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Chapter Text

The morning sunlight filtered through the sheer white curtains, casting golden lines across the wooden floor. The countryside air was crisp, the scent of lavender drifting in from the fields surrounding the secluded house. It was peaceful. Almost too peaceful.

James Bond stood at the kitchen counter, a fresh cup of coffee in one hand, watching the small figure curled up on the couch. Mathilde. Her tiny fingers clutched a stuffed bunny, her head nestled against the pillow. She had fallen asleep there the night before while watching a cartoon, and neither he nor Madeleine had the heart to move her.

Bond was still adjusting. To this life. To the weight of fatherhood pressing down on him in a way even MI6’s most dangerous missions never had. For five years, she had lived without him, and now he was here—present, yet still feeling like an outsider in their small, fragile world.

Soft footsteps approached behind him.

“You’re awake early,” Madeleine murmured, her voice still husky from sleep.

Bond turned, and for a brief moment, all the tension he carried melted away. She was wearing his shirt—one of the white linen ones he had abandoned in the drawer—and nothing else. The fabric draped over her just enough to be tempting, her bare legs illuminated by the soft morning glow.

“Old habits,” Bond replied, taking a slow sip of his coffee.

Madeleine stepped closer, resting her hand on his chest. “You don’t have to be on guard here, James.”

He almost smiled. Almost.

Because something deep inside him, the part that had been trained to always anticipate the worst, refused to believe that.

Bond let his fingers graze over Madeleine’s wrist, his touch absentminded yet possessive. He wanted to believe her. That here, in this quiet sanctuary in the French countryside, there was nothing to fear. But peace had never been something he could trust.

“I know,” he murmured, though it wasn’t entirely true.

Madeleine studied him for a moment, her blue eyes searching his face the way only she could. She understood him better than most—better than anyone still left in his life.

“You barely slept,” she noted.

Bond exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening around his coffee cup. “You were watching me?”

A small smirk tugged at her lips. “Always.”

He should have laughed at that. Or teased her back. But instead, he set his cup down on the counter, took her wrist, and pulled her closer.

“Then you know I don’t sleep much.” His voice was quieter now, lower.

Madeleine’s expression softened. Her free hand came up to rest against his jaw, her fingers lightly tracing the rough stubble there. “You don’t have to be like this anymore,” she whispered. “You don’t have to carry everything alone.”

Bond’s throat tightened.

She was wrong about that.

There were things he’d never tell her. The weight of what he had done, of what he had been—she knew part of it, but not all of it. She didn’t know how many people had died by his hand, how many times he had walked away from devastation, how many enemies still out there wanted his head on a spike.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead against hers. Just breathing her in.

“You think too much,” she murmured.

Bond let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no real humor in it. “Bad habit.”

Madeleine’s fingers slid down his chest, her touch featherlight, teasing. “One I can help you break.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”

She didn’t answer with words. Instead, she pressed her lips to his—a slow, deliberate kiss that started gentle but deepened almost instantly. Bond responded in kind, his hand moving from her wrist to her hip, fingers sliding beneath the hem of his shirt that barely covered her. Madeleine let out the softest sigh as he lifted her onto the counter. For once, Bond allowed himself to forget everything else.

Later, as Madeleine lay curled against his chest, Bond traced absent patterns along her bare back, listening to the rhythmic sound of her breathing. The sun had risen higher, and outside, the world remained untouched by chaos.

He wished he could freeze this moment in time.

A small noise from the living room snapped him out of his haze.

Mathilde.

Bond sighed, pressing a kiss to Madeleine’s forehead before slipping out of bed and pulling on a pair of sweatpants. He made his way down the hall just in time to see Mathilde rubbing her eyes, her stuffed bunny clutched to her chest.

She looked up at him, blinking sleepily. “James?”

Bond felt something tighten in his chest. She still didn’t call him papa.

He crouched beside her, brushing a strand of blonde hair from her face. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Mathilde yawned. “I’m hungry.”

Bond smiled, standing up and offering his hand. “Come on, let’s see what we can do about that.”

She took his hand without hesitation, and as small as the gesture was, it meant more to him than he could ever put into words. James had never spent this much time in one place before.

It was unnatural. The stillness, the routine. He had spent most of his life moving from one city to another, one mission to the next, never stopping long enough to grow roots. Yet here he was, making breakfast for his daughter, still adjusting to the word daughter itself. Mathilde sat at the small wooden table, swinging her legs idly beneath her chair, her stuffed bunny resting on the table beside her. Her blonde hair was a little messy from sleep, her blue eyes—so much like Madeleine’s—watching him with quiet curiosity.

“What do you usually have for breakfast?” Bond asked, glancing over his shoulder as he cracked eggs into the pan.

“Crêpes,” Mathilde answered, as if it were obvious.

Bond smirked. “Of course.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You don’t know how to make them, do you?”

Bond feigned offense. “I was making breakfast long before you were born, mon trésor.”

Mathilde giggled, covering her mouth with her small hands. “That means you’re old.”

Bond turned back to the stove. “That means I’m experienced,” he corrected, pouring a small amount of batter into the pan.

Mathilde, still amused, leaned forward to watch, resting her chin on her hands. “Maman says your job was very dangerous.”

Bond hesitated, the spatula pausing in his hand for just a second before he flipped the crêpe. “It was.”

Mathilde thought about this for a moment, then asked, “Are you still dangerous?”

Bond turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze. There was no fear in her expression, just innocent curiosity.

He forced a small smile. “Not anymore.”

She seemed satisfied with that answer, kicking her legs again as she waited for her food.

By the time Madeleine joined them in the kitchen, dressed in one of Bond’s shirts with her hair slightly tousled, the small table was already set. Mathilde was happily eating her crêpes, and Bond was finishing his coffee, leaning against the counter.

Madeleine walked up to him, brushing a hand over his bare shoulder before pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. “Bonjour again, mon amour.”

Bond turned his head slightly, letting his lips graze her temple. “Morning.”

She glanced at Mathilde, then back at Bond. “Did she like your cooking?”

Mathilde nodded quickly. “Yes! But he almost burned one.”

Bond gave her a mock glare. “I thought we agreed not to tell your mother about that.”

Mathilde giggled, and Madeleine laughed softly before sitting beside her. It was such a simple moment—so domestic, so ordinary. And yet, for Bond, it felt almost foreign.

Madeleine reached across the table, resting her hand on his forearm. “She adores you, you know.”

Bond glanced at Mathilde, who was now focused on her plate, humming softly to herself as she ate.

“She still calls me James,” he said quietly.

Madeleine squeezed his arm gently. “Give her time.”

Bond wasn’t sure how much time he had. But for now, he pushed that thought away and sat down at the table, pretending, just for a little while, that this was the only life he had ever known.

The morning passed in a way Bond wasn’t used to—slow, unhurried, peaceful. After breakfast, he found himself outside, sitting on the steps of the small cottage, watching Mathilde as she played in the wildflowers that stretched beyond the house. She ran barefoot through the grass, her laughter light and unburdened, the way a child’s should be.

Madeleine stood nearby, her arms wrapped around herself as the warm summer breeze played with her hair. She was watching Bond more than she was watching Mathilde.

“You’re thinking again,” she said quietly.

Madeleine walked over, lowering herself onto the step beside him. She didn’t speak for a moment, simply resting her head against his shoulder. “Do you ever wonder if this is real?”

Bond exhaled slowly. “Every day.”

It was too good to be true. This life, this quiet existence. He had spent so long in the shadows, living in a world of deception and violence, that being here—truly here—felt like trying to hold onto smoke.

“I still expect to wake up and find that it’s all been a dream,” Madeleine admitted, her voice soft.

Bond turned his head slightly, pressing a kiss to the top of hers. “If it is, I’d rather not wake up.”

She smiled, just a little, and he felt her fingers trace absently over the scars on his hand.

Mathilde’s voice broke the moment.

“James!”

Bond looked up to see her standing in the middle of the field, grinning. “Come play!”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Play what, exactly?”

“Tag!” Mathilde announced, hands on her hips. “You’re it!”

Bond huffed out a small laugh and stood, rolling his shoulders. “Alright, but don’t complain when I catch you.”

Mathilde squealed and took off running before he even had a chance to move. Madeleine laughed behind him, and Bond shot her a look before jogging after Mathilde, allowing her to keep ahead just enough to make it fun. For the first time in a long time, James let himself be a father.

By the time the sun had climbed high in the sky, Mathilde was curled up inside, taking a nap after exhausting herself outside. The house was silent except for the faint chirping of birds and the rustling of trees. Bond stood on the small balcony of their bedroom, a cigarette between his fingers. He wasn’t smoking it—just holding it, rolling it between his fingers. Behind him, Madeleine stepped out of the shower, wrapped in nothing but a thin towel.

She stopped when she saw him. “I didn’t know you still kept those.”

Bond turned slightly, glancing at the cigarette. “Old habits.”

Madeleine walked over to him, plucking it from his fingers and tossing it onto the table. “I thought we were working on breaking those.”

Bond smirked, reaching for her wrist, pulling her against him. “I’ve picked up a few new ones.”

She tilted her head, her damp hair brushing against his chest. “Oh?”

Bond’s hand slid down, fingers slipping beneath the edge of the towel at her waist. “Want me to show you?”

Madeleine didn’t answer, but the way she reached up, her lips capturing his in a slow, unhurried kiss, told him all he needed to know. He walked her backward into the room, the door shutting behind them. James's hands were steady, controlled, as he untucked the towel from Madeleine’s body, letting it fall to the wooden floor without hesitation. She didn’t shiver, didn’t flinch—just stood before him, watching, waiting. She had always been beautiful, but like this, bare and still damp from the shower, she was something else entirely. Something only he got to see.

Bond let his fingers trace down her collarbone, over the swell of her breast, then lower, moving leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world. He knew exactly how to touch her—where to linger, when to be slow, when to press harder.

Madeleine let out a quiet sigh, her body already reacting beneath his fingertips. She reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, tugging at them, but Bond caught her wrists, stopping her.

“Not yet,” he murmured against her skin, pressing a slow kiss to the hollow of her throat. “I’m not done with you.”

A small, amused breath left her lips, but it turned into a sharp inhale when his hands moved lower, spreading her thighs apart just enough for him to slide his fingers between them.

“You’re already wet,” he noted, his voice smooth, teasing.

Madeleine’s breath hitched as his fingers worked slow, steady circles against her, coaxing her open. She gripped his shoulders, her nails digging in just slightly.

“You talk too much,” she whispered, though her voice was uneven.

James smirked, dragging his mouth down her chest, tongue flicking over the soft skin just above her nipple before closing his lips around it.

Madeleine arched into him, fingers threading through his hair.

“You love it,” he murmured against her skin.

She didn’t argue, but the way she gasped when he pushed two fingers inside her was answer enough. James took his time, watching her reactions, reading her body as if it were one of his missions—every moan, every sharp breath, every twitch of her hips was another secret for him to uncover. Madeleine’s thighs trembled as he worked her toward the edge, and just when she was about to break, he pulled away. Her eyes snapped open, a breathless protest on her lips, but Bond only smirked, sliding his sweatpants down in one fluid motion.

“You’ll get what you want,” he promised, pressing her back against the mattress. “But only when I say so.”

And then he sank into her, slow and deep, swallowing the sound she made with his mouth on hers.

Bond moved with deliberate control, his hands gripping Madeleine’s thighs as he pushed deeper, his pace slow but devastatingly precise. He wasn’t in a hurry—he never was when it came to her.

Madeleine gasped, her nails pressing into his back, leaving faint scratches in their wake. Bond welcomed the sting, the sharp reminder that she was here, with him, unraveling beneath him.

“James,” she breathed, her voice catching as he shifted, angling himself just right.

He kissed the corner of her mouth, then lower, his lips brushing along her jawline. “Say it again.”

She did, this time with more urgency, her legs tightening around him. Bond responded by thrusting deeper, dragging a low moan from her lips.

The rhythm between them was unhurried but intense, a slow burn building into something impossible to contain.

Madeleine’s body tensed first, the tremors of her climax stealing her breath, and Bond wasn’t far behind, groaning against her skin as he let himself go, his grip on her hips firm enough to leave bruises.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then, as their breathing steadied, Bond pressed a lazy kiss to her shoulder, his fingers tracing mindless patterns along her spine.

—

The scent of rosemary and garlic filled the small kitchen, blending with the warmth of the evening sun as it dipped below the horizon. Bond stood at the stove, stirring a simmering pot of sauce, while Madeleine set the table. It was a simple meal—pasta, fresh bread, a bottle of wine—but something about it felt whole. Mathilde sat at the table, her chin resting in her hands as she watched Bond with a look of deep concentration.

“You’re cooking again,” she said, as if she still couldn’t quite believe it.

Bond smirked. “You sound surprised.”

Mathilde nodded seriously. “Because last time, Maman had to fix it.”

Madeleine laughed softly from across the kitchen, and Bond turned his head, giving her a mock-offended look. “I didn’t hear any complaints when you ate it.”

Mathilde giggled. “I was being polite.”

Bond exhaled through his nose, shaking his head, but there was no irritation in his expression—only something dangerously close to fondness.

They ate together at the small wooden table, bathed in the dim glow of candlelight. Mathilde chatted between bites, her words tumbling out in a mix of French and English, telling stories about a stray cat she had seen outside and how she wanted to give it a name.

Bond listened, watching her animated expressions, the way Madeleine smiled at her, the way this entire moment felt too good to last.

For a man who had spent his life moving, always preparing for the next mission, sitting here—just eating dinner with his family—felt like the most foreign thing in the world.

Mathilde’s voice broke through his thoughts.

“James?”

Bond blinked, focusing back on her. “Hmm?”

She tilted her head slightly. “Will you be here forever?”

The question hit harder than it should have.

Madeleine’s hand stilled around her wine glass, her gaze flickering toward Bond, waiting for his answer. James took a slow sip of his drink, buying himself a second before he spoke.

“Of course,” he said, his voice steady.

Mathilde studied him for a long moment, then nodded as if satisfied. “Okay.”

Madeleine exhaled softly, the tension in her shoulders easing.

After dinner, James helped Mathilde into bed, tucking the blankets around her small frame. She held onto her stuffed bunny, her eyes already heavy with sleep.

“Bonne nuit, mon trésor,” he murmured, brushing a hand lightly over her hair.

Mathilde blinked up at him, her voice barely above a whisper. “Bonne nuit… Papa.”

James froze.

For a moment, he thought he had imagined it. But no—Mathilde had already closed her eyes, drifting off, unaware of the weight of what she had just said.

Bond sat there for a moment longer, something tight and unfamiliar settling in his chest. Then he leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before slipping out of the room.

James stepped onto the back porch, the cool night air brushing against his skin. Madeleine joined him a few moments later, wrapping a blanket around herself.

“She called you Papa,” she said softly.

Bond let out a slow breath of smoke. “I know.”

Madeleine leaned against the railing beside him, watching him closely. “That means something, James.”

He nodded, but he didn’t speak.

Madeleine hesitated before continuing. “You don’t have to doubt this, you know. You don’t have to doubt us.”

James exhaled, his jaw tightening slightly. “It’s not doubt, Madeleine. It’s… inevitability.”

She frowned. “What do you mean?”

James turned his head, meeting her gaze. “Peace doesn’t last. Not for people like me.”

“Then fight for it.”

Bond held her gaze, the candlelight from inside the house flickering against her features.

“I am,” he said quietly.

She studied him for a long moment before stepping closer, pressing her palm against his chest. “Then promise me something.”

Bond arched a brow. “That depends.”

Madeleine shook her head. “No conditions. Just promise me.”

He sighed, but the way she looked at him—steady, unwavering—left him no room to argue. “Alright. What is it?”

Her fingers curled slightly into his shirt. “If the past ever comes knocking, you won’t run. You won’t push us away.”

Bond’s expression flickered, but he didn’t break eye contact.

He had spent his life running—running from enemies, from ghosts, from the pieces of himself he didn’t want to face.

But Madeleine was asking him to stay.

To fight for something more than just survival.

After a long pause, he finally nodded. “I promise.”

Madeleine searched his face, as if making sure he meant it. Then she reached up, brushing her lips against his—a slow, lingering kiss that tasted like trust. And for the first time in a long time, Bond allowed himself to believe in it.

Chapter Text

The first rays of sunlight streamed through the window, casting a golden glow over the bedroom. Outside, birds chirped lazily, and the faint rustling of trees in the breeze gave the morning a serene rhythm.

James stirred awake slowly, adjusting to the weight beside him. Madeleine was curled against his chest, her breathing slow and even. He didn’t move at first, just watched her, memorizing the way the soft light caught in her hair, the steady rise and fall of her chest.

It was a sight he never thought he’d have. A life he never thought he’d live.

Somewhere down the hall, Mathilde’s small feet padded across the wooden floors. A second later, the bedroom door creaked open.

James turned his head just as Mathilde peeked inside, still wearing her pajamas, her stuffed bunny tucked under one arm.

She hesitated. “Are you awake?”

James smirked. “I am now.”

Madeleine let out a sleepy hum beside him but didn’t open her eyes. Mathilde took that as permission to scramble onto the bed, settling between them.

“Are we going to town today?” she asked, kicking her legs slightly.

James stretched his arm behind his head. “That depends. Are you going to behave?”

Mathilde gasped in mock offense. “I always behave.”

James glanced at Madeleine, who was now fully awake, watching them with amused eyes. “Did you hear that?” he said dryly. “She always behaves.”

Madeleine chuckled, brushing a strand of hair from Mathilde’s face. “Then I suppose we have to take her with us.”

Mathilde grinned triumphantly.

James exhaled dramatically. “Fine. But if you cause any trouble, you can explain to the shopkeeper why we’re not allowed back.”

Mathilde giggled. “Deal.”

⸻

The streets of the small French village were quiet, bathed in the soft warmth of late morning. Cobblestone paths wound between rustic buildings, and the scent of fresh bread drifted from a nearby bakery.

James walked beside Madeleine, Mathilde’s small hand tucked in his as they made their way through the marketplace. It was… normal.

It still felt strange.

Madeleine pointed toward a flower stand. “We should get some for the house.”

James arched a brow. “You already have flowers.”

She shot him a look. “And?”

James sighed, shaking his head as she wandered toward the vendor. Mathilde tugged at his hand, pointing at a stall filled with fresh fruit.

“Can we get strawberries?” she asked.

James exhaled. “Fine. But don’t eat them all before we get home.”

Mathilde beamed, running ahead slightly to pick the ripest ones.

For a few minutes, everything was calm. The quiet murmur of locals, the soft clang of bells from the church tower, the warm buzz of small-town life.

But then—

James felt it.

A shift in the air. The kind of instinct that had been drilled into him over decades of survival.

Someone was watching him.

He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping the street. Just people walking, vendors selling their goods, nothing out of place.

And yet, that feeling didn’t go away.

Then he saw it—a man standing near the corner of a bookstore. Dressed simply, blending in. But the way he was positioned, the slight turn of his head when James moved—it wasn’t casual.

James exhaled slowly, forcing himself to appear unaffected. Whoever this was, they weren’t making a move. Not yet.

But it was enough to put him on edge.

James forced himself to look away.

The last thing he wanted was to alert whoever was watching him that he had noticed. Instead, he kept his posture relaxed, adjusting the bag of strawberries in his hand, his expression unreadable.

“James?”

Madeleine’s voice was soft beside him. He turned his head slightly to find her studying him, a subtle crease between her brows. She knew him too well. She could sense when something had shifted.

“Everything alright?” she asked.

James gave her the faintest of nods. “Fine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not yet.

Still, he took Mathilde’s hand again, his grip just a fraction tighter than before.

⸻

They continued walking through the market, stopping at a small cheese vendor where Madeleine spoke in quiet French to the shopkeeper. James kept his movements natural, but his attention was divided.

The man near the bookstore hadn’t moved.

He wasn’t browsing the market like everyone else. Wasn’t carrying anything, wasn’t talking to anyone. Just standing. Waiting.

James didn’t react. Didn’t turn his head again. But he was already making a mental map of the town’s exits, the possible routes they could take if something went wrong.

Mathilde tugged at his sleeve. “James, look!”

She pointed toward a display of handmade toys—a wooden train set, carefully carved animal figures. Something light, something innocent.

