The drive to Geneva was long and tense, broken only by mission briefings and hushed phone calls.
Elira sat between Damien and Soren, both men flanking her like shadows from different lives. Damien’s fingers brushed hers once—a silent apology. But Soren was the one who turned slightly, watching her with storm-gray eyes.
“You don’t have to go in with us,” he murmured.
Elira’s jaw clenched. “Don’t even try to protect me.”
“I’m trying to survive this with you.”
She looked out the window. “Then don’t slow me down.”
Damien gave Soren a hard look, but said nothing. The air between the three of them was charged—an invisible war of ownership, of pasts and futures. Elira said nothing else, but her heart beat like a war drum.
By dawn, they reached the compound. A sleek, glass-fronted data fort
