The sirens in Geneva were a distant hum as Julian and Elara retreated to a safe house—a minimalist apartment overlooking the lake. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a raw, jagged intimacy.

"You shouldn't have come," Julian rasped, his back to her as he stared at the dark water. "You were safe in France."

"I was a prisoner in France," Elara countered, walking up behind him. She reached out, her fingers grazing the bandage on his shoulder. "Don't you get it, Julian? I don't want a life where I’m tucked away. I want a life where I'm standing next to you."

Julian turned, his eyes burning with a mix of agony and adoration. He didn't say a word. He simply cupped her face and kissed her—not with the desperation of a man in hiding, but with the devotion of a man who had finally found his home.

That night, there were no contracts. No families, no debts, no fires. There was only the heat of their bodies and the silent promise that, for the first time in both their lives, they weren't alone.