James crouched beside her, keeping his voice level. “Which one do you like?”

She studied them for a moment before picking up a small carved fox. “This one.”

James ran a finger over the polished wood, forcing his muscles to unwind. “Good choice.”

He pulled out a few euros and handed them to the vendor, thanking him with a polite nod.

“Merci, monsieur,” Mathilde chirped, hugging the fox to her chest.

James smiled, but his mind was still calculating. If this was nothing, then he was being paranoid. If it wasn’t…

His gut told him it wasn’t.

When James finally allowed himself another glance toward the bookstore, the man was gone.

Just like that.

No trace of him. No sign of movement. As if he had never been there in the first place.

That, more than anything, made James uneasy.

Because it meant one of two things: Either the man had been a ghost of paranoia, or—he knew exactly when to disappear.

James exhaled slowly, slipping his sunglasses back on.

Madeleine looped her arm through his as they started toward their car. “You’re quiet.”

James hummed. “Enjoying the view.”

She didn’t believe him. Not entirely. But she didn’t press.

Mathilde walked ahead, still clutching the wooden fox. She was humming to herself, blissfully unaware that something in the air had changed.

The countryside stretched out before them, endless fields of golden wheat and patches of dense green forest passing in a blur as the car moved along the narrow road. The windows were rolled down just enough to let in the warm summer air, carrying the distant scent of lavender.

Mathilde sat in the backseat, her wooden fox nestled in her lap as she quietly hummed a song to herself. Madeleine had one elbow resting against the car door, her fingers lightly tracing patterns against the window as she stared outside.

James drove in silence.

His grip on the wheel was firm, his posture relaxed—but his mind was elsewhere.

The man from the bookstore hadn’t followed them. Not visibly, at least. But James knew better than to take comfort in that. Disappearing without a trace was a skill he knew well. It meant whoever was watching him was trained. Careful.

This wasn’t just some passerby.

The feeling in his gut didn’t fade, even as the road stretched on without another car in sight.

“You’re too quiet,” Madeleine said suddenly, her voice breaking through the low hum of the tires against the road.

James glanced at her briefly. “Am I?”

She turned her head to face him. “Yes. And when you’re quiet like this, it usually means something’s wrong.”

James exhaled through his nose, keeping his focus on the road. “It’s nothing.”

Madeleine didn’t respond right away. She let the silence stretch between them for a few seconds before saying, “You saw someone.”

James’ fingers flexed against the wheel.

He should have known better than to think she wouldn’t notice.

“I don’t know that yet,” he admitted.

Madeleine shifted slightly in her seat, her expression unreadable. “Did they follow us?”

“No.”

“Then maybe it was nothing.”

James’ jaw tightened slightly. “Maybe.”

But they both knew he didn’t believe that.

Madeleine studied him for a moment longer, then sighed, turning her gaze back toward the open fields. “You don’t always have to expect the worst, James.”

James didn’t answer.

Because the worst had followed him his entire life.

⸻

From the backseat, Mathilde spoke up, oblivious to the quiet tension between them.

“James?”

James glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”

Mathilde lifted the wooden fox. “Do you think real foxes are lonely?”

The question caught him off guard. He hadn’t expected something so… simple.

Madeleine turned slightly in her seat, giving Mathilde a curious look. “Why would you ask that, mon trésor?”

Mathilde shrugged, stroking the smooth wooden surface with her small fingers. “Because they always hide. And they live alone.”

James let out a slow breath, easing his grip on the wheel.

“Foxes aren’t lonely,” he said, his voice softer now. “They just know when to keep to themselves.”

Mathilde nodded thoughtfully, as if considering this. “But do they ever want to be found?”

James felt something tighten in his chest.

Madeleine was watching him again, her blue eyes unreadable.

James kept his eyes on the road. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But only by the right people.”

Mathilde smiled, satisfied with that answer, and went back to humming her song.

Madeleine, however, didn’t look away from him for a long time.

And James kept driving, the weight of unseen eyes still lingering at the back of his mind.

By the time they pulled into the long, winding driveway leading to their cottage, the warmth of the afternoon had started to soften into something gentler. The sun hung lower in the sky, stretching golden light over the fields, and the house stood just as they had left it—quiet, untouched. Safe.

James cut the engine, the steady hum of the car fading into the peaceful rustling of leaves in the breeze. Mathilde was already unbuckling her seatbelt, eager to return to whatever game she had been playing before they left.

Madeleine stretched slightly, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s good to be home.”

James didn’t respond right away. His fingers still rested on the wheel, his thoughts caught somewhere between the drive back and the man he had seen earlier. But there was no reason to let it linger. Not yet.

He glanced at Madeleine, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. It is.”

Inside, the house was cool, the air carrying the faint scent of lavender from the dried bundles Madeleine had hung near the windows. James set the bags down in the kitchen while Mathilde ran off to her room, her small footsteps echoing lightly through the wooden floors.

Madeleine poured them each a glass of wine, sliding one toward James as she leaned against the counter. “Are you going to tell me what’s on your mind?”

James took the glass but didn’t drink from it yet. “Would you believe me if I said nothing?”

Madeleine gave him a dry look. “No.”

James smirked faintly, shaking his head. “Then I suppose I won’t say it.”

Madeleine exhaled, but she didn’t push further. Instead, she took a slow sip of wine, watching him over the rim of her glass.

“You don’t have to fight ghosts anymore, James.”

James studied the deep red swirl of his drink before taking a measured sip. “That’s the thing about ghosts,” he murmured. “They don’t always stay buried.”

Madeleine reached out, lightly brushing her fingers over his wrist. “Then let me remind you what’s real.”

James finally looked up at her. She held his gaze, steady and unwavering, as if daring him to argue.

He didn’t.

Instead, he set his glass down, sliding an arm around her waist, pulling her in. She fit against him easily, as if she had always belonged there.

They stood like that for a long moment, the quiet hum of the house surrounding them, grounding them.

James exhaled. For now, that was enough.

Later, after dinner, James found himself sitting on the edge of Mathilde’s bed, listening as she told a story about something one of her stuffed animals had “done” that day. She was curled under the blankets, her fox tucked against her chest.

“…And then Bunny said he was the fastest in the whole world, but Foxy said, ‘No, I am the fastest,’ so they had a race,” Mathilde explained with dramatic gestures.

James nodded seriously. “And who won?”

Mathilde grinned. “Foxy, of course. Because foxes are smart.”

James smirked. “Good answer.”

Mathilde yawned, blinking sleepily. “James?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Yeah?”

She hesitated, then asked, “You’ll still be here tomorrow, right?”

The question was innocent, but something in James’ chest twisted all the same.

He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Mathilde smiled sleepily. “Bonne nuit, Papa.”

James stilled.

He had heard it before. Back in the car. But this time, Mathilde was awake when she said it. This time, she meant it.

James swallowed, then leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Bonne nuit, mon trésor.”

He sat there a moment longer, watching as her breathing evened out, her small frame relaxed in sleep.

It was such a small thing. Such a simple thing.

And yet, it felt like everything.

Chapter Text

The sun had barely started creeping over the horizon when James woke.

He wasn’t sure what had pulled him from sleep. There was no sound, no disturbance—just the faintest prickle at the base of his spine, the quiet whisper of a soldier’s instinct that never truly faded.

For a long moment, he lay still, listening.

Madeleine’s soft breathing beside him. The distant chirp of birds. The creak of wood as the house settled into the warmth of the coming day.

Nothing unusual.

And yet, the feeling didn’t go away.

James exhaled slowly, slipping out of bed without disturbing Madeleine. He pulled on a pair of sweatpants and stepped barefoot into the hallway, making his way downstairs. The early morning light cast long shadows across the wooden floors as he moved through the house.

In the kitchen, everything was as they had left it the night before. The wine glasses still sat on the counter, the scent of coffee lingering faintly from yesterday’s pot.

But then he noticed it.

The back door.

It was unlocked.

James frowned. He was certain he had locked it before going to bed. He always did. It was second nature, a habit burned into him after years of needing to secure every exit, every entry point.

He turned the handle slowly, pushing the door open just enough to let the cool morning air brush against his skin. The backyard stretched out before him, empty. The grass untouched, the trees unmoving in the stillness.

Nothing seemed out of place.

And yet, James still felt it.

He lingered there for a moment longer before locking the door again, securing it this time. Maybe he had forgotten. Maybe Mathilde had tried to go outside and hadn’t latched it properly.

Maybe.

But the feeling in his gut told him otherwise.

James locked the back door with deliberate care, testing the handle twice before stepping away. He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, didn’t want to give in to old habits.

But old habits had kept him alive.

He ran a hand over his face, exhaling, then turned back toward the kitchen. He would let it go. At least for now.

The house was still quiet, the early morning warmth just starting to settle in. James moved through the kitchen on instinct, preparing the first pot of coffee, letting the familiar ritual ground him.

By the time it had finished brewing, Madeleine’s footsteps echoed lightly down the stairs.

“You’re up early again,” she murmured, her voice still thick with sleep as she pulled one of his sweaters over herself.

James handed her a mug. “Force of habit.”

Madeleine took a slow sip, watching him over the rim of her cup. “You were tense last night.”

James leaned against the counter, tilting his head slightly. “Was I?”

She arched a brow. “Don’t do that.”

James smirked faintly, taking a sip of his own coffee. “Do what?”

Madeleine narrowed her eyes at him. “Deflect.”

James exhaled, glancing toward the back door for the briefest second before shaking his head. “It’s nothing.”

Madeleine studied him carefully, the way she always did when she knew he wasn’t telling her everything. But instead of pressing, she simply stepped closer, resting a hand lightly against his chest.

“If it ever stops being nothing,” she murmured, “you’ll tell me?”

James wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her against him. “You’ll be the first to know.”

Breakfast was quiet, the kind of peaceful domestic moment James had been learning to adjust to.

Mathilde sat at the table, swinging her legs slightly as she ate, her wooden fox still beside her.

“James,” she said between bites, “can I play outside today?”

James nodded. “Of course. Just don’t wander too far.”

Mathilde grinned. “I won’t.”

She picked up her fox, turning it over in her hands thoughtfully. Then, as if it was the most casual thing in the world, she added—

“I saw a man in the trees yesterday.”

James’ fork paused midair.

Madeleine stilled beside him. “What did you say, mon trésor?”

Mathilde blinked up at them, unbothered. “A man. By the trees near the road. He was standing there for a little bit, and then he walked away.”

James set his fork down carefully. “What did he look like?”

Mathilde shrugged. “I don’t know. Far away. But he was tall.”

Madeleine’s grip on her coffee cup tightened just slightly. “Why didn’t you say something before?”

Mathilde tilted her head. “Because I didn’t know I had to.”

James forced a smile, keeping his voice light. “Next time, if you see someone, let us know, alright?”

Mathilde nodded easily, already moving on, taking another bite of her breakfast.

But James and Madeleine didn’t look away from each other.

The unease James had pushed down earlier came roaring back.

Something wasn’t right.

And now, there was no ignoring it.

James waited until Mathilde had finished eating and skipped off to her room before making his next move. He didn’t want her picking up on the shift in his demeanor. Didn’t want to worry Madeleine more than she already was.

But he could feel her eyes on him as he stood from the table.

“You’re going to look, aren’t you?” Madeleine asked, her voice low.

James grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “I won’t be long.”

Madeleine exhaled through her nose, setting her cup down. “James—”

“I just need to check something.”

She studied him carefully, searching his face for something. Doubt? Fear? A reason to tell him to stay?

Finally, she just sighed. “Be careful.”

James pressed a hand lightly against the curve of her waist, just for a second, before heading toward the door.

The morning air had lost its warmth, or maybe James was just imagining it. The trees swayed lightly in the breeze, their branches casting long shadows over the narrow dirt path that led away from the house toward the road.

James moved slowly, deliberate but casual. If someone was watching, he didn’t want to make it obvious he was searching for them.

He walked the length of the backyard first, his sharp gaze scanning for anything out of place. Footprints. Cigarette ash. Anything.

Nothing.

James exhaled through his nose, stepping further toward the edge of the property where the grass met the trees.

Mathilde had said the man was standing near the road.

James crouched, running his fingers over the soft dirt, searching for disturbances in the earth.

Then he saw it.

A footprint.

Not deep, not obvious. But definitely not his. Not Madeleine’s. Not Mathilde’s.

And it wasn’t alone.

There were two more. Spaced apart just enough to suggest someone had been standing here for a while. Watching.

James straightened slowly, scanning the tree line.

The man had left. But not before making sure they knew he had been there.

James’ jaw tightened. This wasn’t random. This wasn’t coincidence.

Someone had found them.

And now, it was only a matter of time before they came back.

James stood there for a moment longer, the breeze rustling through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth. He could keep this to himself. Could pretend, just for a little longer, that this wasn’t happening.

But that wasn’t who he was.

And it certainly wasn’t who Madeleine deserved.

With a slow inhale, he turned back toward the house.

Madeleine was still in the kitchen when he stepped inside, clearing away the breakfast plates. She looked up the second he entered, her eyes locking onto his immediately.

She knew.

She had always been able to read him too well.

James exhaled, stepping closer. “There were footprints.”

Madeleine stilled, her hands tightening around the dish she was holding. “Where?”

“Near the tree line. Close enough to see the house.”

She placed the plate down carefully, turning fully toward him. No panic. No fear. Just quiet, measured control.

“And you’re sure?”

James gave her a look.

Madeleine nodded, pressing a hand to her temple. “You think it’s someone from your past.”

James leaned against the counter, folding his arms. “I don’t know yet. Could be nothing. Could be something.”

Madeleine let out a slow breath. “And if it is something?”

James held her gaze. “Then I deal with it.”

The way he said it—so simple, so final—sent a quiet shiver down Madeleine’s spine.

She reached out, pressing a hand lightly against his chest. “We should leave.”

James didn’t react right away. Just placed his own hand over hers, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath his fingers. “And go where?”

Madeleine hesitated.

She knew the answer. There was nowhere.

Nowhere safe enough, nowhere far enough that wouldn’t eventually lead them back to this moment.

She swallowed, her voice quieter now. “I don’t want Mathilde near any of this.”

James’ expression softened, just slightly. “Neither do I.”

For a long moment, they stood there, their hands still pressed together, the weight of unspoken fears resting between them.

Then Madeleine exhaled, nodding. “So what do we do?”

James ran a thumb over her knuckles. “We wait. We watch. And when the time comes…”

His voice lowered.

“…I handle it.”

Madeleine studied him, then finally nodded. “Alright.”

She trusted him.

And James would make sure that trust wasn’t misplaced.

--

James let the tension drain from his shoulders as the warm water cascaded down his back, steam curling around him. His hands were braced against the cool tile, his head bowed slightly, eyes shut.

But his mind wasn’t quiet.

It was running through possibilities, tracing every scenario in careful, calculated precision.

Who had been outside the house? How long had they been watching? What was their next move?

And more importantly—what was his?

James inhaled slowly, letting the water drown out the thoughts for just a moment. Just a moment.

Then he heard it—the soft click of the door opening.

He didn’t move, didn’t react, but when he finally opened his eyes, he saw her.

Madeleine stood there, wrapped in nothing but the dim light filtering through the bathroom, her gaze sweeping over him, quiet and knowing.

“You’re still thinking,” she murmured.

James smirked, turning his head slightly as she stepped closer. “You say that like it’s a crime.”

Madeleine let the towel fall from her body, stepping into the shower with him. The warm water ran over her skin as she moved closer, pressing a hand against his chest.

“You do it too much,” she whispered.

James ran his fingers along the curve of her waist, pulling her against him. “Old habits.”

Madeleine tilted her chin up, brushing her lips over his jawline. “Then let’s break them.”

James exhaled slowly as her fingers traced down his stomach, her body pressing flush against his.

For once, he let himself stop thinking.

James let himself sink into the warmth of her body, the press of her curves against his, the way her fingertips moved with quiet, deliberate precision over his skin.

Madeleine’s lips ghosted over his jaw before trailing down his neck, her breath warm, teasing. She knew exactly what she was doing—exactly how to unravel him.

James exhaled, his grip tightening at her waist. “You always this demanding in the evening?”

Madeleine smirked against his skin. “Only when you need it.”

She pressed closer, water sliding between them as she ran her hands down his chest, nails scraping lightly along the hard planes of muscle. James felt the slow burn of arousal coil low in his stomach, the tension from earlier shifting into something entirely different.

Something he wanted to give into.

Madeleine’s hands moved lower, her fingertips barely brushing over him, teasing, testing. James let out a slow breath, tilting his head back against the tile. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

Madeleine’s lips curved. “And what will you do about it?”

James answered by spinning them both, pinning her against the cool tile with his body, his hands gripping her thighs as he lifted her effortlessly.

Madeleine let out a soft gasp, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

James leaned in, his lips a breath away from hers. “You always ask questions you already know the answer to.”

Before she could respond, he kissed her—deep, slow, possessive. The kind of kiss that stole the air from her lungs, left no room for anything else.

Madeleine moaned into his mouth, her fingers sliding into his damp hair as he rocked against her, the heat between them unbearable.

James moved lower, his lips trailing down her throat, over the swell of her breast, his tongue flicking over a hardened peak before taking it into his mouth. Madeleine’s head hit the tile, a quiet curse slipping from her lips as her body arched into him.

He smirked against her skin. “You’re impatient.”

Madeleine’s nails dug into his shoulders. “And you’re cruel.”

James chuckled, but it was low, dark. He wasn’t done teasing her.

His mouth moved lower, water dripping down his face as he kissed along her stomach, his hands parting her thighs. Madeleine shivered as he pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to the inside of her thigh, his fingers dragging over the sensitive skin before slipping between her folds.

She was already wet—not just from the water.

James hummed in approval before sliding his tongue along her, slow, lazy, making her gasp. He didn’t rush, didn’t give her what she wanted immediately. Instead, he took his time, learning every twitch, every sound, every arch of her hips as she chased his touch.

Madeleine’s breathing turned ragged, her fingers tightening in his hair. “James—”

He slid a finger inside her, curling it just right, his tongue working in slow, devastating circles.

Madeleine gasped, her thighs trembling as she clenched around him. “Mon Dieu…”

James smirked against her. “That’s not my name.”

Madeleine let out a soft, desperate sound, and James finally—finally—gave her what she wanted. His pace quickened, his mouth and fingers working in tandem, sending her spiraling toward the edge.

It didn’t take long before Madeleine was coming apart against him, her back arching off the tile, her moan barely contained as the pleasure crashed over her.

James held her through it, his hands gripping her thighs firmly, keeping her steady as she trembled.

When she finally came down, chest heaving, she looked at him with hazy, half-lidded eyes.

James smirked. “You good?”

Madeleine huffed out a breath, running a hand through her wet hair. “You’re insufferable.”

James pressed a slow, teasing kiss to her inner thigh. “That’s not what you were saying a minute ago.”

Madeleine didn’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. Instead, she pushed at his shoulders, switching their positions so he was the one against the tile.

James barely had time to smirk before Madeleine’s lips crashed against his, her hands trailing lower—her turn to make him lose control.

And he let her.

Chapter Text

The morning was warm, the late summer air thick with the scent of wildflowers drifting in through the open windows. A breeze rustled through the curtains, carrying the distant hum of cicadas, a sound that had become almost comforting over the past few months.

James stood outside near the small wooden fence that separated the property from the fields beyond, his hands resting on the gate. From here, he could see everything—the rolling countryside, the narrow road leading into town, and, more importantly, who came and went.

Nothing.

No strange cars. No figures in the trees.

It should have reassured him. It didn’t.

Inside, laughter floated from the kitchen, light and unburdened. Mathilde’s giggle was unmistakable, followed by the soft lilt of Madeleine’s voice as she tried to teach her how to roll dough properly.

James allowed himself a small exhale before pushing away from the fence and heading inside.

The kitchen was warm, filled with the smell of fresh bread baking in the oven. Mathilde stood on a small wooden stool, her hands covered in flour, a determined expression on her face as she pressed her tiny fingers into the dough.

Madeleine, standing beside her, watched with a smile. “Not too hard, mon trésor.”

Mathilde huffed. “But you said we have to make it flat.”

James leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching them. “She’s got a point.”

