The rain persisted into dawn, a cold, unrelenting drizzle that seemed to seep into every stone of the old city. Camille stood by the narrow window of the safehouse's upper room, her arms folded across her chest, gaze locked on the street below.
Geneva woke slowly beneath grey skies, its surface calm belying the currents that churned beneath. Somewhere in this city, Renault's operatives hunted. And inside this building, a man who could change everything hovered on the edge of breaking.
Behind her, the low hum of encrypted comms filled the air. Damien's operatives worked in quiet concentration, monitoring channels, scanning for further threats. The attack on the café had rattled them all.
But it was the leak that concerned Camille most.
Someone had tipped Renault's people. The breach had come too swiftly, too precisely.
There was a traitor among them.
And if they didn't find that weakness soon, all their moves would be exposed.
---
Downstairs, Julien Cazaux paced the secure room, tension coiling tighter with each step. Camille watched him from the doorway, arms crossed.
"You won't last long this way," she said quietly.
He shot her a glance, wary. "You think I have a choice?"
Camille stepped inside, voice calm but firm.
"You do. Talk to us. Give us what you know. We can shield you, but only if you let us."
Cazaux raked a hand through his dark hair, eyes shadowed.
"I kept the data offline," he muttered. "Too dangerous otherwise."
"Where?"
A pause. Then, reluctantly:
"A vault. Private bank. I never accessed it after Mateo died. I knew they were watching."
Camille's pulse quickened.
"And the keys?"
He hesitated.
"I have them. Split across two devices. One here. One... not."
She stepped closer.
"You want to honor Mateo? Then help us finish this."
Cazaux met her gaze—haunted, brittle.
At last, he gave a single nod.
---
Upstairs, Damien watched the surveillance feeds, arms folded, expression carved from stone.
The failed hit at the café had unsettled him, though he showed no sign. Renault was moving faster now—too fast. And the leak within their own network posed the greater threat.
Camille's voice pulled his attention as she entered.
"He'll cooperate," she said simply.
Damien's gaze held hers, unreadable.
"Good."
A pause stretched between them, heavy with all they had not said.
Then Camille spoke again, voice lower.
"We need to find the leak. Before the next strike comes."
Damien's eyes darkened.
"I'm already on it."
But beneath the cold precision in his voice, Camille sensed the weight he carried—too many fronts, too many enemies.
Without thinking, she stepped closer.
"You don't have to carry it alone."
For a moment, something flickered in his gaze—unshielded, raw.
Then his mouth quirked in a faint smile.
"I'm not used to anyone saying that."
Camille's voice was soft.
"Get used to it."
---
The hours that followed were a blur of movement and strategy.
Damien's operatives began an internal sweep—silent, methodical. Backgrounds reviewed, communications traced. Every operative placed under fresh surveillance.
And through it all, Camille remained at Damien's side—watching, listening, reading every nuance.
They worked as one—no need for pretense now. The war had burned through the last of the polite distance between them.
In moments of quiet, their gazes met—brief, charged with an understanding neither dared voice aloud.
What was between them had become inevitable.
But they both knew—until the danger was contained, until the truth was theirs—there could be no surrender to it.
---
By late afternoon, a lead surfaced.
Encrypted chatter, intercepted by Calvet's team, pointed to an unauthorized transmission—sent from within their own Geneva cell.
The source was narrowed to one name: Orin Vasseur. A junior operative, assigned to external watch.
Camille watched Damien's jaw tighten as the report came in.
"Bring him in," Damien ordered. His voice was pure ice.
The arrest was swift.
Within the hour, Vasseur sat bound in a secure room, sweat beading his brow. Camille stood behind the one-way glass as Damien entered, alone.
She watched as he closed the distance to the trembling man, gaze unflinching.
"You sold us out," Damien said softly. "To Renault. Why?"
Vasseur shook his head wildly.
"I—I didn't. I swear—"
Damien's voice was colder.
"We have the proof."
A beat.
Then Vasseur broke.
"They paid me," he gasped. "I had no choice—he said—he said if I didn't—"
He sagged, defeated.
Damien stood over him, voice sharp as a blade.
"What did you tell them?"
"Only... only about the café. And the girl—"
At that, Camille's blood ran cold.
They had targeted her first.
Damien's face darkened, unreadable.
"You will be dealt with."
---
Later, in the penthouse suite of the safehouse, Camille poured herself a glass of wine, her hands steady but cold.
The danger was closer than they'd thought. One weakness, one compromised man—and everything had nearly unraveled.
Behind her, Damien entered.
"It's done," he said simply.
Camille turned to face him, her gaze searching.
"For now."
He stepped closer.
"There will be others. This is only the beginning."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then, softly:
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
Camille frowned, unsure.
"This fight. Coming into this war."
Her voice was sure.
"No. Not for a second."
Damien's gaze burned into hers.
"And this—" he gestured between them. "Do you regret... this?"
For a moment, the air between them pulsed with tension, unspoken need coiled tight.
Camille's breath caught.
"No."
A beat. Then:
"Do you?"
Damien's smile was faint, almost bitter.
"I regret that I cannot protect you from it."
Then, before caution could stop him, he closed the distance—his hand sliding to her waist, his mouth finding hers in a kiss that burned with everything they had held back.
Camille answered without hesitation—arms rising, body arching into him.
For a long, breathless moment, there was only them—heat, hunger, need.
When they finally parted, their foreheads touched, breath mingling.
"This is dangerous," Damien whispered.
Camille's voice was fierce.
"So is everything else."
---
Later, as the city darkened beneath storm-heavy clouds, Camille stood alone by the window once more.
The pieces were moving faster now.
The leak had been found—but not the root.
Julien Cazaux's files remained to be retrieved.
And Renault's hand was still moving in the shadows.
But beneath it all, something else burned brighter—the truth, yes. But also this growing tether between her and Damien.
Stronger than either had expected.
And neither could walk away now.
Not from the war.
Not from each other.