Page 2

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Thomas

T he morning stretched across the rooftops, spilling like honey over the iron balconies and narrow streets below. The Seine shimmered in the distance, rippling with the first stirrings of the city waking, though here—on our quiet street—the world still felt slow and unrushed.

For once, we were not running or chasing—or anything, really.

I lay still, letting the warmth of Will’s body anchor me to the bed, the rhythm of his breath against my skin a quiet metronome of peace. His arm lay draped over my chest, heavy in sleep, his fingers curled against my ribs. I could feel the faint rise and fall of him, the steady, unconscious trust in how we fit together.

Outside, a distant bicycle bell chimed. Somewhere, a woman’s laughter sounded, light and musical. The world was waking.

But we weren’t ready to join it.

I turned my head, letting my lips brush the curve of Will’s temple. He stirred, his fingers twitching against my ribs, and then—his voice, soft, amused, still half lost in sleep.

“You’re thinking too loud again.”

I huffed a quiet laugh. “Sorry. Habit.”

“Mmm.” He didn’t open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth lifted in that lazy smirk of his. “One of your worst.”

I let my fingers drift, tracing slow, absent patterns over his back. “And yet, you insist on keeping me around.”

Will exhaled, something almost content threading through the sound. “Every man needs a burden to bear.”

I pinched his side, and he made a sound that was almost a laugh, though he didn’t move away. Instead, he stretched—a slow, languid shift of muscle—before cracking one eye open, the soft gray-blue of it still hazy with sleep.

For a moment, we simply looked at each other. Then my gaze flicked to the folded slip of paper on the floor, half hidden beneath the writing desk.

The note.

Will sighed, closing his eyes again. “I was hoping you’d forget about that.”

I didn’t answer, didn’t need to.

It had arrived sometime in the night, slipped under our door with barely a sound, with no trace of footsteps lingering in the hall. Its message had been simple, scrawled in careful, deliberate script: Stand by. Await further instructions.

It wasn’t a summons. Not yet, but it would be. It always was.

Will shifted, pressing his face against my shoulder as if he could bury himself in this moment, hold on to it before it disappeared. “How long do you think we have?”

I ran a slow hand down his back, feeling the ridges of old scars, the warmth of him beneath my palm. This was the life we had chosen. The life that had chosen us.

And still—

“Not long enough,” I murmured.

Will let out a quiet hum of agreement, his breath warm against my collarbone. “Then let’s not waste it.”

His fingers curled in the sheets, pulling me toward him, and for a little while, the world could wait.

A knock at the door shattered the stillness.

Neither of us moved.

The sound came again—sharp, insistent, pulling us back into the inevitable.

Will exhaled, already mourning the morning we weren’t meant to keep.

He slid from the bed, the silk sheets pooling at his waist before he stood, bare feet soundless against the wooden floor. I followed, wrapping a robe around my shoulders, my fingers already reaching for the gun hidden beneath the stack of books on the nightstand.

Just in case.

Will cracked the door, keeping the chain in place. I saw his posture shift—sharp, alert, the same way a wolf tenses before the kill. Then he relaxed.

He unlatched the chain and opened the door, revealing Lieutenant-Commander Drake Raines. The former-master-of-HMS-Tuna-turned-spy-handler’s face was carved from the same cold steel as ever. He stepped inside without an invitation, the air shifting with him, bringing the scent of damp wool and cigarette smoke.

Will closed the door. “No dead drop?”

“No time.” Raines shook his head.

That sounded ominous. Our peace was officially over.

I leaned against the writing desk and crossed my arms. “What’s the job?”

Raines pulled a folder from beneath his coat and tossed it onto the desk between us. A photograph slid free—black and white, grainy, a man’s face caught mid-turn. He was middle-aged, bespectacled, with the worn look of someone who had spent too many years chasing ghosts.

The tab of the folder bore the name, “Shadowfox.” There would be no refusing this mission. It already had a code name.

“Dr. László Farkas” was scrawled in neat block letters at the top. Beneath were paragraphs that read more like a biography than a mission brief. I skimmed quickly.

Hungarian. Mathematician. Cryptographer.

Father of a thirteen-year-old girl?

And, apparently, our next mission.

“Farkas may be the smartest man on the planet. He’s supposed to be close to inventing a machine to make the Enigma look like a child’s toy. Command is scared shitless. Soviets seem to think they’ve got a real prize.” Raines exhaled, lighting a cigarette as he spoke. “Apparently, the good doctor is willing to defect.”

Will picked up the photograph, studying it. “Over?”

Raines took a slow drag, then exhaled. “With his machine, Stalin’s boys could intercept and decipher every Allied message before it even reaches its intended recipient. No war plans, no troop movements, no diplomatic cables would be secure.”

I felt the weight of it settle in my chest.

“Where is he now?” I asked.

“ They are in Budapest.” Raines flicked ash onto the floor. “The daughter goes with him. That’s the deal.”

Well, shit. That complicated things. Prying a scientist the Soviets found valuable from their grip would be challenging enough. Dragging a young girl across enemy lines was a different matter altogether.

“A young girl? Seriously?”

Raines nodded.

Will set the photo down and looked at me, something unreadable in his gaze. I already knew what he was going to say before he said it.

“When do we leave?”

I released a long breath.

Paris was already a memory. The Seine, the rain, the golden morning—nothing more than something we would remember when the world turned cold again. I glanced once more at the bed, at the space where warmth still lingered, then I squared my shoulders and reached for my coat.

We were never meant for peace, anyway.