Madeleine turned, giving him an exasperated look. “Don’t encourage her.”

Mathilde beamed up at him. “See, James agrees!”

James smirked. “Not my fault she listens better than I do.”

Madeleine rolled her eyes, shaking her head with amusement. “She’s five, James.”

Mathilde grinned. “Almost six!”

James reached out, ruffling her blonde hair. “Then you should be the best bread-maker in France by now.”

Mathilde puffed out her chest proudly. “I am.”

Madeleine sighed, wiping flour off Mathilde’s cheek before glancing at James. For a moment, it was easy to believe nothing was wrong. That they were just a normal family, spending a quiet morning together, untouched by the past.

Then the knock came.

Three, slow, deliberate.

The kitchen went silent.

James’ posture shifted instantly—not obvious, but enough. His muscles coiled beneath his skin, his expression hardening in a way that Mathilde wouldn’t notice but Madeleine would.

Madeleine set her towel down carefully, her gaze flickering to him.

James glanced at Mathilde. “Stay here.”

She blinked up at him, oblivious to the tension suddenly gripping the air. “But—”

“Mathilde.” Madeleine’s voice was gentle but firm.

Mathilde hesitated, then nodded, stepping down from the stool.

James moved toward the door, his movements calm, measured. But inside, something was sharpening. This house was too far from the main road for visitors.

He reached for the handle, pausing just for a second, before pulling the door open.

No one.

Just the quiet rustling of trees, the soft whisper of wind through the fields.

And then he saw it.

A single white envelope, resting neatly on the doorstep.

No address. No markings.

Just his name, handwritten across the front.

JAMES.

James stared at it, his grip tightening at his sides. The past had found him.

And now, it had knocked on his door.

James didn’t hesitate. He crouched, picked up the envelope, and tore it open in one fluid motion. The paper inside was thick, expensive—whoever had sent it wasn’t some amateur.

His eyes flicked over the words.

Only one sentence.

“Did you really think you could hide forever?”

There was no signature. No name.

Just a message—a warning.

James’ jaw tightened. The paper crumpled slightly under his fingers, but his grip remained steady. He had expected something like this. He had been waiting for it.

Madeleine’s voice broke the silence behind him.

“What does it say?”

James didn’t answer immediately. He turned slightly, his eyes meeting hers. She was standing in the doorway now, arms wrapped around herself. Not out of fear—but because she knew.

She had always known.

James exhaled through his nose, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. He handed her the letter without a word.

Madeleine took it, her brows furrowing as she read. Then, slowly, she looked up at him.

“They’ve found us.”

James didn’t blink. “They never lost me.”

Madeleine swallowed, glancing toward the kitchen where Mathilde was still waiting, humming to herself, oblivious.

James followed her gaze. His jaw clenched. This wasn’t just about him anymore.

He had spent his entire life running toward danger.

Now, for the first time, he had something to protect.

And he’d be damned if he let anyone take it from him.

James folded the letter carefully, slipping it into his pocket as if it were nothing more than a grocery list. When he looked at Madeleine again, her expression was unreadable—but he knew what she was thinking.

Who? When? How close are they?

He gave the slightest shake of his head, an unspoken message. Not here. Not now.

Madeleine inhaled slowly, then nodded. She understood. She always did.

Mathilde’s voice carried from the kitchen. “Can I go outside now?”

James turned his head, his mind shifting gears instantly. Mathilde was still waiting, still excited to run barefoot through the grass, unaware of the storm creeping toward them.

And she needed to stay that way.

James forced an easy smirk, stepping back into the kitchen. “Didn’t you say you were the best baker in France? I think that means you have to stay and help your mother finish the bread.”

Mathilde pouted. “But I want to play.”

Madeleine smiled softly, kneeling beside her. “You can, mon trésor. Just wait a little, alright?”

Mathilde huffed dramatically but nodded, hopping back onto her stool, completely unaware of the silent conversation passing between her parents.

James leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his expression neutral.

But his mind was already working. Calculating.

Whoever sent that letter had been close enough to leave it at their doorstep. Close enough to watch them. Maybe even close enough to be watching now.

He needed information. He needed control.

And most importantly—he needed to stay one step ahead.

James pushed away from the counter, stretching his arms like it was just another lazy morning. “I think I’ll go into town. See if the bakery has anything we’re missing.”

Madeleine’s gaze flickered to him, understanding immediately. He wasn’t going to the bakery.

He was going to start hunting.

She wiped her hands on a towel and walked past him, pressing a subtle hand to his back as she did. A silent warning.

Be careful.

James barely nodded.

He grabbed his keys and stepped outside.

The air felt different as James stepped toward the car. Maybe it was the knowledge that someone had been here. Maybe it was the fact that someone might still be watching.

Either way, he didn’t let it show.

His movements were casual, his expression bored, as if he were nothing more than a man running errands on a quiet afternoon.

But his pulse was steady, controlled.

His mind was already sharpening into something lethal. Whoever had left that letter thought they were in control. They were wrong.

James slid into the car, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.

Let’s see who’s watching who.

The village was as peaceful as ever.

People moved through the cobblestone streets without urgency, shopkeepers greeted familiar faces, and the scent of fresh pastries drifted from the bakery.

But James wasn’t looking at them.

He parked the car along the street, stepping out with the ease of a man with nowhere particular to be. Just another quiet afternoon. Just another errand.

Except his eyes were already scanning.

The man near the bookstore last time—was he here again?

Any unfamiliar cars parked along the road?

Anyone looking at him for too long?

James moved through the market, buying nothing, noticing everything.

Then—a flicker of movement.

A man. Not the same one from before, but something about him was off. He was leaning casually against a lamppost near a café, sunglasses on, cigarette in hand.

Nothing obvious. But James had spent his life reading people, and this one—he wasn’t relaxed.

James stopped at a fruit stand, picking up an apple, turning it over in his hand. His gaze didn’t lift.

But his body was already preparing.

If this was one of them—if this was a test—he was ready.

~

Back at the house, Madeleine stood by the window, absently wiping her hands on a kitchen towel.

She hadn’t moved much since James left.

Mathilde was outside now, playing just a few feet from the porch, her laughter light and unbothered.

Madeleine envied that.

She forced herself to step away from the window, rolling her shoulders, trying to shake the tension that had settled beneath her skin.

She wasn’t helpless. She wasn’t fragile.

But she also wasn’t naïve.

James hadn’t needed to say it out loud, but she had felt it in his posture, in the way his touch lingered against her back before he left.

Someone was out there. Watching. Waiting.

Madeleine exhaled, pressing a hand against her stomach to steady herself.

Then, slowly, she turned back toward the window.

Mathilde was still playing. Still safe. For now.

Madeleine stayed by the window, watching Mathilde play.

The late afternoon light stretched across the yard, warm and golden. It should have felt comforting. It didn’t.

Something about the silence felt too thick, too unnatural.

She had lived with James long enough to trust her instincts.

Madeleine inhaled slowly, scanning the tree line, the road beyond the fence.

Nothing.

But that didn’t mean no one was there.

Then—a noise.

Soft. Too soft. Like the rustling of fabric.

Her eyes flicked toward the porch. The wooden chair near the door had moved.

She was sure of it.

It had been pushed slightly to the side, barely noticeable—unless you had memorized every detail of this house the way she had.

Madeleine’s pulse picked up.

A mistake. Whoever had been here had been careful. But not careful enough.

Slowly, she turned, stepping toward the door.

The handle was locked. But she already knew locks meant nothing to the kind of people they were dealing with.

She exhaled, forcing herself to stay calm. Then she reached for her phone.

She didn’t call James. Not yet.

Instead, she simply typed a message. Something isn’t right.

~

James had just picked up an apple from the stand when his phone vibrated in his pocket.

He didn’t check it immediately. A lifetime of training told him not to make sudden movements.

Instead, he turned the apple over in his hand, pretending to inspect it as his thumb brushed over the screen, unlocking the message.

Madeleine: Something isn’t right.

James exhaled slowly through his nose.

His grip on the apple tightened just slightly before he set it back down on the wooden crate. His posture remained loose, relaxed—but his mind sharpened instantly.

He had two options.

1.Head home immediately. Drop everything, get back to Madeleine and Mathilde, make sure they were safe.

2.Stay. Keep watching the man at the café, see if this was connected. If he left now, he might lose his only lead.

James ran his tongue over his teeth, glancing toward the man leaning against the lamppost. He wasn’t looking at James anymore.

Interesting.

James turned away, finally typing a response.

James: Tell me exactly what happened.

Three dots appeared. Then—

Madeleine: A chair on the porch moved. I didn’t touch it.

James narrowed his eyes. A mistake. Someone had been there, and they hadn’t covered their tracks well enough.

Whoever it was, they were getting closer. Too close.

His decision was made.

He turned away from the market, walking back toward the car.

The hunt could wait. Right now, he needed to go home.

James drove back with steady hands on the wheel, but his mind was anything but still.

The road stretched long and quiet ahead, the late afternoon sun casting golden streaks through the trees lining the countryside. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.

His grip tightened slightly.

The message from Madeleine still lingered in the back of his mind. Someone had been there. Close enough to move something. Close enough to watch.

But they hadn’t done anything else. Not yet.

James exhaled through his nose, keeping his eyes sharp as he drove. No unusual cars. No sudden movements in the trees. If someone had wanted to stop him from getting home, they’d missed their chance.

For now.

The house came into view up the long driveway, its white walls bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun.

He pulled in, cutting the engine, listening. Nothing unusual.

Madeleine was standing by the kitchen window. Watching. Waiting.

James got out of the car, shutting the door behind him.

Inside, the house smelled like warm bread and rosemary, but the tension in the air made it feel colder than it should have.

Madeleine stood near the table, arms crossed. She had been waiting for him.

Mathilde was sitting on the floor, absentmindedly playing with her wooden fox.

She looked up when James entered. “Did you get more strawberries?”

James exhaled, forcing a small smirk. “I forgot.”

Mathilde pouted dramatically. “You always forget.”

Madeleine’s lips twitched slightly, but the humor didn’t reach her eyes.

James crouched beside Mathilde, brushing a hand lightly over her hair. “Next time, I’ll bring extra.”

Mathilde sighed, clearly unimpressed, but she went back to her game.

James straightened, meeting Madeleine’s gaze. Now they could talk.

She glanced toward the door. “It’s locked.”

James nodded once. “Good.”

Madeleine hesitated, lowering her voice. “Did you see anything in town?”

James exhaled. “Not yet.”

Her fingers curled against her arms. “Then what now?”

James glanced at Mathilde, then back at Madeleine.

“We wait.”

Chapter Text

The night was still.

Too still.

James had always been a light sleeper, but something had pulled him from unconsciousness before he even realized why. A noise. Subtle. Almost nothing.

But enough.

His hand moved instinctively beneath the pillow, fingers curling around the cold steel of the gun he kept there. His breathing was steady, controlled. Listening.

Madeleine was beside him, her breathing soft, undisturbed.

He slid out of bed without a sound.

The hallway was dark, moonlight casting pale streaks through the house. James moved carefully, his bare feet silent against the wooden floor. He didn’t turn on any lights.

Whoever was here—if they were still here—they already had the advantage.

His eyes flicked toward the front door. Still locked. The windows. Still closed.

But something was wrong.

Then he saw it.

The kitchen chair.

It had been pulled away from the table—just slightly.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

But James noticed.

And then he saw what had been left for him.

A single bullet.

Resting perfectly in the center of the table.

James exhaled slowly. No immediate threat. No bodies on the floor. No blood.

Just a message.

Someone had been inside. Close enough to touch them.

And then they had left—without making a sound.

James’ fingers curled tighter around the grip of his gun.

This wasn’t just a game anymore.

James stood there for a long moment, the weight of the bullet in his palm.

It wasn’t just a message. It was a promise.

Someone had been inside. Close enough to reach him, close enough to do worse—but they hadn’t. That meant one of two things.

They were watching. Or they were waiting.

Neither option sat well with him.

His jaw tightened as he slipped the bullet into his pocket. Then, moving carefully, he pulled the kitchen chair back into place, erasing any sign that something had changed. Madeleine couldn’t know. Not yet.

Not until he had more than a ghost to fight.

James scanned the house once more, double-checking every lock, every window. Nothing had been forced. Whoever had done this had either picked the locks or… had a key.

His stomach turned at the thought.

By the time he returned to the bedroom, the gun was still warm in his grip. He slid it back under his pillow and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing a hand over his face.

Madeleine stirred slightly, shifting under the sheets. “Mmm… what time is it?”

James glanced at the clock. “Early. Go back to sleep.”

She made a soft sound of acknowledgment, already fading again.

James lay back beside her, staring at the ceiling.

He didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

The sun was already rising when James finally got out of bed.

He had spent the rest of the night lying awake, listening to every creak of the house, every shift in the wind. Nothing else had happened. But the bullet in his pocket felt heavier than it should have, a silent reminder that whoever was out there wasn’t done yet.

Still, he forced himself to move like it was any other morning.

Downstairs, the smell of coffee filled the kitchen. Madeleine was already at the table, dressed in one of his shirts, her hair loosely pulled over one shoulder as she flipped through a book.

James leaned against the counter, watching her for a second before speaking. “You always wake up this early?”

Madeleine glanced up, smiling softly. “You always stay up that late?”

James smirked faintly, pouring himself a cup. “Occupational hazard.”

Madeleine hummed, setting her book aside. “Did you sleep at all?”

“Enough.”

She gave him a look—one that said she didn’t believe him. But she didn’t push.

Instead, she stood, crossing the room and slipping her arms around his waist. “You don’t have to be on guard every second, James.”

James exhaled, resting a hand lightly against her back. “You say that like it’s a choice.”

Madeleine pulled back slightly, searching his face. Whatever she saw there made her sigh softly. She knew him too well.

“Come outside with us today,” she said. “Just for a little while.”

James raised an eyebrow. “Where?”

“Nowhere far,” Madeleine assured him. “Mathilde wants to go near the river. We won’t be long.”

James hesitated. His first instinct was no. He needed to track down who had been in the house. Needed to keep them inside, where it was safer.

But that’s exactly what they wanted, wasn’t it?

To make him cage himself in.

To make him react.

James took a slow sip of coffee. Then, finally, he nodded. “Alright.”

Madeleine smiled, pressing a kiss to his jaw before pulling away. “Good.”

~

The river was quiet, the water clear and slow-moving as it reflected the warm sunlight filtering through the trees.

Mathilde splashed in the shallow part, laughing as the cool water lapped at her legs. Madeleine sat on a rock nearby, her feet dipped in the water, watching with a soft, relaxed expression.

And for once—James let himself enjoy it.

He stood waist-deep in the river, rolling his shoulders slightly as the water moved around him. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself something this simple. A moment of quiet. A moment where nothing needed to be done.

Mathilde grinned up at him, splashing water toward his chest.

James arched a brow. “Really?”

Mathilde giggled, splashing again. “You’re too serious.”

James smirked, then moved fast—sending a small wave of water toward her.

Mathilde shrieked in delight, running further into the shallows. “Maman! James is cheating!”

Madeleine laughed, shaking her head. “You started it, mon trésor.”

Mathilde pouted dramatically, but her smile never faded.

James watched them, a warmth settling in his chest. This—this was everything.

For the first time in days, the weight of his past, of the threats circling them, faded into the background.

Madeleine tilted her head, watching him carefully. “You’re smiling.”

James blinked, realizing too late that she was right.

He exhaled, shaking his head. “Don’t get used to it.”

Madeleine smirked, leaning closer. “Too late.”

James reached for her waist, pulling her into the water with him before she could react.

Madeleine gasped, hands pressing against his chest. “James!”

James chuckled. “Payback.”

She gave him a look, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Only something softer.

She reached up, brushing a wet strand of hair from his forehead. “You should do this more often.”

James didn’t answer.

James didn’t answer. Not because he disagreed—but because some part of him, the part that had always lived in the shadows, knew he couldn’t.

Not forever.

But today? Today, he could try.

Madeleine didn’t press him for a response. Instead, she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as the cool water rippled around them.

“Mathilde’s watching,” James murmured, his lips dangerously close to hers.

Madeleine smirked. “She’s too busy conquering the river.”

James glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, Mathilde had wandered a little farther downstream, balancing on a small rock like she was the queen of her own tiny kingdom.

Madeleine took advantage of the distraction, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

James exhaled, running a hand down her back. “I think you’re cheating now.”

Madeleine hummed against his skin. “You’ll survive.”

James smirked, but he let himself sink into her touch, just for a little longer.

--

By the time they made it back to the riverbank, the sun was high in the sky, draping everything in golden warmth.

James stretched out on the grass, his hands folded behind his head, soaking in the heat. His skin was already starting to dry, the scent of the river lingering faintly on his skin.

Madeleine sat beside him, her knees pulled up, running her fingers absently through Mathilde’s damp curls as the little girl rested against her.

The world felt far away.

James closed his eyes, allowing himself the rare pleasure of simply existing in the moment.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t planning, wasn’t strategizing.

No threats. No guns. No past chasing him.

Just sunlight. Just warmth. Just them.

And then—

His phone rang.

James’ muscles tensed before his eyes even opened.

The peaceful haze vanished in an instant, replaced with something sharp, something cold.

Madeleine felt it too. He could sense it in the way her hand stilled against Mathilde’s hair.

James sat up slowly, reaching for the phone.

Unknown Number.

He answered without hesitation.

He didn’t speak.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then a voice. Calm. Controlled. Familiar.

“You can’t protect them.”

The line went dead.

James lowered the phone, his grip tightening around it.

Madeleine was watching him now, blue eyes sharp. “James?”

He forced his expression into something neutral, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

“Wrong number,” he said.

But even as he spoke the words, he knew better.

The warmth of the sun lingered on their skin as they walked back toward the car, Mathilde skipping ahead, humming to herself. James kept his pace even, his posture relaxed. Nothing in his movements suggested anything was wrong. But in his mind, the words from the phone call played over and over.

“You can’t protect them.”

It hadn’t been a threat. It had been a fact.

Or at least, that’s what they wanted him to believe. James clenched his jaw, reaching into his pocket and gripping the phone tighter. Madeleine walked beside him, quiet, but every now and then, he could feel her eyes flick toward him.

She knew something had changed. She always knew. But she didn’t say anything. Not yet.

Instead, she reached out, lightly running her fingers over his wrist as they approached the car. A small, grounding touch. James exhaled, rolling his shoulders slightly before opening the driver’s side door. Mathilde climbed into the backseat, still talking about how she was “Queen of the River” and that they had to address her properly from now on.

James smirked faintly, starting the engine. “Yes, Votre Majesté.”

Mathilde giggled. “See? James understands.”

Madeleine shook her head, amused. “He’s just humoring you, mon trésor.”

Mathilde crossed her arms. “Well, I am a queen.”

James adjusted the mirror, glancing at her reflection. “Then that means you need royal guard protection.”

Mathilde grinned. “Like you?”

James arched a brow. “Who else would you trust?”

Mathilde considered this, then nodded as if making an important royal decision. “Okay. But you have to call me ‘Your Majesty’ at least once a day.”

James smirked. “We’ll negotiate.”

Mathilde huffed but didn’t argue.

Madeleine glanced at James again, her expression softer now. He was good at this. Hiding. Pretending.

The drive home was uneventful.

The countryside stretched wide around them, golden fields rolling toward the horizon. The windows were down, letting in the warm air, and for a while, it almost felt normal. Almost. But James’ eyes flicked to the mirror more than once. And each time, he checked for the same thing. A car that shouldn’t be there. A shadow that didn’t belong. Nothing. But that didn’t mean no one was watching. It just meant they were careful. James’ grip tightened slightly on the wheel. Let them watch. Because when they made their move—he’d be ready.

Chapter Text

The house looked the same as they had left it.

The warm glow of the setting sun stretched across the yard, the countryside bathed in golden light. Quiet. Peaceful.

James pulled the car into the driveway, cutting the engine. He didn't move right away.

His fingers tapped idly against the steering wheel as he glanced toward the house. It looked untouched. No sign that anything had changed while they were gone.

But James knew better than to trust appearances.

Mathilde, however, had no hesitation.

She unbuckled herself and pushed the door open, hopping down onto the gravel. "Come on! I have to build my royal castle before dinner!"

