful.
"Understood," I echo, matching his tone.
Fitz studies us both for a long moment, clearly unconvinced, but he moves on to tactical details. Positioning. Communication protocols. Emergency contingencies. The briefing stretches for hours, covering every possible scenario, every threat we might face.
By the time Fitz dismisses us, evening has fallen outside the cottage windows. The hours that felt both too long and not long enough have brought us to the edge of what comes next.
I head to my workstation and pull out the photograph Laurent gave me. Amelie smiles up at me, wind catching her dark hair, crystal bracelets gleaming on her small wrist. Amelie Marie Laurent. Six years old. Loves the ocean.
I trace the edge of the photograph, grounding myself in what matters. This child deserves to live. Deserves to grow up safe and loved, not stolen away by an organization that sees her as nothing more than leverage.
My fingers brush the crystal bracelet on my own wrist—a match to the ones Amelie wears, acquired from the safe house supplies. Laurent's identifier. The detail that confirms we have his daughter and not some substitute the Iron Choir arranged.
"Marissa."
Archer's voice comes from behind me, quiet and careful. I don't turn around.
"About yesterday," he continues.
"Save it," I say, keeping my voice level. "We have a job to do. That's what matters."
"It's not all that matters."
"Tomorrow we protect Amelie. Focus on that."
His jaw tightens, but he doesn't argue. Doesn't explain. Just nods once, ready to move on.
"I need to do final gear check," I say. "You should probably do the same."
I move past him toward the tactical armory on the lower level. He doesn't follow, and I'm grateful for the space. Grateful I don't have to see regret in his eyes and fight the part of me that aches to forgive him.
I pull my vest from the rack and go through the motions of checking my gear, letting muscle memory take over while my mind circles everything I can't fix between us.
I'm adjusting the final vest strap when I notice another vest laid out on my station. It's men's size, perfectly adjusted with the straps set exactly how Archer would wear them, plate carriers positioned precisely, communication gear tested and ready.
His vest on my station.
I reach out and touch the tactical fabric, recognition hitting me immediately. This is his handiwork. He prepared his gear here, at my station, while I was upstairs avoiding him.
The gesture is small, but the meaning lands heavy. He's telling me he trusts me. That whatever doubt Moreau planted, whatever flicker of suspicion crossed his mind, he's choosing to trust me anyway. Choosing to stand beside me at the gala and have my back despite everything.
My throat tightens. I run my fingers over the vest straps he adjusted, imagining his hands performing the familiar motions. Preparing for battle. Preparing to protect me even though I've shut him out.
So I finish my gear check in silence, leaving his vest untouched on my station, and head back upstairs to the bedroom.
The cottage is quiet around me. Logan is monitoring feeds from the ops center. And Archer is somewhere I'm deliberately not looking for him.
I change into sleep clothes and climb into bed on the far side, as far from Archer's side as I can get. The photograph of Amelie sits on the nightstand where I can see it. A reminder of what we're fighting for when the gala begins. Who we're protecting.
Hours pass before the bedroom door opens quietly. Archer enters, moving carefully like he's trying not to disturb me. He settles on his side of the bed, maintaining the distance I established, and the mattress shifts slightly with his weight.
We lie there in the darkness, close enough to touch but separated by everything unsaid between us.
His hand finds mine in the darkness. No words. Just his fingers lacing through mine—solid, certain, claiming.
The gesture says what words can't: I've got you. Tomorrow, we fight together.
Part of me aches to reach for him, to close the distance and let him explain, to believe that we'll come back from the gala alive and whole and find our way back to whatever this was becoming.
But fear is louder than hope right now.
So I close my eyes and try to sleep, knowing the gala will test us in ways that have nothing to do with the Iron Choir.
Sleep comes eventually, fitful and restless. When I wake before dawn, Archer's side of the bed is empty again. The routine of preparation begins. Shower. Dress. Weapons. Gear. Coffee. Briefing.
Everything mechanical and precise because that's what gets you through missions when your head isn't clear.
Fitz runs through final positions one more time. Laurent will arrive at the gala with Amelie. Our embedded team will be in place. Archer and I will be visible, drawing Iron Choir attention while the real protection happens in the shadows.
"Stay sharp," Fitz says as he dismisses us to finish preparations. "Trust your training. Trust your partner. Come back alive."
I head down to the armory for final equipment check. My vest is exactly where I left it. Archer's vest is gone from my station—he must have retrieved it while I was upstairs.
I'm adjusting my communication gear when I notice something in my tactical bag. A folded piece of paper tucked into the front pocket where I keep spare magazines.
I pull it out, and my hands shake slightly as I unfold it.
The handwriting is Archer's—strong, precise, unmistakable.
Made a tactical error. Won't repeat it. You're mine. Come back to me. —A
The words blur as tears threaten. I read them again, and again, letting them sink into places where doubt and fear have been living since the Hotel de Paris.
Made a tactical error. Simple acknowledgment that Moreau's poison found purchase even briefly.
The rest is pure alpha male and probably as close as I’ll get to an apology.
Come back to me. Not come back. Come back to me. The distinction matters. He's not just asking me to survive the mission. He's asking me to find my way back to him. To crack these walls I've built. To trust him again.
I clutch the note, and tears slip free before I can stop them. All the armor I've maintained cracks just enough to let emotion through—the fear and hope and regret and longing I've been holding back since yesterday.
The gala is tonight. We face the Iron Choir. We protect Amelie Laurent from an organization that's untouchable, unstoppable, unforgiving. We walk into a trap designed specifically for us and hope we're good enough to survive it.
And there's so much I need to tell him. That I choose him too. That I forgive him for a moment of doubt because I understand how convincing a good cover can be. That I want to find out what we are when we're not running or fighting or preparing for battle.
I fold the note carefully and tuck it into my vest pocket, right next to Amelie's photograph. My fingers rest against both pieces of paper through the fabric.
Come back to me.
I don't know if I can keep that promise.