The screen glowed with Henri's sins—line after line of damning proof. Alan stared at it for three seconds, then swiveled his chair to look at me instead.
The blue light carved shadows under his eyes, made him look haunted. We'd cracked the encryption, found the weapon, won the goddamn war. So why did my chest feel like someone was standing on it?
"Alan." My voice came out wrong, too small for the vast penthouse silence. The clock on the wall read 4:00 AM. In a few hours, we'd walk into that boardroom and detonate this bomb. "We have this. We have the proof. But what if it's not enough?"
He frowned, turning fully to face me. "What do you mean? It's everything. It's blackmail, it's—"
"It's Henri." My hand tightened on the back of his chair. "He doesn't play by the rules. He won't just let us win. He'll see this as an attack and he'll retaliate." The words tumbled out faster, panic clawing up my throat. "He'll go after Amélie. He'll kill us both before we can even speak. We could lose, Alan. We could lose everything."
The admission hung between us like smoke. He stared at me for a long, silent moment—no platitudes, no false reassurance. Just that steady, dark gaze seeing straight through to my terror.
"Yes," he said finally, his voice low and rough. "We could."
The honesty of it gutted me. This was it. The precipice. We were two people standing on the edge of total annihilation, and he wasn't going to lie to me about the drop.
He pushed back from the desk and stood. His movements were deliberate, almost careful, like he was fighting to stay controlled. He didn't glance at the laptop, didn't check the files one more time. He only looked at me.
"Then we don't waste this night on sleep."
My breath caught. He crossed the space between us in two strides, his hands coming up to frame my face. His palms were warm against my cold skin, his thumbs brushing my cheekbones. The touch was gentle. Devastating.
"I don't know what will happen tomorrow." His voice dropped to a whisper, his gaze locked on mine with an intensity that made my knees weak. "I don't know if we win. I don't know if we survive." He leaned closer, his breath warm against my lips. "But I know what I want right now."
He kissed me. Slow. Agonizing. His lips moved over mine like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth, the taste of me. It wasn't the brutal claiming from the terrace or the desperate collision in Geneva. This was worship. This was a man trying to burn a memory into his soul before the world ended.
"I want to remember you," he murmured against my mouth, his forehead pressing to mine. "I want to memorize every single part of you. Just in case—"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to. I kissed him back, hard, a sob catching in my throat. I poured everything into that kiss—all my fear, my hope, my desperate love for this complicated, impossible man. My hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, trying to fuse us together.
He made a raw sound in his chest and lifted me. Just swept me up like I weighed nothing, like he could carry me away from the horror waiting in the morning.
He didn't head toward the master bedroom with its cold, sterile perfection. He carried me to the fireplace, where embers still glowed red against the darkness, and laid me down on the thick rug.
"Alan—" My voice cracked.
"Shh." He knelt beside me, his hands moving to the buttons of my blouse. "Let me."
He undressed me slowly. Reverently. Each button released with agonizing care, his fingers brushing the hollow of my throat, the valley between my breasts. He peeled the fabric away, then reached behind me to unhook my bra. His gaze on my bare skin felt like a physical touch, like he was branding the image of me into his memory.
He slid my skirt down my hips, taking my panties with it, his hands trembling slightly as he exposed me completely. I should've felt vulnerable, laid bare in the firelight. Instead, I felt worshipped.
When I was naked, he stood and stripped off his own clothes in one fluid motion. He was beautiful—all hard muscle and controlled power, the firelight playing across his chest. But it was his eyes that undid me. The fear I saw there, the desperate need, the raw humanity.
"You are..." His voice was thick, wrecked. "The only thing that has ever been real."
He came down over me, settling between my thighs. The weight of him, the heat of his skin against mine—it was almost too much. He kissed me again, deep and slow, his hands sliding into my hair. When he finally pushed inside me, I gasped into his mouth.
This wasn't the frantic claiming from before. This was slow. Deep. Agonizing. He moved with deliberate care, his rhythm worshipful, like he was trying to feel every inch of me. His forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling, our bodies locked together in the oldest human act of defiance against death.
"Élise." My name was a prayer on his lips. "Look at me."
I opened my eyes. Met his gaze in the flickering firelight. Saw everything—his fear, his determination, his desperate love. He thrust deeper, harder, his control starting to fracture. My back arched, my nails digging into his shoulders.
"I've got you," he whispered. "I've got you."
We moved together, finding a rhythm that felt less like sex and more like a promise. Every thrust, every gasp, every whispered word was a vow. We'll survive this. We'll protect her. We'll fight for this.
The pressure built, coiling tight in my core. His hand slid between us, his thumb finding my clit, and I shattered. My orgasm ripped through me, silent and profound, and he followed a heartbeat later. I felt him pulse inside me, felt his entire body go rigid, then collapse.
He didn't pull out. He just dropped his weight onto me, his face buried in my hair, his breath ragged against my neck. I wrapped my arms around him, holding him tight, my tears soaking his shoulder.
We didn't move. Didn't speak. Just lay there, tangled together on the floor, our hearts hammering in sync. Outside the windows, the first cold grey light of morning began to creep across the Paris skyline. The morning we'd go to war. The morning we'd either win everything or lose it all.
His hand found mine, our fingers lacing together. Neither of us said it, but we both knew—no matter what happened in that boardroom, this moment was ours.