Madeleine laughed softly, shaking her head as she stepped out. "D'accord, ma reine."

Mathilde grinned, running toward the house.

James finally let go of the wheel and followed, his posture loose, controlled. Casual. But his eyes scanned everything. The door. The windows. The yard.

Nothing.

Madeleine walked beside him, arms crossed. She was watching him carefully. "You've been quiet."

James smirked faintly. "I've been peaceful."

Madeleine gave him a look. "Liar."

James sighed, stepping onto the porch. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

Madeleine tilted her head. "It is when you're lying to me."

James met her gaze. She wasn't going to let this go.

And maybe—maybe she shouldn't.

James leaned against the porch railing, watching as Mathilde disappeared into the house, her laughter echoing through the hall.

Madeleine, however, didn't move. She was waiting.

James exhaled slowly. "Someone was in the house last night."

Madeleine's expression didn't change, but he saw the way her fingers curled slightly against her arms. "What?"

James reached into his pocket, pulling out the bullet. He held it up between his fingers, letting the dim light catch the metal before placing it on the wooden railing.

Madeleine's gaze locked onto it.

"It was on the table," James said evenly. "Nothing else was touched. No forced entry. Just that."

Madeleine picked up the bullet, turning it between her fingers. When she spoke, her voice was quiet. Controlled. Dangerous.

"They were inside."

James nodded once.

Madeleine inhaled sharply, her jaw tightening. "And you didn't wake me?"

James ran a hand through his hair. "What would that have changed?"

Madeleine gave him a sharp look. "I would have known."

James met her gaze. "You know now."

Silence.

Madeleine exhaled, shaking her head. "James, this isn't just a game anymore."

"It was never a game."

Her lips pressed together. She understood. She had always understood. But that didn't mean she accepted it.

Then she noticed something else. "That's not all, is it?"

James hesitated for half a second. Too long.

Madeleine's eyes narrowed. "What else?"

James exhaled, pulling his phone from his pocket. He unlocked it and handed it to her. The last call still sat in the log.

Madeleine's brows furrowed as she read it.

Unknown Number.

Her thumb hovered over the screen. "What did they say?"

James' jaw tightened slightly before he answered.

"You can't protect them."

Madeleine's grip on the phone tightened.

She looked at him then, something unreadable in her expression. Anger? Fear? No. Something worse.

Understanding.

Because she had always known this day would come.

James watched her, waiting for her to say something.

Finally, Madeleine set the phone down beside the bullet.

And then she whispered, "What do we do now?"

James exhaled, his decision already made.

"We don't wait anymore."

James didn't waste time.

He stepped off the porch, his movements precise, calculated—a shift from father and lover to something far deadlier.

Madeleine followed. "Where are you going?"

James' voice was calm. Too calm. "To find whoever left me a message."

Madeleine reached for his arm, stopping him. "James—"

He turned slightly, meeting her gaze.

"I won't let them wait for us to react." His voice was low, certain. "I'm done playing defense."

Madeleine searched his face, then exhaled sharply. She nodded once. She wouldn't stop him. She never had.

But she also wouldn't just sit back and hope. "Be careful."

James smirked faintly, but there was no humor behind it. "Always."

And then he was gone.

James didn't take the car.

If someone was watching, they'd see it leave. He needed them to think he was still home.

Instead, he moved on foot, taking the longer route through the trees, keeping low, moving like the predator he had once been.

Whoever had gotten close enough to enter the house had left no tracks. No sign of forced entry. Which meant two things—

were good. Trained. Careful.

were nearby.

Because a message like that—a bullet on the table, a call just hours later—

It wasn't meant to intimidate.

It was meant to lure him out.

And now? James was taking the bait. But on his terms.

His movements were silent as he approached the edge of the property, eyes scanning the tree line, the narrow road beyond.

Then—a flicker of movement.

A car. Parked just out of sight from the house.

Dark windows. Engine off. No driver in sight.

Waiting. Watching.

James' grip on his weapon tightened.

Whoever they were, they had just made a mistake.

They had come too close.

Now?

They wouldn't leave at all.

James had spent his entire life reacting. Being hunted. Being chased.

Not anymore.

The car was sitting at the edge of the trees, half-concealed, its dark windows reflecting the dying sunlight. Silent. Watching.

James moved carefully, keeping low, his steps soundless as he approached. His gun was already in his grip, held firm but steady. He didn't rush. Predators didn't rush.

He wanted to see them first. Look them in the eye.

Stopping just behind the cover of a thick tree, James observed.

No movement. No one stepping out. No shifting figures inside.

But they were in there. He could feel it.

Waiting. Watching.

James exhaled slowly, then made his move.

He stepped into the open, raising his gun—and fired.

Not at them. Not yet.

At the windshield.

The sound split the air, shattering the stillness. Glass cracked, spider-webbing from the impact.

A warning. No more games. No more hiding.

The reaction was immediate.

The driver's door burst open. A man stumbled out, reaching for a weapon—too late.

James was already there.

One second. That's all it took. One second to close the distance, slam the gun against the man's wrist, sending his weapon clattering to the ground.

The man grunted in pain, but James didn't stop. Didn't give him time to think.

A brutal shove sent the man slamming against the hood of the car. Pinned. Defenseless.

James pressed the barrel of his gun to the back of his skull. Breathing steady. Cold. Unforgiving.

"Who sent you?"

The man didn't answer.

James pressed harder. "Talk."

Silence.

Then—a smirk.

"You're already too late."

James' eyes darkened. Too late for what?

His grip tightened—but before he could push for more, he heard it.

A phone. Ringing.

Not his. The man's.

James glanced down—and saw the caller ID.

Unknown Number.

His stomach turned to ice. James didn't hesitate. He grabbed the phone—and answered.

James pressed the gun harder against the man's skull, his other hand tightening around the phone as he raised it to his ear. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.

For a moment, there was only silence. Then—*a voice from the past.*

"Bonsoir, James."*

James' entire body went still. The grip on his weapon never wavered, but the air around him felt heavier. *Colder.*

It wasn't possible. It shouldn't have been possible.

And yet—

"Did you really think you could keep my daughter away from me?"*

James' pulse roared in his ears. His hand clenched around the phone. *Mr. White.*

Dead men didn't make phone calls. *But Mr. White had never played by the rules.*

James' eyes flicked toward the house—toward *Madeleine. Mathilde.* He didn't hear them. Didn't see them.

Where were they?*

He moved, fast and without hesitation, releasing the man he had pinned and shoving him aside like he was nothing. *The mission had changed.*

"Where are they?" James demanded, his voice low, lethal.

Mr. White chuckled, a slow, deliberate sound. *Pleased.* "They're right here, James. You left them all alone. That wasn't very smart."

James broke into a sprint, tearing through the trees, closing the distance to the house with *blinding speed.*

"If you touch them," James growled, "I'll put you back in the ground myself."

Another laugh. *Like this was all a game.* "I never thought you'd be the domestic type. But here you are, playing house. Did you really think that would last?"

James didn't answer. *He was already moving.* Already reaching for the front door.

But when he stepped inside—*he froze.*

The house was quiet. *Too quiet.*

A single candle flickered on the kitchen table. The scent of Madeleine's perfume still lingered in the air, but—*they were gone.*

No sign of a struggle. No overturned chairs. Just emptiness.*

The phone crackled in his ear. *Mr. White was still there.* Listening. Waiting.

"Come find them, James."

The line went dead.

James stood in the silent house, heart pounding, breath slow and controlled. *Every part of him locked into place.*

James didn't stop moving. *Didn't hesitate.* The second the line went dead, he was already scanning the house—*looking for anything.* A sign. A message. A mistake. *Anything.*

The kitchen was still warm from when they had left it. The chairs were neatly tucked under the table. Mathilde's wooden fox still sat by the window, exactly where she had left it.

No struggle. No force.*

Which meant—*they walked out willingly.*

Or at least, *Madeleine had.*

James moved, fast and sharp, scanning every surface, his fingers skimming over the countertop, the walls, the edges of the doorframe. *There had to be something.*

Then he saw it.

A *small smudge* of something dark against the wooden door.

James crouched, running his thumb over it. *Wet.* Fresh.

Oil.* Motor grease. *A car.*

They hadn't been taken on foot.*

James moved faster, shoving open the front door, his eyes locking onto the gravel driveway. *Tire marks.* A vehicle had pulled in, sat there for a while, then left in a hurry.

Too heavy to be a sedan. Too wide. An SUV, maybe a van.*

His mind *raced.* Calculating. Processing. *Where would White take them?*

White wasn't reckless. *He was methodical.* He wouldn't drag Madeleine into a crowded area—not yet. And he sure as hell wouldn't take her to a place James could track easily. *Which meant…*

James turned his head toward the *distant tree line.* The dirt road beyond the property stretched into the countryside—*remote. Quiet. No cameras.*

He wouldn't take main roads. He'd take them where no one would notice.*

James was already moving before he finished the thought. *Running.*

He grabbed his keys from the table, barely stopping to breathe as he shoved the door shut behind him. *He couldn't be too late.* Not this time.

The car roared to life as he slammed his foot against the gas, tires kicking up gravel as he sped toward the backroads. *Following the tracks. Following the only trail he had.*

They wouldn't get far.*

The road blurred past him, dust kicking up in thick clouds as James pushed the car to its limits. *Faster. Faster.* The tire tracks were still fresh on the dirt path, leading deep into the countryside, winding through trees and overgrown fields.

They weren't far.* They couldn't be.

His hands clenched around the wheel, his pulse a steady drum in his ears. *Every second counted.* Every wasted breath was a second closer to losing them.

When—

James barely had time to react before the *massive shape of a Ford Raptor burst out of the tree line.*

No hesitation. No warning.* It came at full speed, *a battering ram on wheels, aimed directly at him.*

James yanked the wheel hard, tires screeching as he tried to swerve—

Too late.*

Metal met metal.*

The impact was *violent.* *Unforgiving.* The force slammed into the side of James' car, shoving him off the dirt road entirely.

The world spun.* Trees, sky, road—all of it twisted together as the car *flipped.*

James barely had time to brace as his head snapped forward, the seatbelt cutting into his chest, glass shattering all around him.

Then—black.*

Nothing.*

The dust was still settling when the truck's engine cut off. For a moment, there was only silence—just the soft, distant hum of cicadas, the rustling of leaves.

Then—*boots against gravel.*

A figure approached the wreckage, moving slowly, deliberately. *Not in a hurry.*

They knew James wasn't going anywhere.*

The driver crouched beside the crumpled metal, peering through the shattered window. *Blood.* Not too much, but enough to be sure. James was slumped forward, his head resting against the broken steering wheel.

Unconscious.*

The man straightened, pulling out a phone.

A number already dialed. *A voice answered immediately.*

"It's done."

A pause. Then a chuckle.

Mr. White.*

"Good," the older man murmured. "Bring him in."

The call ended.

The man glanced back at the wreckage one last time.

Then he reached for the door—*and pulled James from the ruins.*

Chapter Text

Pain.*

That was the first thing James registered. A deep, throbbing ache in his skull, the sharp sting of dried blood at his temple. His ribs burned with every breath, and his wrists—*tied. Restrained.*

The air was damp. *Concrete walls. A basement? A warehouse?* No light except for a dim, flickering bulb swinging overhead. *Underground, maybe. Somewhere remote.*

James forced his eyes open. *Blurry. Disoriented.* But his mind—*his mind was already working.*

Where was he? How long had he been out?*

More importantly—*where were Madeleine and Mathilde?*

A sound. Footsteps. *Approaching.*

The heavy metal door groaned open, letting in a faint sliver of light. A shadow stepped through—*tall, deliberate movements, not in a hurry.* Someone who already believed they had won.

James didn’t need to see the face to know. *He knew the walk. The presence.*

Then—*a voice. Calm. Cold. Familiar.*

“Ah, James. You’re finally awake.”*

Mr. White.*

James exhaled slowly, tilting his head slightly despite the pain. *A smirk—sharp, taunting.* “Didn’t I kill you already?”

Mr. White chuckled. “You always did have a habit of underestimating me.”

James didn’t respond. *Didn’t blink.* Just watched. Calculated. *Waited.*

Then—White stepped aside.

And James saw what was behind him. *A screen. A live feed.*

His blood turned to ice.

Madeleine. Mathilde. Somewhere else. Somewhere locked away.*

Madeleine’s expression was unreadable, but her eyes—*they were looking straight into the camera. Not afraid. Waiting.*

And Mathilde—*small, fragile, too young for this world of shadows—clutched her mother’s hand, her lips pressed together in a tight, confused line.*

Alive.* But for how long?

James’ muscles coiled beneath the restraints. *Rage. Controlled. Contained. Ready to be unleashed.*

Mr. White sighed dramatically. “See, I told you. You can’t protect them.”

James finally turned his head, locking eyes with him. *No smirk this time. No words. Just a promise of what was coming.*

James had been tortured before. More times than he could count. He knew the routine, the mechanics of pain, the psychological games. He could endure it.

But this time—it wasn’t just about him.

The door to the cold, dimly lit room swung open with a low groan. The concrete walls around him felt like they were closing in, the flickering bulb above casting long, warped shadows.

Mr. White entered first. Calm. Collected. Like this was nothing more than a casual conversation.

Then—two more figures followed.

James’ entire body tensed against the restraints.

Madeleine.

Mathilde.

Two guards pushed them forward, stopping just a few feet away.

Madeleine’s face was unreadable, but James could see it in her eyes—the storm raging beneath. The sheer force of her emotions barely held together.

Mathilde clutched her mother’s hand tightly, her small fingers curling into the fabric of Madeleine’s sleeve. She didn’t speak. Didn’t cry. But her lips trembled.

James inhaled slowly, forcing his expression into something steady. Controlled.

“It’s alright,” he said, his voice low, firm. “Everything is going to be alright.”

Mr. White smirked, stepping forward. “Touching.”

James didn’t look at him. He only looked at them.

Madeleine’s fingers curled slightly, her knuckles turning white. “Why are you doing this?”

White tilted his head, as if the question amused him. “Isn’t it obvious?”

Madeleine’s jaw clenched. “You’re dead.”

White chuckled. “And yet, here I am.”

James finally turned his head, eyes locking onto White’s with something cold. Lethal. “If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.”

White nodded slowly. “That’s true.” He gestured to the guards. “Restrain them.”

Madeleine stiffened. “Don’t—”

The guards grabbed her arms before she could move. Mathilde let out a small cry, struggling as one of them pulled her away from her mother.

James yanked against his own restraints, a deep, burning fury roaring to life inside him. “Let them go.”

White simply sighed. “See, James… you never understood the consequences of your actions. And now, you’re going to learn.”

He nodded to the guard beside him.

The first blow came fast. A steel baton against James’ ribs. The force of it sent a sharp, burning pain through his side, but he didn’t make a sound.

Madeleine flinched.

Mathilde gasped.

White smiled. “Now… let’s begin.”

James’ head snapped to the side as the next punch connected—sharp, brutal, precise. The coppery taste of blood spread across his tongue, but he swallowed it down, breathing slow, controlled. Pain meant nothing.

Not compared to this.

Mathilde was watching.

She stood frozen, her blue eyes wide, filled with something James never wanted to see—fear.

Madeleine’s chest rose and fell sharply, her breath uneven as she struggled against the guards holding her back. “Stop it,” she spat, voice shaking. “You—You’ve made your point!”

White only shook his head. “No, Madeleine, I haven’t.”

He crouched slightly, getting closer to James, studying him. “You always were so… resilient.”

James inhaled, slow and steady, tilting his head just enough to meet White’s gaze without fear. His lip curled, a faint smirk ghosting over his bruised mouth. “You’re getting sentimental, White.”

White’s expression darkened.

Another blow. This time, the baton slammed into James’ side, exactly where the first hit had landed. Pain exploded through his ribs. The chair beneath him creaked as his body tensed.

But still—he didn’t make a sound.

White sighed, standing up straight, rolling his shoulders as if this entire situation was exhausting him. “You see, Madeleine,” he continued, his tone disturbingly calm, as if they were simply having a conversation at the dinner table, “this is the man you chose over your own blood. A man who has left a trail of bodies wherever he’s gone. A murderer. A liar. And you… you’ve built a life with him.”

Madeleine shook her head, her eyes flashing. “You have no right to speak to me like you’re my father.”

White’s gaze flicked toward her. Something cold. Calculating.

“But I am your father.”

Madeleine’s nails dug into her palms. “No. A father doesn’t abandon his daughter.”

White’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Abandon? Madeleine, I was trying to protect you. Everything I did—”

“You did for yourself,” she cut him off, voice rising.

White’s jaw tightened. His hand snapped out, gripping her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

Madeleine barely flinched. She wasn’t afraid of him. Not anymore.

“I loved you,” White said quietly, a whisper of something dangerous underneath. “I protected you from the world James comes from, the one that destroyed everything we built.”

Madeleine’s breathing turned shallow. “You protected yourself. You killed people. Lied. Manipulated. And when it was too much, you left me behind. Just like you left my mother.”

James saw it then—the slight flicker in White’s expression. A crack.

But it was gone in an instant.

White let go of her, taking a step back. He turned toward James instead, resetting himself. “And yet, here we are, years later, and what do I find? My daughter… with him.”

James licked the blood off his lip, tilting his head slightly. “You’re making this sound personal.”

White smirked. “Oh, but it is, James.”

He nodded to the guard.

Another hit.

This time, it was worse. The baton slammed into James’ knee—a sharp, sickening crack. His jaw clenched, muscles coiling against the restraint. Still, nothing. No sound. No satisfaction.

White clicked his tongue, stepping closer again, leaning in.

“You took my daughter from me,” he whispered. “You took Mathilde from me before I even had a chance to be in her life. And now, I’ll take something from you.”

James’ eyes darkened. Deadly. “You were never going to be in her life.”

White exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “You still don’t get it, do you?”

He turned toward Mathilde, his expression unreadable.

Madeleine went rigid. “Don’t you even look at her.”

White ignored her. “She doesn’t even know who I am, does she?”

Mathilde flinched, curling closer to her mother. “Maman…?”

White tilted his head, eyes scanning the small, terrified girl in front of him. His granddaughter.

Then, he smiled.

“She looks just like you did at her age, Madeleine.”

Madeleine’s body trembled, her entire frame coiled in pure, unfiltered rage. “You stay away from her.”

James pulled against the restraints again, but his body screamed in protest. Blood dripped from his temple onto the cold floor beneath him. “White,” he said, his voice dangerously low, a warning.

White turned back toward him, lifting a brow. “What? Do you think I’d hurt her?”

James’ stare was murderous.

White chuckled. “You really don’t understand me at all.”

He sighed, mockingly disappointed. Then he turned toward his guards.

“Take them back to their rooms.”

Madeleine didn’t move. Didn’t struggle as they grabbed her arms again. Her gaze stayed locked onto James—desperate, burning.

“James…”

James met her eyes, forcing strength into his expression.

“It’s going to be okay,” he said.

White smirked. “No, James. It really isn’t.”

Then, the guards dragged them away.

And James was left alone in the dark.

--

Madeleine sat in the cold metal chair, her hands clenched into fists against her lap.

The room was dim, barely lit by a single overhead bulb. The walls were thick concrete, suffocating, impossible to escape.

Mathilde sat beside her, curled into her side, small, fragile, trembling.

Madeleine kept her arms wrapped around her daughter, her grip tight—protective. Reassuring. Even if she didn’t feel reassured herself.

Across from them, Mr. White watched.

Calm. Unbothered. Like this was nothing more than a father and daughter catching up.

“You’re quiet, Madeleine.” His voice was smooth, almost conversational. It made her skin crawl.

Madeleine’s jaw tensed. “What do you want?”

White sighed, tilting his head. “After all these years, that’s all you have to say to me?”

Madeleine’s grip on Mathilde tightened. Her daughter. Their daughter. “You lost the right to ask for more.”

White smiled. “I never lost it.”

Madeleine’s body coiled with rage. “You left me. You left us. And now you think you can just show up and—”

“I never left you.” His tone sharpened. “I watched you. For years. From a distance, yes—but I never left you.”

Madeleine’s blood turned cold. He had been watching?

She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to stay steady. “You were always a ghost. A shadow. A coward.”

