The safe room was a masterpiece of architectural deception. To any casual observer, it was a grand, high-ceilinged library filled with first-edition leather-bound books and the scent of aged parchment. But beneath the mahogany shelves lay six inches of reinforced titan-glass and a lead-lined Faraday cage. They reached it after clearing the remaining stragglers in the West Gallery, moving through the estate like twin shadows.
The estate was quiet again, though the air remained heavy with the aftermath of violence—the sharp tang of ozone from pulse-bolts and the heavy, metallic scent of fresh blood. Outside, the Federation sirens were finally approaching, their blue and red lights refracting against the mountain mist, but for now, they were alone in the dim, flickering light of a single green-shaded desk lamp.
Caspian sat heavily on a leather chair, the exhaustion of the night finally pulling at the corners of his eyes. He discarded his tactical shirt, the fabric ruined by a scorched tear at the shoulder. The wound was a shallow, angry furrow, the edges cauterized by the heat of the round that had nearly taken his life.
Linnea stood between his knees. She had already removed her tactical gloves, her hands pale and steady in the lamplight. Her fingers were surprisingly gentle as she dipped an antiseptic wipe into a small medical kit, dabbing at the bloody groove on his skin.
"You took that hit for me," she murmured. She didn't look up, focusing entirely on the task. The fierce, lethal "Ghost" had retreated, replaced by a woman whose touch was as light as a whisper. "You moved right into the line of fire. You could have lost the arm."
Caspian reached out with his good arm, his hand catching her waist and pulling her closer until her legs were pressed against his. The heat of him radiated through the thin material of her suit. "I told you once before, Linnea. You're my territory. I don't let people damage what belongs to me. Not a piece of furniture, and certainly not a wife I've spent millions to acquire."
Linnea paused, the antiseptic wipe hovering over his skin. She finally met his eyes, her gaze raw and filled with an electric vulnerability. "Is that all I am to you, Caspian? High-value property? A tactical asset to be defended like a border wall?"
Caspian's gaze darkened, the stormy gray of his eyes turning to a deep, turbulent charcoal. He reached up, his fingers tangling in the loose strands of hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her head down with a slow, irresistible gravity until their lips were inches apart.
"You're a liability I can't afford, a ghost I can't catch, and a wife I didn't want," Caspian said, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that seemed to echo in her very bones. "But right now? In this room, with the world burning outside? You're the only person in this entire empire who isn't trying to lie to me. You're the only thing that feels real."
He kissed her then—not a gentle, romantic kiss, but one born of fire, friction, and the desperate adrenaline of survival. It tasted of salt and iron, a hungry, territorial claim in the middle of a war zone. Linnea didn't pull away. The "Ghost" surrendered to the woman, and she leaned into him, her hands sliding up to his neck, her fingers tracing the jagged shrapnel scars that told the story of his life.
For a moment, the mission, the stolen data, and the Federation didn't exist. There was only the heat of his skin against hers and the dangerous sanctuary of his arms. In the silence of the bunker, the Commander and the Spy found a brief, violent peace.
But as the sirens grew louder outside, the weight of their crowns returned. They weren't just two people; they were the most hunted figures in the North, and the night was far from over.