White’s expression darkened. “Is that what he told you? That I abandoned you?”

Madeleine’s breathing hitched, but she didn’t let herself break.

“He didn’t have to,” she whispered.

White exhaled slowly. “You’re still as stubborn as ever.” He leaned forward slightly. “And yet, you let him into your life. A killer. A man who has done far worse than I ever have.”

Madeleine’s nails dug into her palms. “James is not you.”

White smirked. “Oh, but he is. And deep down, you know it.”

Madeleine clenched her jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

White studied her for a moment, then sighed dramatically, as if she had disappointed him.

“Let’s see if you still believe that,” he murmured. Then, he nodded toward the guards.

The door opened.

And they dragged James in.

James’ body was limp between the two guards, his breathing heavy, ragged. Blood trailed from a cut along his brow, down his cheek, staining his shirt.

Madeleine’s heart stopped.

Mathilde’s fingers curled into her mother’s sleeve, her tiny body stiff with fear.

James lifted his head, blinking through the blood and sweat, his gaze landing on them—on her.

Even in the dim light, Madeleine could see it.

The silent promise in his eyes.

I’m here.

I’ll get you out.

No matter what happens, you and Mathilde will survive.

White stood, moving toward James with casual ease.

“You’ve had your fun, James,” he said. “Now it’s my turn.”

James let out a slow breath, his lips curling slightly—a smirk. “What’s wrong, White? Can’t handle losing?”

White smiled. Then, without a word—he threw the first punch.

James’ head snapped to the side, blood spraying against the concrete floor.

Mathilde flinched violently. Madeleine instinctively pulled her in, pressing her daughter’s face against her chest.

White flexed his fingers, sighing. “I should have done this years ago.”

The second blow came fast. A brutal, precise strike to James’ ribs—the same spot that had already been broken.

This time, James grunted.

Madeleine winced. She could feel Mathilde trembling against her, her small hands clutching at her tightly.

But White wasn’t done.

Another hit. Then another. A sharp crack—something breaking.

James choked on a breath, blood spilling onto the floor. His body sagged slightly, but he didn’t fall. Didn’t give in.

White clicked his tongue. “Still so stubborn.”

He reached into his pocket—a knife. The blade glinted under the dim light.

Madeleine’s stomach twisted. “Stop,” she breathed.

White ignored her.

James’ breathing sharpened. He knew what was coming.

The first cut was slow. Deliberate. The knife dragged across James’ side, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to hurt.

James’ jaw clenched, his fingers twitching against the restraints. Still, he didn’t scream.

White sighed. “You always were difficult.”

He pressed the knife deeper.

Madeleine squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t watch. But Mathilde—Mathilde could still hear.

The sound of flesh splitting, the wet gurgle of pain.

A choked grunt. James, holding it in.

Mathilde let out a small whimper.

Madeleine snapped her head up.

“I said stop!” she shouted, her voice cracking.

White finally turned toward her. “Why? This is what you chose, Madeleine. This man.”

Tears burned at the edges of her vision. “I chose him because he’s better than you.”

White smiled. “Then watch him die.”

He twisted the knife.

James let out a sharp, strangled sound—half pain, half defiance. Blood pooled around his waist, staining his clothes, dripping onto the floor.

Madeleine squeezed Mathilde tighter, shielding her as best she could.

James looked at her.

Not at White. Not at the guards. At her.

Even through the haze of pain, through the blood loss, he saw it.

The way she trembled. The way she fought to stay still.

Not for herself. For him.

She wasn’t crying because of the pain White was inflicting. She was crying because she loved him. Because she couldn’t bear to lose him.

James forced a breath. His fingers twitched again—slower this time.

The room stank of blood, sweat, and fear.

James was barely upright, held in place by the restraints biting into his wrists. His entire body ached—throbbing, burning, screaming in ways that would have broken a lesser man.

But he wasn’t broken. Not yet.

Across from him, Madeleine stood rigid, her arms wrapped around Mathilde, shielding her. The little girl was buried against her mother’s chest, trembling.

James forced himself to look at her, at them—and regret sliced deeper than any blade ever could.

Mathilde should never have had to see this. Should never have had to hear what was coming next.

White stood before them, adjusting the cuff of his pristine white shirt—untouched, unstained, as if he wasn’t standing in a room filled with suffering.

“I have to admit,” White murmured, tilting his head, “I thought you’d be dead by now.”

James exhaled slowly, licking the blood off his lip. “Sorry to disappoint.”

White smiled. A patient smile. A dangerous one.

“Oh, not at all, James.” He stepped forward, pulling something from his coat pocket. A switchblade. The silver edge glinted under the dim light. “I’m actually quite pleased. Because it means we get to continue.”

James said nothing.

White flicked the blade open, testing the edge with his thumb. “Do you know how many men have died because of you?”

James arched a brow. “Are we really counting?”

White chuckled. Then, without warning, he plunged the blade into James’ side.

James’ body tensed violently. His fingers curled into fists, his jaw locking as a sharp, guttural grunt tore from his throat. White twisted the blade, slow, deliberate.

Madeleine flinched.

Mathilde let out a soft, muffled whimper, clinging to her mother tighter.

White smiled at James’ reaction. “That’s better. You were getting too quiet.”

James’ breath came ragged, slow. Controlled. He wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

White exhaled dramatically. “You know, I never thought Madeleine would be foolish enough to choose a man like you.”

Madeleine’s eyes snapped to him. “And what kind of man should I have chosen?”

White turned his head slightly, studying her. “One who wouldn’t get her daughter killed.”

Madeleine’s stomach twisted violently. “Don’t.”

White ignored her. “Because that’s where this ends, you know. You think I won’t do it? You think I won’t put a bullet in her skull?”

Madeleine shook her head, her voice sharp with fury. “You won’t. Because then, you’d have nothing left.”

White’s smile faded slightly.

James forced a breath, lifting his head just enough to look at White. And he smirked.

“She’s right,” he murmured, blood dripping from his mouth. “You won’t do it. Because without them, you have no control. No leverage.”

White’s expression darkened.

Then, without warning—he yanked the blade out and drove it into James’ thigh.

James’ head slammed back against the chair. His entire body jerked, a raw, agonized grunt ripping from his throat.

Mathilde squeaked, her small hands gripping Madeleine tighter.

Madeleine let out a sharp breath, her arms locking around her daughter. She pressed her palm over Mathilde’s ears, but it didn’t matter.

Mathilde could still feel it.

White exhaled, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping the blood from his hands. “I wonder how much more you can take.”

James forced himself to look up, his vision swimming, his body screaming, his limbs numb.

But he smirked.

“You’ll have to try harder.”

White hummed thoughtfully. Then, with a slow sigh, he pulled a gun from his holster.

Madeleine stiffened. “NO—”

The first shot rang out.

James’ body jerked violently as the bullet slammed into his shoulder.

The second shot—his leg.

The third—his side.

Each impact sent waves of blinding, searing pain through him, his breath leaving in sharp, brutal grunts. He didn’t scream. He wouldn’t.

But Madeleine—she was breaking.

Her breathing was uneven, ragged, her arms locked around Mathilde as if she could shield her from this. But she couldn’t.

Mathilde’s tiny hands trembled against her mother’s shirt.

James blinked heavily, his head slumping forward, blood dripping onto the floor beneath him.

Mr. White motioned to one of the guards to uncuff him.

After they released the cuffs, James’s body fall on a side on the floor.

Suddenly Madeleine get up, kneeling next to him.

Madeleine’s hands trembled as she reached for James, her fingers pressing against his blood-soaked shirt. His breathing was shallow, uneven. His body—limp.

“James?” Her voice cracked. No response.

Her heart pounded violently against her ribs. He was losing too much blood—too fast. The gunshot wounds, the stab wounds—his body was wrecked.

Mathilde whimpered behind her, but Madeleine couldn’t turn away. Not now.

White sighed. “You never did know how to let go, did you, Madeleine?”

She lifted her head, her blue eyes burning. “You’ve done what you wanted. Let us go.”

White chuckled, crouching beside her. “You think I’m finished?”

Madeleine’s stomach tightened.

He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Look at you. Still clinging to a dead man.”

White took his hands out of his pockets, unbuttoning James’s shirt to watch better the damages.

James’s eyes were half opened. Searching always Madeleine’s face and eyes.

“You better say goodbye, Madeleine” White chuckled, kneeling next to her, before he pressed the blade against James’s stomach cutting…and cutting. Along the organs.

James tensed violently, his entire body convulsing as White dragged the blade through flesh and muscle, carving deep, unforgiving lines into his abdomen.

Blood poured. A slow, sickening gurgle followed as the knife sank deeper.

Madeleine choked on a breath.

James twitched, gasping— a broken, wet sound that made her stomach twist violently.

She felt Mathilde shaking uncontrollably against her chest.

“Stop! STOP!” Madeleine screamed, but her voice barely cut through the agony in front of her.

White ignored her. He twisted the blade, slow, cruel. James’ body arched, his muscles spasming beneath the pain. His breath hitched, his lips parting—finally, a scream.

A deep, guttural scream.

Madeleine’s heart shattered.

She moved, lunging toward them, but the guards held her back, forcing her down.

White finally pulled the knife free, his hands dripping red.

James slumped forward, shaking.

White sighed, wiping the blade clean against James’ ruined shirt. “I have to say, I expected you to last longer.”

James’ eyes fluttered open, barely focused. His lips moved, but no words came. Blood coated his teeth, dripping from the corner of his mouth.

White turned back to Madeleine. “Go on, say goodbye. I’ll give you that much.”

Madeleine shook her head violently.

“No,” she whispered.

White’s brow lifted. “No?”

Her breath came short, uneven. But she forced the words out. A promise.

“He’s not dying. Not here. Not like this.”

White chuckled, standing. “You still don’t get it.”

He motioned to the guards. “Take him. He’s no use to me anymore.”

James’ body collapsed as they pulled him from the chair. His head rolled forward, his breath barely there.

The door swung open. Cold air rushed in.

Then—they dragged him out.

Into the dark.

Into the unknown.

Madeleine’s entire body trembled.

James was gone.

Chapter Text

The door slammed shut.

James was gone.

Madeleine sat frozen, her heart pounding violently against her ribs. The warmth of James’ blood was still on her hands, sticky, clinging—a brutal reminder that he might already be dead.

No.

He wasn’t dead.

He couldn’t be.

Mathilde was shaking in her arms, her small hands clutching at Madeleine’s shirt, her breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Madeleine forced herself to breathe. To think.

Her father had made a mistake. He thought this was over.

But she wasn’t done.

She glanced around, scanning the room. There had to be a way out. A weakness. A weapon.

White stood near the far wall, speaking quietly to one of his men. Not paying attention to her.

That was his second mistake.

Madeleine exhaled, shifting slightly, keeping her movements calm. Controlled. Her fingers brushed against something cold.

A fork.

It had been left on the metal tray from their last meal—small, useless to most.

But not to her.

She closed her fingers around it, hiding it against her palm.

White turned back to her, smiling.

“You look tired, Madeleine.”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him.

Instead, she looked at Mathilde.

Her daughter—still trembling, still crying silently against her chest.

And Madeleine made a choice.

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Mathilde’s hair. Then, in the calmest voice she could manage, she whispered:

“When I say run, you run.”

Mathilde’s breath hitched. She pulled back, wide blue eyes searching Madeleine’s face.

Madeleine nodded. Just once.

Mathilde understood.

White sighed, rolling his eyes. “You’re wasting your energy. He’s gone. Accept it.”

Madeleine looked up.

And smiled.

White’s brows furrowed. “What—”

Madeleine moved.

Fast. Faster than they expected.

She lunged, driving the fork into the guard’s neck.

Blood spurted. A gurgled scream.

The other guard reached for his gun—too slow.

Madeleine grabbed Mathilde’s hand.

“RUN!”

Mathilde bolted.

Madeleine followed, tearing through the open door before White could react.

Gunshots rang out.

They didn’t stop running.

Madeleine kept moving. Didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate.

She pulled Mathilde forward, her daughter’s tiny legs struggling to keep up, but they had no choice—they had to run.

The air stank of metal and blood, the dim overhead lights flickering as they sprinted down the cold concrete corridor.

Shouts echoed behind them. Footsteps. More guards.

Madeleine’s pulse roared in her ears. She needed to find James.

She knew what they’d done to him.

She knew he was barely hanging on.

If they didn’t get to him now—they’d never get another chance.

She turned a corner, her grip tightening on Mathilde’s hand.

A door. Slightly ajar.

There.

She shoved it open—and froze.

James was on the floor. Barely breathing.

Blood. Too much of it.

It pooled beneath him, soaked into his clothes, painted his skin.

His head lolled slightly to the side, his body unnaturally still.

“James!” Madeleine dropped to her knees, shaking him.

He didn’t respond.

Mathilde let out a small, broken sound. “Is… is he—?”

“No.” Madeleine’s voice was firm. Too firm. Because she refused to believe it.

She pressed her fingers against his bloodied neck.

A pulse. Faint. Weak. But there.

She let out a breath, her hands shaking.

Then—footsteps.

The guards were closing in.

Madeleine gritted her teeth.

They didn’t have time. They had to move.

She grabbed James’ arm, trying to lift him. He barely reacted.

Too weak. Too much blood loss.

“Come on, James,” she whispered, voice desperate. “Don’t do this. Not now.”

James let out a low, pained grunt. His eyelids fluttered—barely.

It was enough.

Madeleine tightened her grip.

Then—she pulled him up.

The hallway erupted with noise.

“THERE! STOP THEM!”

Madeleine didn’t stop.

She threw James’ arm over her shoulders, half-carrying, half-dragging him as she pushed forward.

Mathilde clung to her side, struggling to keep up.

James let out a sharp, ragged gasp, his body trembling violently.

Madeleine didn’t let go. She wouldn’t let go.

Gunfire cracked behind them.

Madeleine took a sharp turn, stumbling slightly under James’ weight.

There—a door at the end of the hall.

A way out.

She pushed forward, her entire body screaming with effort.

James’ breathing was slowing. Too slow.

Madeleine’s chest tightened.

Just a little further.

They crashed through the door—into the night.

Cold air. Dark sky.

And freedom.

A car. She needed a car.

There—a van, engine still running.

She didn’t think. Didn’t hesitate.

She pulled the door open, shoved Mathilde inside.

Then, with one last, desperate effort—

She hauled James in after her.

His body collapsed against the seat, his head falling against her shoulder.

Madeleine grabbed the wheel, tires screeching as she floored the gas.

Gunshots ripped through the night.

But they were gone.

They had escaped.

Now—she just had to keep James alive.

The tires screeched against the cracked pavement as Madeleine swerved the van onto the main road.

Her hands were slick with blood. James’ blood.

Mathilde was in the back seat, curled up, silent. She hadn’t spoken since they had pulled James into the car—hadn’t even cried.

Madeleine glanced in the rearview mirror. Her daughter was staring at James.

Watching.

Waiting.

Madeleine’s heart clenched. She couldn’t lose him.

She pushed the gas pedal harder.

“Stay with me, James,” she whispered, her voice shaking.

James let out a low, strangled noise, barely conscious, his head slumping against her shoulder.

Madeleine gritted her teeth.

Her foot pressed the accelerator all the way down.

The road blurred past them. The town was still miles away, and James was fading fast.

Madeleine risked a glance at him.

His face was deathly pale. Blood dripped from his wounds, soaking through the seat beneath him.

She needed to stop the bleeding.

“Mathilde,” she called, her voice tight. “Come here, darling.”

Mathilde hesitated.

Madeleine forced herself to stay calm. “I need your help.”

Mathilde crawled forward, her small hands shaking.

Madeleine grabbed a cloth from the dashboard—tore a piece of her own sleeve.

“Press here,” she said, guiding Mathilde’s hands to one of James’ wounds.

Mathilde sucked in a breath—but did as she was told.

James’ body twitched violently as she applied pressure, a deep groan tearing from his throat.

“I know,” Madeleine whispered. “I know it hurts, baby.”

James let out a low, broken sound.

Madeleine’s hands clenched the wheel.

“Just a little longer,” she murmured. “Stay with me, James.”

The hospital lights finally appeared in the distance.

Almost there.

Almost safe.

Madeleine didn’t slow down.

She barreled through the hospital entrance, tires screeching, the van barely stopping before she flung the door open.

“HELP ME!” she screamed.

Doctors and nurses rushed forward.

She tried to pull James out of the car herself, but her hands were shaking too much.

Arms grabbed him—a stretcher appeared. Voices yelled orders.

Mathilde clung to her mother’s side, frozen.

James’ eyes flickered open for the briefest moment.

Madeleine grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.

“I’m right here,” she whispered.

His fingers twitched. Barely.

Then—he was gone, swallowed by the hospital doors.

Madeleine collapsed against the car.

Mathilde wrapped her arms around her mother, burying her face in her chest.

Madeleine held her close, her heartbeat a violent, panicked rhythm.

James was in their hands now.

And all she could do was wait.

The world flickered in and out.

James was floating. Drifting.

Pain came in waves, sharp and suffocating, pulling him under before releasing him into cold emptiness.

He couldn’t move.

Could barely breathe.

But somewhere—distant, blurred—there were voices.

“Mister Bond? Can you hear me?”

A light flashed against his eyelids. Too bright. Too much.

James tried to pull away, but his body refused to respond.

The voices blurred together. Doctors. Nurses. Someone shouting orders.

He wasn’t in that room anymore.

Not with White.

Not with Madeleine.

Where—?

His mind swam, heavy, drowning.

“BP dropping—he’s crashing!”

More voices. More hands. Something cold pressed to his chest.

A deep, sharp burn tore through him, stealing what little air he had left.

James gasped.

Then—darkness again.

James wasn’t fully here.

Not yet.

The world felt distant, muffled. His body—unresponsive.

Pain lingered beneath the haze of medication, dull but constant, a deep, bone-deep ache that never faded.

There was something in his throat. A tube. A ventilator.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

Only listen.

Soft voices floated around him, barely cutting through the fog.

“He’s stable—for now.”

Madeleine.

James wanted to turn his head, to reach for her, to let her know he was still here—but his body refused to obey.

“He lost too much blood,” another voice murmured. A doctor? “His body went into severe shock. His heart stopped twice on the table.”

Madeleine inhaled sharply. “And now?”

A pause.

“He’s unresponsive.”

James felt something cold spread through his chest.

Madeleine’s voice came softer this time, barely above a whisper. Fragile.

“Is he in a coma?”

Another pause.

“It’s too soon to tell.”

James wanted to move. Wanted to tell her no, he wasn’t gone.

But the darkness was pulling at him again, dragging him back under.

Madeleine’s voice was the last thing he heard.

“Please… just come back to me.”

And then—nothing.

The next time James surfaced, the room was quiet.

Something warm pressed against his hand—small fingers.

Mathilde.

Even without opening his eyes, he could feel her tiny hand wrapped around his, unmoving.

She wasn’t speaking. Just sitting there.

Waiting.

James wanted to squeeze her fingers back, to let her know he was still here.

He tried.

Nothing.

His body was still a prison, numb and useless.

A sound.

Soft. Sniffling.

She was crying.

James’ heart ached in a way no bullet wound ever could.

Madeleine sat beside Mathilde, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.

She hadn’t moved in hours.

Hadn’t slept. Hadn’t eaten.

She couldn’t.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Saw the blood. The wounds. The moment he was ripped from her arms.

And now—he was trapped in this silence.

Machines beeped steadily beside her, wires and IVs keeping him alive.

Mathilde’s little body pressed against her, unmoving.

Madeleine finally exhaled, her voice barely there.

“James… if you can hear me…”

She hesitated.

Her throat tightened.

“I can’t do this without you.”

Nothing.

Not even the slightest movement.

Her chest shook, her fingers curling into the sheets.

“I need you.”

James didn’t react.

Mathilde sniffled beside her.

Madeleine let out a slow, shuddering breath, then whispered:

“Please… don’t leave us.”

And still—James did not wake.

--

James was falling.

The darkness was endless, heavy, suffocating.

No sound. No light. No way back.

Somewhere, distantly, he could still feel the weight of Mathilde’s tiny fingers wrapped around his hand. Could still hear the faint echoes of Madeleine’s voice—pleading, breaking.

But they felt further away now.

Like a world he wasn’t sure he belonged to anymore.

His body was wrecked, failing.

Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment he finally stopped fighting.

Wouldn’t it be easier?

To let go?

To stop running, stop bleeding, stop waking up to another war?

A part of him—a small, tired part—almost wanted to.

But then—

A flash of blue eyes.

Mathilde.

James’ chest tightened.

The memory of her whispering, clinging to Madeleine’s sleeve, begging him to wake up.

The weight of her tiny body curling against his in the mornings, her sleepy mumbling as she told him stories about foxes and queens.

She had just found him.

And now—he was leaving?

No.

No.

But the darkness kept pulling.

Deeper.

Further.

Until—

The world went silent.

And James Bond finally stopped feeling anything at all.

--

The heart monitor stuttered.

A slow, weak beeping—dropping.

Madeleine’s breath caught.

She shot up, grabbing James’ wrist, feeling for warmth, for movement—for anything.

Nothing.

“Something’s wrong,” she whispered, voice shaking.

The machine let out another weak beep.

Then another.

Then—a long, flat tone.

Madeleine’s heart stopped.

No. No, no, no—

The doors burst open.

Doctors and nurses rushed inside.

Madeleine was shoved back. Someone pulled Mathilde into their arms, away from the bed, away from the sight of the man who was—

No.

Madeleine’s hands curled into fists.

“JAMES!”

A doctor yelled something—orders, procedures, things she barely understood.

Madeleine’s vision blurred.

Mathilde’s sobs tore through her chest.

The beeping was gone.

James was gone.

A nurse reached for Madeleine’s arm, trying to pull her away, but she ripped herself free.

She stood frozen, watching, waiting.

Praying.

And for the first time in her life—

She truly feared she had lost him.

Chapter Text

The flatline pierced the room.

Madeleine’s chest collapsed in on itself.

A doctor shouted orders, their voices a dull, distant hum against the deafening silence in her mind.

Someone pushed her back, but she didn’t feel it.

She didn’t feel anything.

James was gone.

The man who had survived guns, knives, fire, war. The man who had endured pain beyond human limits. The man who had always, always found a way to return to her—

Was gone.

The doctors worked—compressions, injections, electricity jolting his broken body—

Nothing.

His chest didn’t rise.

His lips didn’t part.

His heart didn’t beat.

The beeping never returned.

Then—the words Madeleine never wanted to hear.

“We’ve lost him.”

The world collapsed.

Mathilde let out a broken, wretched sob.

Madeleine’s knees hit the floor.

No.

Not James.

Not him.

Not after everything.

The doctor sighed heavily, stepping back from the bed.

Time of death: 2:47 AM.

A nurse reached for Madeleine, trying to pull her away.

Madeleine ripped herself free.

She stumbled forward.

Her hands shook violently as she reached for James, barely registering the warmth still lingering beneath his skin.

He wasn’t supposed to be cold yet.

He wasn’t supposed to be still.

Her body shook with grief, with rage, with disbelief.

She bowed her head, pressing her forehead to his, her fingers gripping his hand with everything she had left.

And she spoke.

“You can’t leave me, James.”

The words were soft, trembling—but demanding.

“You promised me you wouldn’t.”

Her lips brushed against his temple.

“You promised Mathilde.”

Madeleine jolted awake, a gasp tearing from her throat. Her heart thundered, the flatline’s echo still screaming in her mind. The sterile hospital room dissolved, replaced by the dim, familiar glow of the real one. She was slumped in a chair, her neck stiff, her hand still clutching James’. The nightmare’s weight clung to her, heavy and suffocating, but the steady beep of the heart monitor grounded her.

James wasn’t gone.

Her eyes darted to the bed. There he was—pale, bruised, tethered to machines, but alive. His chest rose and fell, shallow but steady. The ventilator hissed rhythmically, forcing air into his lungs. Mathilde was curled in a chair across the room, asleep, her small face peaceful despite the sterile chaos around them. Madeleine’s breath hitched, tears spilling over as she pressed her forehead to James’ hand, still warm, still real.

It was just a dream. A cruel, vivid lie.

She exhaled shakily, her fingers tightening around his. The nightmare had ripped open every fear she’d buried—the thought of losing him, of Mathilde growing up without her father. But he was here. Fighting. Clinging to life, as he always did. She wiped her tears, forcing herself to steady. She wouldn’t let that dream become real. Not ever.

~

James was somewhere between the dark and the light.

Floating. Drifting. Lost in the in-between.

His body was heavy. Unmovable. The pain—distant, but still there. Like a fire smoldering beneath his skin.

He knew he was alive.

Barely.

There were voices, whispers, warmth pressing against his hand.

Madeleine.

Mathilde.

He wanted to wake up. Wanted to tell them he was still here.

But his body wasn’t listening.

So, instead—he drifted.

He slipped in and out.

One moment, there was light, warmth, the hum of machines. A gentle hand brushing over his knuckles.

Then—darkness again.

Time meant nothing.

He heard soft voices sometimes.

Madeleine. Reading to Mathilde. Whispering. Praying.

Occasionally, the doctors speaking in low tones.

“He’s stable, but he’s still weak.”

“He might not regain full strength for a long time.”

“He should be awake by now.”

Madeleine’s voice, sharp, tired. “He will wake up.”

James wanted to smirk. Wanted to tell her he always did.

But all he could do was sleep.

--

The next time he surfaced, something was different.

The air was cool. The light softer.

Fingers threaded through his.

Warm. Familiar.

Madeleine.

James inhaled slowly, painfully.

Her grip tightened.

A shift. A breath. A whisper.

“James?”

He wanted to open his eyes.

Wanted to respond.

His fingers barely twitched.

Madeleine gasped.

“James?” More urgent this time. Hopeful.

James tried to move, tried to lift his head—

But his body felt like lead.

His eyelids barely fluttered.

It was too much.

The darkness pulled him back under.

Madeleine’s voice was the last thing he heard.

“Come back to me.”

And he would.

Eventually.

~

A month.

Thirty days of waiting.

Of whispered prayers. Of tension so thick it could suffocate.

Madeleine had not left his side. Not once.

Neither had Mathilde.

Every morning, she woke curled in the hospital chair, her daughter nestled in her arms, both of them clinging to the hope that James would return to them.

The doctors spoke in measured tones.

“He’s stable.”

“He’s healing.”

“He should wake up soon.”

But soon never came.

His body remained still.

His breath remained shallow.

The machines kept him alive, but James Bond—the man, the fighter, the father—was still gone.

Until—

On the thirty-first day, Madeleine stirred in the chair beside his bed, her fingers still tangled with his.

And then—a shift.

A breath.

A flutter of his eyelashes.

A weak, barely-there squeeze of her hand.

Madeleine’s heart stopped.

Her breath hitched.

Then, slowly, painfully, his eyes opened.

At first, everything was a blur.

Shapes. Shadows. Light too bright, sounds too distant.

James blinked slowly, sluggishly, his body aching with the simple act of existing.

Then—movement.

A gasp.

His vision cleared just enough to see her.

Madeleine.

Her face hovered above his, wide-eyed, disbelieving.

Her lips parted, but for a moment—no words came.

Then, finally—

“James…”

His throat was raw, burning.

His body refused to move.

But still—he saw her.

And he was alive.

Barely.

But alive.

Madeleine’s eyes filled with tears. Her fingers trembled against his, pressing tighter, grounding herself in the reality of his return.

Then—another shift.

A small blur of movement.

Mathilde.

She was standing at the edge of the bed, silent, frozen, staring at him like she couldn’t believe it.

James swallowed with difficulty, trying to find the strength to speak.

Nothing came.

But Mathilde saw the way his lips moved slightly.

Her tiny fingers clutched the edge of the blanket, and in the softest, most fragile voice, she whispered—

“Papa?”

James’ chest ached.

Not from his wounds.

But from the weight of love he wasn’t sure he deserved.

He tried to speak again—failed.

So, instead—he moved his hand.

Just barely.

Just enough.

Mathilde let out a tiny, choked sound.

Then—she climbed onto the bed, curling into his side as if she had waited forever to do so.

James exhaled slowly, shakily.

His eyes closed again, his fingers weakly wrapping around hers.

Madeleine pressed a hand to her lips, her shoulders shaking, emotion consuming her.

James had come back.

James was awake.

But he wasn’t free.

His body was weak, unresponsive, caged by wires and machines.

The ventilator sat heavy in his throat, restricting him, keeping him breathing—but stealing his voice.

He tried to shift, to move, to speak.

Nothing.

Madeleine noticed immediately.

Her fingers brushed over his knuckles, soothing, grounding. “Shh… don’t fight it, mon amour.”

James hated this.

He had been tortured, beaten, shot, left for dead.

And yet—this helplessness was worse.

He blinked slowly, frustration creeping into his exhausted mind.

Madeleine’s face softened, as if she understood. Of course, she did.

She leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.

“You’re okay,” she whispered. “You’re safe.”

James exhaled, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment.

Safe.

The word felt foreign. Unfamiliar.

But then—a small weight pressed against his side.

Mathilde.

Still curled into him, still refusing to leave his side.

James’ heart ached.

He wanted to speak. Wanted to tell her he was here, that he wasn’t leaving.

But the machine kept him silent.

A soft knock at the door.

Madeleine lifted her head just as the doctor stepped in—tired eyes, calm expression, clipboard in hand.

She stood quickly, her hands instinctively clutching the edge of James’ bed.

“How is he?” she asked, her voice quieter than she intended.

The doctor sighed, glancing at James. Assessing.

“He’s stable,” he said carefully. “But his body has been through severe trauma. We weren’t sure he’d ever wake up.”

Madeleine swallowed hard, nodding. “And now?”

The doctor glanced at the machines, adjusting a few settings.

“We’re keeping him on the ventilator for now. His lungs were under extreme stress due to the blood loss and shock.” He turned his gaze to Madeleine. “His body needs time. Removing it too soon could cause complications.”

Madeleine nodded again, forcing herself to focus. “How long?”

The doctor hesitated. “It depends. He needs to show signs of being able to breathe on his own. He’ll also be weak—muscle atrophy is common after prolonged immobility. He’ll need therapy. Months of recovery.”

Her fingers curled into the sheets. Months.

She could feel James’ eyes on her, even in his silence.

She looked down at him—at the wires, the machines keeping him alive.

James Bond was the strongest man she had ever known.

And now, he was trapped in a body too broken to fight back.

Her jaw tightened.

“Tell me what I have to do.”

The doctor’s expression softened. “For now, just talk to him. Keep him calm. The less he struggles, the easier it will be when we start weaning him off the ventilator.”

Madeleine reached for James’ hand again, squeezing gently. “He’s stubborn,” she murmured.

The doctor almost smiled. “That’s good. He’ll need it.”

James’ fingers twitched against hers—just slightly.

And Madeleine knew.

He was still fighting.

Even in silence.

Even in stillness.

James Bond was not giving up.

--

The days blurred together.

James drifted between sleep and awareness, trapped in his own body, unable to move, unable to speak.

But he was getting stronger.

Slowly.

Each day, Madeleine was there.

She held his hand. She read to him. Talked to him.

Mathilde would climb onto the bed, resting her small head against his arm, whispering stories about foxes and queens.

James listened.

Even when his body wouldn’t respond, he listened.

And after a few days—he finally found a way to answer.

It wasn’t much.

Just a squeeze of Madeleine’s fingers.

But when it happened, she gasped sharply, her eyes filling with relief.

Mathilde noticed too.

She grabbed his other hand, bouncing slightly. “Papa?”

James blinked slowly.

Another squeeze.

Mathilde beamed.

Madeleine let out a breathless laugh, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“You’re coming back to us,” she whispered.

James exhaled softly.

He was. Slowly. But he was.

--

By the end of the first week, James was able to move his fingers more.

Then, his hand.

Then, his arm.

It was slow. Agonizingly slow.

His body felt foreign, weak, useless.

But every small movement was a victory.

The doctors monitored him closely.

“The next step is weaning him off the ventilator,” they explained to Madeleine. “We’ll start reducing his dependence on it gradually. It’ll be difficult, but he’s strong.”

Madeleine nodded, determined.

James could feel her hand trembling slightly in his.

She was terrified.

But she never let it show.

Not in front of him.

Not in front of Mathilde.

And James loved her for it.

~

The day finally came.

They lowered the settings on the ventilator, forcing James’ body to remember how to breathe on its own.

It was harder than he expected.

The first time they removed it, even briefly, his lungs seized. The room spun. His body panicked.

Madeleine was right there, hands on his shoulders.

“Breathe, James.”

His chest burned.

The doctors watched closely.

The nurses adjusted the oxygen.

But James forced himself through it.

He wasn’t going to fail.

Not in front of them.

Not when he had come this far.

When he finally managed a full breath on his own, Madeleine let out a shaky laugh, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re doing it.”

James was too exhausted to react.

But inside—he was relieved.

He was winning this fight.

Slowly.

Painfully.

But he was winning.

And soon—he would speak again.

And when he did, he had a few things to say.

To Madeleine.

To Mathilde.

James was alive.

But he wasn’t himself.

Not yet.

Every movement was an effort. Every breath a battle.

The ventilator was still nearby, just in case. His lungs were weaker than they had ever been, forcing him to focus on every inhale, every exhale.

His body felt foreign, distant, something he no longer controlled.

But he was winning.

Day by day, inch by inch.

He just had to be patient.

And patience had never been his strength.

Madeleine knew he was awake, aware.

She saw it in his eyes—the sharpness returning, the frustration simmering beneath the exhaustion.

He had always been a man of action. Now, he was trapped in stillness.

His fingers curled into weak fists.

His jaw clenched whenever he tried to lift his arm and failed.

The worst part—the silence.

James had spent years speaking with his body, his expressions, his presence.

But now—he couldn’t even do that.

Madeleine watched him carefully, her fingers tracing over his knuckles.

“You don’t have to rush,” she murmured.

James blinked slowly.

But she knew. He hated this.

She smiled softly, bringing his hand up to press a kiss against his knuckles.

“I can wait,” she whispered.

James exhaled weakly.

So could he.

For now.

Chapter Text

The hospital room was a prison of its own kind—sterile, suffocating, a constant reminder of how close James had come to slipping away. But it was also a sanctuary, a temporary shield from the world outside where Mr. White and his men still lingered, plotting their next move. Madeleine knew this. She felt it in the way her skin prickled every time she glanced at the door, expecting it to burst open.

James was awake now, his eyes sharper with each passing day, but his body lagged behind. The ventilator was gone, replaced by a nasal cannula that fed oxygen into his battered lungs. His voice was still a ghost, reduced to faint, rasping whispers when he could manage them at all. Each word cost him, and Madeleine could see the frustration carving deeper lines into his face every time he tried to speak and failed.

Mathilde had taken to drawing by his bedside, her small hands scribbling pictures of foxes and rivers, her way of filling the silence. She didn't ask about what had happened. Didn't mention the blood, the screams, or the cold concrete room. But Madeleine saw it in her daughter's eyes—the quiet fear that hadn't fully left.

Madeleine herself was a fortress. She had to be. For Mathilde. For James. She moved through the hospital with a quiet strength, speaking to doctors, arranging security, making sure no one got too hospital was quiet that night, save for the steady beep of the heart monitor and the soft hum of the air conditioning. Madeleine sat by James' bedside, her head resting against the edge of the mattress, her hand still wrapped around his. Mathilde was curled up in the corner, asleep on a cot the nurses had brought in, her stuffed bunny tucked under her chin.

James stirred, his fingers twitching against Madeleine's. She lifted her head immediately, her heart skipping as she met his gaze. His blue eyes were clearer now, piercing through the haze of pain and medication.

"James?" she whispered, leaning closer.

He swallowed, his throat working painfully. His lips parted, and after a moment, a rough, barely audible word escaped.

"Madeleine…"

Her breath caught. It was the first time he'd spoken her name since waking. She squeezed his hand, her voice trembling. "I'm here."

His gaze flickered to Mathilde, then back to her. His jaw tightened, a flicker of something fierce passing through his eyes. He tried to speak again, but his voice broke, dissolving into a faint wheeze.

Madeleine pressed her hand against his cheek, her thumb brushing over the rough stubble. "Don't push it. You're doing enough."

James' eyes narrowed slightly, a spark of defiance. He hated being weak. Hated being still. But he didn't argue—not with words, at least. Instead, he turned his head just enough to press his lips against her palm, a silent acknowledgment.

Madeleine's chest tightened. She leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "You're still here," she murmured. "That's all that matters."

James exhaled, slow and shaky, his hand tightening around hers as much as his strength allowed.

The next morning, sunlight filtered through the hospital blinds, casting thin stripes across James' bed. Madeleine woke to the sound of Mathilde humming softly, her small hands busy with a new drawing—another fox, this time with a bright red scarf. Madeleine smiled faintly, but her attention quickly shifted to James.

He was awake, propped up slightly against the pillows, his movements deliberate as he flexed his fingers one by one. The nasal cannula was still in place, but his breathing seemed steadier, less labored. His arms, though still weak, moved with a touch more purpose than the day before. He was testing himself, pushing against the limits of his recovery.

Madeleine sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "You're up early."

James glanced at her, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Couldn't sleep," he rasped, his voice still rough but stronger than yesterday. He lifted his right hand, slowly curling it into a fist, then releasing it. The effort made his jaw tighten, but he didn't stop.

Madeleine watched him closely, her brow furrowing. "What did the doctors say about moving?"

James' smirk faded, replaced by that familiar stubborn glint in his eyes. "They said to rest." He paused, flexing his fingers again. "I heard them."

Madeleine sighed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees. "And you're ignoring them."

He didn't respond, but the look he gave her said enough. James Bond didn't do "rest." Not when he could feel the weight of the world outside pressing in.

She stood, moving to his bedside. "Let me see," she said, gently taking his hand. His skin was warm, the scars and bruises stark against the paleness. She pressed her fingers lightly against his palm, testing his grip. He squeezed back, weak but steady, and she nodded. "Better than yesterday."

James exhaled, his gaze flicking to his legs, still heavy and unresponsive beneath the thin hospital blanket. "Arms are one thing," he muttered. "The rest… taking too long."

Madeleine's lips pressed into a thin line. She knew the frustration was eating at him—James was a man of action, not patience. She sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him. "You're alive, James. That's more than most would have managed."

His eyes met hers, sharp and unyielding. "Alive's not enough."

Madeleine's chest tightened. She wanted to argue, to tell him to stop pushing, to let his body heal. But she knew him too well. Instead, she reached for the small tray beside the bed, picking up a stress ball the physical therapist had left. She pressed it into his hand. "Start with this."

James raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, but he took the ball, squeezing it slowly. His knuckles whitened with the effort, and a faint sheen of sweat appeared on his brow. He didn't complain, though—just kept working, his jaw set.

Mathilde looked up from her drawing, her eyes bright with curiosity. "Papa, are you getting strong again?"

James paused, his expression softening as he looked at her. "Trying to, mon trésor."

Mathilde hopped off her cot, clutching her latest masterpiece. She climbed onto the bed, careful not to bump his legs, and held up the drawing. "This is you," she said, pointing to the fox with the red scarf. "He's strong. Like you."

James managed a faint chuckle, his voice still hoarse. "I like the scarf."

Mathilde beamed, settling against his side. Madeleine watched them, her heart aching with a mix of love and fear. She wanted to freeze this moment, to keep them safe in this quiet room forever. But she knew better. The world outside wouldn't wait.

Later that morning, the physical therapist arrived—a brisk, no-nonsense woman named Claire. She carried a clipboard and a determined expression, undeterred by James' reputation or his stubborn glare.

"Mr. Bond," she said, setting down her clipboard. "We're going to try some leg movement today."

James' eyes narrowed. "I'm not an invalid."

Claire didn't flinch. "No, you're not. But you're not running marathons yet either. Small steps."

Madeleine hid a smile as James shot her a look, clearly unimpressed with the idea of "small steps." But he didn't argue as Claire adjusted the bed, raising it to a slight incline. She guided his legs through a series of gentle exercises—lifting one knee an inch, then the other, holding each movement for a few seconds before lowering it.

James gritted his teeth, his face tight with concentration. The movements were small, almost imperceptible, but Madeleine could see the effort it took. His legs trembled, the muscles weak from disuse and trauma. Claire kept her voice steady, encouraging but firm, as she guided him through the routine.

"You're doing well," she said after a few minutes. "Better than I expected."

James snorted softly, his breath uneven. "Low expectations."

Claire smirked. "You'd be surprised how many people give up on day one."

Madeleine watched from the corner, her arms crossed. She could see the frustration in James' eyes, the way he hated every second of his weakness. But she also saw the determination—the same fire that had kept him alive through countless missions, through bullets and blood and betrayal.

When Claire finished, she handed James a list of exercises to practice on his own. "Twice a day," she said. "No more, no less. Push too hard, and you'll set yourself back."

James nodded curtly, already reaching for the stress ball again. Claire glanced at Madeleine, offering a small smile. "He's a fighter."

Madeleine nodded, her throat tight. "Always has been."

After Claire left, James leaned back against the pillows, his chest rising and falling heavily. He was exhausted, but he didn't admit it. Instead, he picked up the stress ball, squeezing it rhythmically.

Madeleine sat beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm. "You did good."

James glanced at her, his expression unreadable. "Not good enough."

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "You're getting there."

He didn't respond, but his hand found hers, his fingers curling around her own. The gesture was small, but it said everything he couldn't.

After 4 days:

James was healing. Slowly, but undeniably.

Every day, he moved a little more.

Every day, he fought to regain what had been taken from him.

But tonight, for the first time in what felt like forever—he wasn't just a patient.

He was a man.

Her man.

Physiotherapy was brutal.

James had expected that.

What he hadn't expected was how damn difficult it was just to do the most basic things.

Lifting his arms. Moving his legs. Holding his balance.

Madeleine was always there, watching. Encouraging.

But she never pitied him.

Not once.

Which is why, when he finally walked three steps without assistance, she only smirked.

"Took you long enough," she teased.

James let out a slow breath, catching himself against the parallel bars.

He turned his head toward her, breathing heavily.

His voice was still hoarse, but strong enough to reply—"You try getting shot, then we'll compare."

Madeleine laughed softly. And for the first time in a long time—James did too.

That night, James sat in bed, his back against the pillows, his body exhausted but his mind awake.

Madeleine sat beside him, close enough to touch but still giving him space.

She was watching him.

Not in the way the doctors did—checking his vitals, monitoring his progress.

She was watching him like a woman watching the man she loved.

James felt it.

Felt the shift between them.

Felt the warmth of it.

"You're staring," he murmured, his voice rough.

Madeleine smiled softly. "I haven't seen you like this in a long time."

James arched a brow. "Weak?"

Her lips twitched. "Alive."

James let out a slow exhale, his stubble scratching against the blanket as he turned his head toward her.

Madeleine reached out, fingertips grazing his jaw.

She hummed softly. "I like this."

James arched a brow. "What, me being unable to move properly?"

She chuckled. "No. The stubble."

Her fingers brushed over it again, just lightly.

James' breath hitched.

Madeleine was so close now.

Closer than she had been in weeks.

Months.

And James realized—this was their first real moment alone.

No doctors. No beeping machines. No hovering nurses.

Just them.

Just this.

Madeleine's fingers didn't move away.

She traced his jaw, slow, teasing, thoughtful.

"You like it spiky?" James murmured.

Madeleine hummed. "I do."

James' lips twitched into something close to a smirk.

Madeleine tilted her head, her gaze flickering over his face, settling on his mouth.

And James saw it.

The way she was thinking about it.

The way she was debating it.

His voice was low, raspy.

"You can kiss me, you know."

Madeleine's breath hitched.

Then—she moved.

She leaned in slowly, carefully, but when their lips met—

It wasn't careful at all.

It was everything.

Soft, warm, lingering.

James felt her exhale against him.

Felt the way she melted just slightly.

The way her fingers curled against his jaw, holding him there.

Like she had been waiting.

Like she had been afraid he would disappear if she let go.

James kissed her deeper.

Slower.

His body was weak, broken— but at that moment, he felt whole.

When they pulled apart, Madeleine's eyes were damp.

She pressed her forehead against his.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"You came back to me."

James swallowed hard, his fingers brushing over hers.

"Always."

Madeleine's hands didn't leave him.

Not this time.

Not after so many nights spent wondering if she'd ever touch him again.

Her fingers moved slowly, tracing over the bare skin of his chest.

Soft. Careful.

James shivered slightly.

Not from the cold.

From her.

From the way she touched him like she was memorizing him all over again.

Like she wasn't sure if this was real.

James' body was different now.

Weaker. Marked by scars that hadn't been there before.

But Madeleine didn't hesitate.

Her fingertips traced the newest wound—the place where the bullet had nearly taken him.

James exhaled slowly, watching her.

She wasn't crying.

But she was thinking.

And James knew exactly what was going through her mind.

How close she had come to losing him forever.

He reached for her hand, pressing it flat against his chest.

Against his heartbeat.

Slow. Steady. Real.

"I'm here," he murmured. Voice low. Rough. Honest.

Madeleine's breath shook.

She swallowed, nodding slowly. "I know."

But he saw it.

The way she still needed to feel it.

To believe it.

So James held her there.

Letting her touch him. Feel him.

Letting her know—he was still hers.

Madeleine let out a slow breath, pulling back slightly.

Her gaze flickered toward the couch.

James followed her eyes.

Mathilde was curled up against the cushions, breathing softly, completely at peace.

Safe.

James' chest tightened.

He had missed so much.

And yet, somehow—they had found their way back to him.

Madeleine's voice was quiet. Soft.

"She didn't leave your side for a month."

James' throat tightened. "…She stayed?"

Madeleine nodded. "Every single night."

James exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

He wasn't a man who got second chances.

He wasn't a man who expected love like this.

But somehow—he had it.

And he wasn't going to waste it.

His fingers curled around Madeleine's, pulling her back toward him.

Close. Where she belonged.

"Come here," he murmured.

She didn't hesitate.

She rested her head against his chest, listening to the heartbeat that she had fought so hard to keep.

James pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the top of her head.

And for the first time in years—he felt like he had a home.

Madeleine let out a soft breath.

"I used to dream about this," she murmured.

James tilted his head slightly, glancing down at her.

She was still tracing small circles on his chest, her touch absentminded but soothing.

"What?" he asked, voice still rough from disuse.

She swallowed. "Holding you again."

James exhaled slowly.

His fingers curled against her waist, not gripping—just holding.

Just keeping her close.

"I never stopped thinking about you," he admitted. Soft. Honest.

Madeleine lifted her head slightly, meeting his eyes.

"You left."

James held her gaze. Didn't flinch.

"I thought I had to."

Madeleine's lips pressed together. She wasn't angry. Not anymore.

She was remembering.

Remembering the pain of watching him walk away.

The ache of being left behind.

James swallowed, his thumb brushing over her wrist.

"I regretted it," he murmured. "Every day."

Madeleine let out a soft, breathless laugh.

"Good."

James smirked. Just barely.

They lay in silence for a while.

Neither needed to speak. Not yet.

But eventually, Madeleine did.

"Do you believe me now?"

James frowned slightly. "Believe what?"

She lifted her hand, placing it over his heart again.

"That I never betrayed you."

James inhaled slowly, his chest rising beneath her touch.

He covered her hand with his, holding it there.

"I believe you."

Madeleine didn't move.

Her lips parted, like she wanted to say more.

But James beat her to it.

"I was a fool to ever doubt you."

Madeleine's breath hitched.

James shifted slightly, ignoring the dull ache in his body.

"You loved me," he continued, his voice quieter now.

His fingers tightened around hers.

"And I threw it away."

Madeleine shook her head. "You were scared."

James scoffed. "I was a damn idiot."

Madeleine smiled softly. "That too."

James let out a slow, rough chuckle.

Then—a pause.

His eyes met hers again, something deeper settling between them.

"Do you still love me?" he asked.

His voice was softer this time.

Careful. Vulnerable.

Madeleine's lips parted slightly, her gaze locking onto his.

Then, slowly, she leaned in.

And when she kissed him—it was her answer.

The kiss was slow. Lingering. Deep.

Madeleine melted into him, her hands sliding gently into his hair, fingers threading through the strands.

James groaned softly, his hands resting on her waist, holding but not gripping.

Just feeling.

Just remembering.

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

"I never stopped," she whispered.

James swallowed hard.

Then, his lips found hers again.

Not rushed. Not desperate.

Just theirs.

When they finally parted, Madeleine didn't move far.

She rested her head against his chest again, listening to the heartbeat she had fought so hard to keep.

James exhaled slowly, his fingers brushing over her spine.

For the first time in years, he felt like he belonged somewhere.

Like he belonged to someone.

James had spent weeks trapped in weakness.

His body had betrayed him, refused to move, refused to fight.

But now—things were changing.

His muscles were stronger. His breathing was steadier.

And for the first time since waking up—he felt like himself again.

Chapter Text

One week later, the hospital room felt less like a cage. The sterile walls, the incessant beeping, the faint antiseptic smell—they hadn't changed, but James had. His progress was measurable now, not just in inches of movement but in the fire that burned brighter in his eyes. The first time he stood without support, Madeleine had watched, her heart pounding with a mix of pride and apprehension. He'd wobbled, his legs screaming from the effort, but he'd stayed upright, his jaw set, his gaze defiant. She hadn't interfered, hadn't reached out to steady him. She knew he needed this—needed to reclaim himself.

"You're getting stronger," she'd said, her voice soft but warm.

"Damn right I am," he'd replied, his smirk a shadow of the old James Bond, the one who could walk into any room and own it.

That morning, Madeleine had brought him clothes—a black sweater, dark jeans, a pair of boots. No more hospital gowns, no more vulnerability laid bare. When she set them on the chair beside his bed, James had raised an eyebrow, his voice low and teasing. "You want me to look presentable?"

"I want you to look like you again," she'd shot back, her smirk matching his.

It was a challenge, and James never backed down from one.

He'd swung his legs over the bed, feet hitting the floor with a quiet thud. Madeleine had stepped forward instinctively, ready to help, but he'd stopped her with a look. "I can do it," he'd muttered, his tone stubborn but not harsh.

She'd arched a brow, unconvinced. "Oh?"

He'd reached for the sweater, but the movement—lifting his arms—sent a sharp jolt of pain through his torso. His wince was subtle, but Madeleine caught it. She smirked, stepping closer. "That's what I thought."

Before he could protest, she took the sweater, guiding his arms through the sleeves with a gentleness that belied her strength. Her fingers brushed against his skin, careful but sure, navigating the bandages and bruises with practiced ease. James exhaled sharply as the fabric settled over his shoulders, covering the evidence of his ordeal. Madeleine stepped back, tilting her head to study him.

"There," she murmured. "Much better."

James rolled his shoulders, testing the fit, the weight of the clothes grounding him. For the first time in weeks, he felt like himself—not a patient, not a man clinging to life, but James Bond. His eyes met hers, sharp and focused, the blue cutting through the haze of recovery.

"I'm ready," he said, his voice low but steady.

Madeleine's breath hitched. "For what?"

His smirk returned, a glint of danger in it. "To get out of here."

James sat on the edge of the hospital bed, dressed, alert, and impatient.

He had spent too long in this place.

Too many nights staring at the ceiling, feeling useless, feeling trapped in his own body.

But now—he was ready.

Or at least, he thought he was.

The doctor had other ideas.

Dr. Laurent stood in front of James, arms crossed, expression firm.

"You're improving," he admitted. "But you're still not fully recovered."

James arched a brow. "So?"

Laurent sighed. "So, if you push yourself too hard, too fast, you'll end up right back in this bed."

James smirked slightly. "You act like I'm planning to run a marathon."

Madeleine let out a quiet huff, arms folded.

"You would if you could," she muttered.

James didn't deny it. His smirk widened, but his gaze flicked to Mathilde, who was quietly coloring on her cot, oblivious to the tension. The sight of her grounded him, a reminder of why he was pushing so hard. He turned back to Laurent, his tone measured but firm. "I've been through worse. I know my limits."

Laurent raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Do you? Your ribs are still healing, your lung capacity isn't what it was, and your legs—" He gestured to the cane leaning against the bed. "You're barely managing a dozen steps without support."

James' jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He knew the truth in Laurent's words, felt it in the ache that lingered in his bones, the way his legs still trembled after a short walk. But he also knew the world outside wasn't waiting for him to be whole again.

Madeleine stepped forward, her voice calm but unyielding. "What's the timeline, Doctor? Realistically."

Laurent hesitated, glancing between her and James. "If he keeps up with therapy and doesn't overdo it, he could be discharged in two weeks. Maybe less. But he'll need outpatient care—physical therapy, regular check-ins. And no strenuous activity for at least a month."

James snorted softly, his fingers tapping against his knee. "A month."

Laurent's eyes narrowed. "Yes, Mr. Bond. A month. Unless you want to risk permanent damage."

Madeleine shot James a look, one that said don't even think about it. She turned back to Laurent. "We'll follow your advice. For now."

Laurent nodded, though he looked skeptical. "I'll check in tomorrow. Stick to the exercises Claire gave you, and don't—" He pointed at James. "—try anything heroic."

James' lips twitched, but he said nothing as Laurent left the room. The door clicked shut, leaving a heavy silence in its wake.

Madeleine turned to James, her arms still crossed. "He's right, you know."

James leaned back against the pillows, his smirk fading. "Doesn't mean I have to like it."

She sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You don't have to like it. You just have to listen."

He met her gaze, his blue eyes sharp despite the fatigue etched into his face. "I'm not good at sitting still, Madeleine."

She reached for his hand, her fingers brushing over his knuckles. "I know. But you're not doing this alone."

Mathilde looked up from her coloring, her small voice breaking the tension. "Papa, are you going to be all better soon?"

James' expression softened instantly. He beckoned her over, and she scrambled onto the bed, careful not to jostle him. "Getting there, mon trésor," he said, his voice gentler now. "Just need a bit more time."

The hospital routine tightened around James' determination. Mornings were for Claire's relentless therapy sessions. She'd pushed him to walk farther each day, the cane a grudging necessity. By the end of the week, he could manage a slow lap around the room without stopping, though his legs burned and his breath came in short, controlled bursts. Claire was pleased but cautious, reminding him daily not to overdo it. "You're stubborn," she'd say, "but don't be stupid."

James would smirk, but he followed her instructions—mostly. He'd sneak in extra reps with the stress ball when no one was watching, his hands growing steadier, his grip stronger. Madeleine caught him once, shaking her head as she confiscated the ball. "You're impossible," she muttered, but there was no heat in her words.

Then—a knock at the door.

And when it swung open, James immediately knew his day had just gotten longer.

M stood in the doorway, calm, composed, unreadable as always.

But James saw it.

The brief flicker of relief behind his sharp gaze.

Madeleine straightened slightly.

M took a slow step inside, eyeing James carefully.

"Bond."

James leaned back slightly, crossing his arms.

"M."

A long pause.

Then, finally—M sighed. "I've should have know that we will never get rid of you, 007."

"How do you found me." James asked.

"You should know that we have people everywhere, and that some walls have ears."

James smirked faintly. "I thought MI6 stopped listening in on my life after I 'died.'"

M didn't look amused. "That's exactly what I came to ask you about."

He stepped closer, hands folded behind his back, his usual mask of control firmly in place. "We thought you were dead, Bond. No contact. No trace. Not a single bloody sign of life after Safin's island."

His gaze sharpened. "So imagine my surprise when I learn that not only have you been alive this entire time, but you've been lying in a hospital bed"

James sighed, leaning slightly against the pillows. "I didn't exactly plan it this way."

M's jaw tightened. "Then explain it to me. Because from where I'm standing, you abandoned your country. Abandoned MI6. And now I find you here, barely breathing, and once again at the center of someone's crosshairs."

James held his gaze, unflinching. "I walked away. That's all."

M scoffed. "You don't get to just walk away, Bond. Not from this life. Not from the enemies you've made. And certainly not from the people who risked everything to cover for you."

James frowned. "Cover for me?"

M inhaled deeply, clearly not pleased. "After your… disappearance, we had to clean up the mess. It wasn't just MI6 that assumed you were dead. There were people—dangerous people—who were too interested in your fate. And we made sure they believed what we wanted them to."

James' fingers twitched slightly against the sheets. "So you let them think I was gone."

M's expression didn't change. "We did what we had to do."

Madeleine, who had been silent until now, finally stepped forward. "And yet, here you are. So why now?"

M glanced at her briefly before turning his gaze back to James. "Because if I found you, someone else will too. And considering your current state, you're in no position to handle it."

James clenched his jaw. "I'll manage."

M arched a brow. "Oh? You can barely walk, let alone fight. I've seen ghosts in better shape than you."

James' smirk returned, but it didn't reach his eyes. "That almost sounds like concern, sir."

M exhaled sharply. "Don't flatter yourself. I just need to know if this mess is going to spill onto MI6's doorstep."

James' expression darkened slightly. "It already has."

M's eyes narrowed. "Explain."

James exchanged a brief glance with Madeleine before focusing back on him. "Mr. White wasn't dead."

M froze.

It was subtle. Barely there. But James had known him long enough to recognize when something caught him off guard.

"He's been after us," Madeleine said softly. "He nearly succeeded."

M exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple. "And you're just telling me this now?"

James smirked faintly. "Forgive me, I've been a little preoccupied bleeding to death."

M shot him a look before his eyes hardened.

"And where is he now?"

James' smirk disappeared. "Gone. For now."

M shook his head. "Bloody hell."

James let out a slow breath, voice lower now. "That's why we need your help."

M crossed his arms. "You expect MI6 to step in?"

James' expression was serious. "I expect you to remember that Mr. White wasn't just my enemy. He was MI6' too."

M stared at him for a long moment.

Then—finally—he nodded.

"Fine," he muttered. "But don't think for a second that this means you're off the hook, Bond."

James chuckled, rolling his shoulders slightly. "Wouldn't dream of it."

M exhaled, turning toward the door. "I'll see what I can dig up. In the meantime—try not to get yourself killed again."

James smirked. "No promises."

M shot him a final glance before disappearing through the door.

Madeleine let out a slow breath. "That went well."

James sighed, shifting slightly. "For now."

M stood at the foot of James' bed, his presence filling the room with an authority that even the sterile hospital walls couldn't diminish. His sharp eyes flicked between James and Madeleine, assessing, calculating. Mathilde, still coloring on her cot, glanced up briefly, her small brow furrowing at the new face before she returned to her foxes. The tension in the room was palpable, a tightrope stretched between past loyalties and present dangers.

James leaned back against the pillows, his black sweater and jeans making him look more like the agent M once knew, though the cane leaning against the bed betrayed his fragility. His smirk was gone, replaced by a steely resolve. "We can't stay here," he said, his voice low but firm. "White's too close."

M's jaw tightened, his hands still clasped behind his back. "You're in no condition to go anywhere, Bond. You can barely stand for a minute without shaking."

James' eyes narrowed, but he didn't argue. He knew M was right—his body was still a patchwork of healing wounds and weak muscles—but he also knew staying put was a death sentence. "Doesn't matter. He's not waiting for me to get better."

Madeleine stepped closer, her arms crossed, her voice steady despite the storm brewing in her chest. "He's right. My father's already found us once. He'll do it again."

M's gaze shifted to her, his expression unreadable. "And you're certain it's him? Not some ghost from Bond's past stirring up trouble?"

Madeleine's eyes darkened. "I know my father. He doesn't stop."

M exhaled sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "This is a bloody mess." He turned back to James, his tone clipped. "You realize what you're asking? MI6 isn't your personal cleanup crew. You walked away, Bond. You made that choice."

James' jaw clenched, but his voice remained calm. "I didn't walk away from this fight. White made it personal."

M held his gaze for a long moment, the silence heavy with unspoken history. Finally, he nodded, his voice low. "Alright. But we do this my way. No heroics, no running off half-cocked. You're not 007 anymore—not officially."

James' lips twitched, a faint spark of his old defiance. "Never needed a number to get the job done."

Madeleine shot him a look, but M ignored the quip, his focus shifting to logistics. "We need to move you. All of you." His eyes flicked to Mathilde, softening for a fraction of a second before hardening again. "There's an SUV waiting outside. Armored, discreet. It'll take you somewhere else—off the grid, MI6's jurisdiction."

"Then..let's go" James said before M turned towards the door.

The hospital doors slid open.

For the first time in weeks, James felt fresh air on his skin.

It was a simple thing—the crisp evening breeze, the distant hum of the city, the faint scent of rain in the air.

But to James, it felt like stepping into another world.

A world that had kept moving while he had been stuck between life and death.

A black SUV was waiting at the curb, its engine idling softly.

James instinctively scanned the street, his training kicking in, despite the exhaustion in his body.

Too many cars. Too many places for someone to hide.

Madeleine noticed.

She squeezed his hand briefly. "We're safe for now."

James wasn't sure he believed that.

But he let her guide him toward the car anyway.

Mathilde climbed in first, curling into the seat. She had barely said a word.

Madeleine helped James in next, her grip firm but not forceful.

Then—they were on the move.

M had handled everything.

The hotel was discreet, tucked away in a quieter part of the city.

Not luxury, but not forgettable either. A place where people came and went unnoticed.

James was grateful.

Not that he'd admit it.

When they arrived, a key was already waiting at the front desk. No questions. No paperwork.

James took it, ignoring the way the receptionist eyed him—probably wondering why he looked like he had barely survived a war.

Madeleine guided him toward the elevator, Mathilde's small hand gripping hers.

No one spoke until they were inside the room.

The door shut behind them.

And for the first time in what felt like forever—they were alone.

The hotel suite was modest but comfortable.

A main sitting area, a kitchenette, and a bedroom with a large enough bed for all three of them—not that James planned on sleeping much.

Madeleine immediately started checking the space.

James smirked faintly, watching her inspect every window, every possible exit.

"You've picked up a few habits," he murmured.

Madeleine glanced over her shoulder. "I learned from the best."

James let out a slow breath, lowering himself onto the couch. His body protested, but he ignored it.

Mathilde climbed up beside him, her small hands pressing against his arm.

James turned his head slightly. "You alright, mon trésor?"

She nodded slowly.

Then, after a moment—"Are we staying here forever?"

James' chest tightened.

Madeleine sat down on the other side of Mathilde, tucking her hair behind her ear. "No, sweetheart. Just for a little while."

Mathilde looked up at James. "Until you're all better?"

James swallowed hard.

He hated how long that might take.

But he nodded. "Yeah. Until then."

Mathilde seemed satisfied with that.

She curled into his side, small, warm, trusting.

James exhaled, letting his head rest against the couch.

The room was dark, lit only by the dim glow of the city outside.

James lay on his back, his body still aching, his mind still restless.

But for the first time in weeks—he wasn't alone.

Mathilde was curled up beside him, her small body tucked against his arm, her breathing slow and even.

She had fallen asleep easily—something that hadn't happened in a long time.

And James felt it.

The warmth of her trust.

The quiet, unspoken shift between them.

She was beginning to see him as her father.

And James wasn't sure how to handle that.

On the other side of the bed, Madeleine watched them.

She was lying on her side, head resting on her hand, her eyes softer than he had ever seen them.

James glanced at her. "You're staring again."

Madeleine smiled faintly. "Can you blame me?"

James let out a slow breath. "You should sleep."

She hummed. "So should you."

James didn't reply.

Madeleine tilted her head slightly. "She loves you, you know."

James' chest tightened.

His fingers curled slightly, his arm resting protectively around Mathilde's tiny frame.

Loves him.

That word felt too big. Too undeserved.

Madeleine must have seen the hesitation on his face.

She reached across the bed, her fingers brushing against his wrist.

"She doesn't say it yet," she murmured. "But she does."

James swallowed, his throat tight.

"She barely knows me."

Madeleine smiled softly. "She knows enough."

James exhaled, letting his head sink into the pillow.

There was a long silence.

Then, Madeleine whispered—"And so do I."

James turned his head slightly, meeting her gaze.

She looked calm. Sure.

Like she had already decided a long time ago.

James let out a slow breath.

"I'm not good at this," he admitted.

Madeleine smirked slightly. "That's what you think."

James arched a brow.

Madeleine reached over, her fingers brushing lightly against Mathilde's hair.

"You're here, James. That's all she needs."

James wasn't sure if that was true.

But he wanted it to be.

He glanced down at Mathilde, watched the way she had curled into him so naturally.

Like she belonged there. Like he belonged there. Madeleine's fingers slid over his wrist again. A small touch. Grounding. James sighed. Heavy. Relieved. He was exhausted. More than he wanted to admit. And for once—he let himself close his eyes.

Madeleine's voice was soft, just before sleep took him.

"You're exactly what she needs, James."

James' fingers tightened slightly around Mathilde's hand. - The morning was quiet.

James stirred awake, the soft weight of Mathilde still curled beside him, her small hand resting against his chest.

Madeleine was already up, sitting in a chair near the window, gazing out at the city.

For a moment, everything felt normal.

Like they were just a family waking up to a new day.

Then—the phone rang.

And just like that, reality came crashing back.

He pressed it to his ear. "M."

M's voice was sharp, to the point.

"We have a problem."

James exhaled. "We always do."

M wasn't in the mood for humor. "We found something."

James' expression darkened. "White?"

Chapter Text

M paused, the silence heavy. "Not exactly. But close. One of his operatives was spotted in Turin last night, less than ten miles from your location. We're pulling intel now, but it's too close for comfort."

James' grip tightened on the phone, his mind already racing. "How solid's the sighting?"

"Solid enough," M replied. "Facial recognition from a street camera. Low-level, but connected to Mr. White. We think he's scouting."

Madeleine crossed the room, her footsteps silent, and sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't need to hear M's side of the conversation to know it was bad—James' expression told her enough. She reached for Mathilde's hand, gently brushing her daughter's hair as she listened.

James' voice was low, controlled. "What's the play?"

M's tone hardened. "You stay put. The safehouse is secure, and we've got a team en route to reinforce it. ETA six hours. Until then, you keep your head down and let us handle it."

James' lips twitched, a faint smirk masking his frustration. "Keep my head down. Not my style."

"Make it your style," M snapped. "You're in no shape to take on this, Bond. Not yet. And you've got more than yourself to think about now."

James' gaze flicked to Mathilde, still asleep, her small chest rising and falling. His jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. "Understood."

M exhaled, his voice softening slightly. "We're tracking the operative. If he's part of a larger move, we'll know soon. Tanner's sending you a dossier—encrypted, on the burner. Study it. But don't do anything stupid."

James' smirk returned, though it didn't reach his eyes. "No promises."

M muttered something unintelligible before the line went dead.

Madeleine's eyes met James', her voice low but firm. "What did he say?"

James set the phone down, his hand resting lightly on Mathilde's back. "They spotted one of White's men. Turin. Close."

Madeleine's stomach twisted, but she kept her expression steady. "How close?"

"Too close." James' voice was grim, his eyes scanning the room as if expecting an attack at any moment. "M wants us to sit tight. Team's coming to secure the place."

Madeleine nodded, her mind already working through contingencies. She'd spent enough time with James to know sitting tight wasn't in his nature, and she wasn't sure it was in hers anymore either. "And you're going to listen?"

James arched a brow, a spark of his old defiance flickering. "For now."

She sighed, her hand tightening around Mathilde's. "We need a plan, James. If they're this close, we can't just wait."

He nodded, his expression hardening. "I know. But we've got Mathilde. We play this smart."

Mathilde stirred, her eyes fluttering open. "Papa?" she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

James softened instantly, his hand brushing her hair. "Right here, mon trésor."

She sat up, rubbing her eyes, her stuffed bunny clutched in one hand. "Are we safe?"

James exchanged a glance with Madeleine, his chest tightening. He wanted to lie, to tell her everything was fine, but she deserved better than that. "We're keeping you safe," he said, his voice steady. "Always."

Mathilde nodded, accepting his answer, and curled back against him. Madeleine watched them, her heart aching with love and fear. She stood, moving to the kitchenette to start coffee, needing something to keep her hands busy. "What's in the dossier?" she asked over her shoulder.

James reached for the burner phone, pulling up the encrypted file Tanner had sent. "Let's find out."

The dossier was thin but damning. The grainy photo showed a lean man in his thirties, dark hair, unremarkable except for the cold precision in his eyes. Last seen near a café in Turin's old quarter, carrying a burner phone and a concealed blade. Known associates: a network of SPECTRE operatives, all tied to Mr. White. No confirmed location for White himself, but the dossier hinted at a larger operation—something brewing in the region.

James studied the file, his jaw tight, his mind piecing together the implications. Madeleine leaned over his shoulder, her eyes scanning the details. "He's a scout," she said quietly. "They're testing the waters."

James nodded, his voice low. "Or setting a trap."

Mathilde, now awake and coloring at the small table, looked up. "Is it the bad guys again?"

James forced a smile, setting the phone down. "Just some people we need to keep an eye on, mon trésor. Nothing for you to worry about."

The hotel wasn't safe. It was only a temporary shelter. James needed weapons. He needed a plan. Madeleine stood by the window, watching the streets below. She wasn't speaking, but James knew what she was thinking.

"How long do we have?" she finally asked.

James exhaled. "Not long."

She nodded, already accepting it.

She was calm. Controlled.

But James knew—she was just as ready to fight as he was.

"We need supplies," he muttered. "Weapons, a car, untraceable cash."

Madeleine glanced at him. "You're not in shape for this yet."

James rolled his shoulders slightly.

"I don't have a choice."

Mathilde was still asleep, curled up in the blankets, unaware of the danger surrounding them.

James sat on the edge of the bed, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She barely stirred.

A tightness settled in his chest.

Madeleine sat beside him, her voice softer now. "She trusts you."

James swallowed hard. "She shouldn't have to."

Madeleine reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his.

"But she does," she whispered. "And so do I."

James exhaled slowly, holding onto that for just a moment.

Then, his expression hardened.

"We need to get her somewhere safe."

Madeleine nodded. "I know someone. Someone I trust."

James' eyes narrowed slightly.

"Can they handle this?"

Madeleine's voice was firm. "Yes."

James hesitated.

Then, finally—he nodded.

Because as much as it killed him—Mathilde couldn't be with them when the storm hit.

James stood slowly, testing his strength, his balance.

He wasn't at full capacity.

But he didn't need to be.

He just needed to be good enough to kill.

Madeleine watched him closely. "Are you sure you can do this?"

James smirked slightly, rolling his shoulders. "Would it matter if I wasn't?"

Madeleine sighed. "No. You'd do it anyway."

James nodded. "Exactly."

Madeleine shook her head. But there was something in her eyes—a glimmer of trust, of belief.

She knew he wouldn't stop until they were safe.

James grabbed his coat. "Let's get to work."

James stood in the doorway of the small countryside house, his jaw tight, his fists clenched at his sides. Mathilde had barely woken up yet. She was still drowsy, her tiny hands rubbing at her eyes. She didn't know what was happening. And James hated that.

The door creaked open.

An elderly woman stood in the entryway, her face weathered with age, but her sharp eyes immediately softened when they landed on Madeleine.

"Ah," she sighed, her French accent thick. "I was wondering when you'd come back."

Madeleine smiled weakly. "Bonjour, Elise."

Elise's gaze shifted to Mathilde, and her expression turned warm.

"Mon trésor," she murmured, kneeling slightly to her level. "You've grown."

Mathilde blinked sleepily, then managed a small smile. "Bonjour, Elise."

James watched the interaction carefully.

Elise looked up, her gaze meeting James' with quiet understanding.

She knew.

She didn't ask questions. Didn't need to.

Instead, she simply stepped aside.

"Come in," she said. "We don't have much time."

The house smelled of old books and warm wood.

It was small, but comforting.

Elise had lived here for years—a quiet, hidden life.

And now, for the second time, she was offering them shelter.

Madeleine sat Mathilde down on a small cushioned chair, kneeling in front of her.

Her voice was gentle, but firm.

"Mon trésor, you're going to stay with Elise for a little while."

Mathilde's brow furrowed. "Why?"

Madeleine hesitated.

James watched as she struggled to find the words, to explain this in a way a child could understand.

But in the end, Mathilde already knew.

Her small fingers curled into her mother's sweater. "Because of the bad people?"

Madeleine's throat tightened.

She nodded. "Yes."

Mathilde turned to James, her big blue eyes searching his face.

"Are you leaving too?"

James exhaled slowly. "Just for a little while."

Mathilde hesitated, then reached for his hand.

James let her take it.

Her fingers were small, warm—trusting.

"Will you come back?" she whispered.

James' chest ached. He kneeled beside her, meeting her eyes directly.

"I will," he promised. "No matter what."

Mathilde studied him for a moment. Then—she nodded. She believed him. And James knew—he couldn't let that belief be broken.

Elise watched the exchange in silence.

Then, finally, she spoke.

"I will keep her safe," she said firmly. "You have my word."

Madeleine exhaled, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

"Merci, Elise."

Elise only nodded.

James stood slowly, his body still protesting every movement, but he ignored it.

He turned back to Mathilde, brushing a hand lightly over her hair.

"Be good," he murmured.

Mathilde smiled softly. "I always am."

James smirked, just barely.

Then—he turned toward the door.

Madeleine lingered for a second longer, pressing a kiss to Mathilde's forehead, whispering something James couldn't hear.

Then, finally—she pulled away.

And they walked out the door.

The drive away from Elise's house was quiet.

James stared out the window, his jaw tight, his mind already calculating their next steps.

Madeleine sat beside him, hands folded in her lap, her gaze distant.

Neither of them spoke.

Because the moment they did—it would make everything real.

Mathilde was gone. Safe.

Hiding wouldn't be enough.

James knew that.

They needed firepower.

Madeleine glanced at him. "We can't go in unarmed."

James smirked faintly. "That's the first smart thing you've said all day."

Madeleine rolled her eyes, but a ghost of a smile tugged at her lips.

"I have a contact," she admitted. "Someone who owed my father favors. He might still be in the business."

James raised an eyebrow. "Your father had a lot of 'contacts.'"

Madeleine's expression hardened. "I know. But this one? He won't ask questions."

James studied her for a moment, then nodded. "Let's pay him a visit."

Madeleine pulled into a small gas station, taking a breath before cutting the engine.

James glanced at her.

"You alright?"

Madeleine sighed. "I don't know."

James reached over, brushing his fingers lightly against hers.

Madeleine didn't pull away.

"We'll get through this," he murmured. "We always do."

Madeleine looked at him then, something unreadable in her gaze.

A beat of silence.

Then—she nodded.

The air was cold.

Madeleine pulled her coat tighter around herself as she and James stepped out of the car, their boots crunching against the gravel road.

They were in the outskirts of a small town, far from the prying eyes of cities and security cameras.

James scanned the area, his instincts razor-sharp, despite his body still recovering.

"We sure about this guy?" he murmured.

Madeleine nodded. "He helped my father move weapons for years. If he's still in business, he'll have what we need."

James smirked faintly. "That's what I'm afraid of."

They stopped in front of a run-down auto shop.

Rusting cars sat in the lot, dust-covered and forgotten.

James immediately spotted the security cameras, the reinforced locks, the way the garage door had been modified to withstand a battering.

This wasn't just a business.

It was a bunker.

Madeleine knocked twice, pausing, then knocking again.

A pause.

Then, a voice from inside.

"Leave."

Madeleine exhaled, glancing at James before speaking.

"Vincent, it's me."

A long silence.

Then—metal scraped against metal as a series of locks disengaged.

The door cracked open just enough to reveal a tall, broad-shouldered man in his late fifties, his sharp eyes narrowing the moment they landed on James.

"Swann," he muttered. "You're not alone."

Madeleine tilted her head. "Neither are you."

James smirked faintly.

Vincent glanced over his shoulder—and James immediately caught the flicker of movement in the shadows.

More men. Armed. Watching.

"Are we going to talk," James said casually, "or keep pretending we don't see the snipers on the roof?"

Vincent exhaled sharply, then stepped aside.

"Inside," he muttered.

The interior of the shop was cluttered with tools, spare car parts—and weapons.

James immediately recognized the shelves stacked with crates, the unmistakable smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.

Vincent folded his arms. "What do you need?"

Madeleine didn't hesitate. "Guns. Ammunition. Something that won't fail us when the time comes."

Vincent frowned. "You in trouble?"

James arched a brow. "Would we be here if we weren't?"

Vincent sighed, rubbing his jaw. "I don't run charity deals, Swann. And I don't trust MI6." His gaze flickered toward James. "Not after what your people did to me."

James remained calm. "Then it's a good thing I'm not MI6 anymore."

Vincent studied him for a long moment.

Then—he nodded toward the crates.

"Take what you need. But it'll cost you."

Madeleine exhaled. "We'll pay."

James moved toward the weapons, his fingers grazing over the familiar weight of a pistol.

It felt good to hold again.

But more than that—it felt necessary. The hotel room door clicked shut. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Madeleine set the bag of weapons down, exhaling slowly. They had everything they needed. But James barely registered it. His body still ached. His mind was still racing. And yet—for the first time in weeks, he had a moment to breathe. Without a word, he walked past her, heading straight for the bathroom.

The bathroom light was too bright.

James squinted slightly, gripping the sink as he studied his own reflection.

He barely recognized himself.

His hair had grown longer than usual, the stubble on his jaw rougher, thicker.

He looked… tired.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. He needed to fix this.

His eyes flickered to the small cabinet beside the mirror. He had seen it this morning.

When he opened it, there it was.

A razor. A trimmer.

James stared at it for a long moment.

Should he take it all off?

It would be easier—clean, sharp, familiar.

But then, he remembered Madeleine's voice.

"I like it spiky."

A smirk twitched at the corner of his lips.

Well. That made the decision easier.

Madeleine sat on the bed, lost in thought, until she heard the bathroom door open.

She turned her head—and there he was.

Freshly groomed, his hair trimmed neatly, but not too short. His beard—still there. Still rough. Still exactly the way she liked it.

Madeleine blinked.

James caught her staring and arched a brow. "What?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Instead, she slowly stood up, closing the space between them.

Her fingers reached out, grazing his jaw.

Still rough. Still sharp against her fingertips.

She smiled softly. "You kept it."

James smirked faintly. "Seemed like the right choice."

Madeleine's touch lingered.

Then—she leaned in.

And just like that—the air between them changed.

It started slow.

Her lips barely brushed against his—a test, a tease.

James inhaled sharply, his hands instinctively finding her waist, pulling her closer.

Madeleine sighed into the kiss, her fingers trailing from his jaw to the back of his neck.

His skin was warm. Alive. Real.

She deepened the kiss, tilting her head, pressing against him fully.

James let out a low sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was slow. Deliberate. Lingering.

Like every movement had a purpose. Like every touch meant something.

James pulled back slightly, breathless, his forehead resting against hers.

His voice was low, husky.

"Are you sure?"

Madeleine exhaled slowly, her lips brushing against his.

"I almost lost you," she whispered.

Her hands slid down his chest, fingers tracing over every scar, every reminder of how close he had come to slipping away.

She met his gaze.

"I need you."

James' breath hitched, his hands sliding up her back, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. "Madeleine…" Her name was a low murmur, almost a prayer, as he kissed her again, deeper, slower, savoring every second. His lips traced the curve of her mouth, then her jaw, lingering at the pulse point beneath her ear. She shivered, her fingers tightening in his hair, anchoring herself to him.

The world outside—the dossier, Viper, her father—faded into a distant hum. There was only this: the warmth of his breath against her skin, the steady beat of his heart under her palm, the way his hands moved with a tenderness that contrasted the roughness of his scars. Madeleine's fingers slipped beneath the hem of his sweater, grazing the taut skin of his abdomen, careful of his bandages but bold in their exploration. James tensed, a soft hiss escaping him, but he didn't pull away.

"Careful," he murmured against her lips, a teasing edge to his voice despite the heat in his eyes.

Madeleine smiled, her fingers pausing but not retreating. "I'm always careful," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, sending a shudder through him. She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes fierce with love and determination. "But I'm not letting you go."

James' smirk softened into something raw, unguarded. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone, his touch gentle but sure. "Good," he said, his voice low, rough with emotion. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

Their lips met again, slower this time, a dance of warmth and need. Madeleine's hands roamed his back, feeling the strength beneath the scars, the man who'd fought his way back to her. James' fingers threaded through her hair, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, a quiet claim that said he was hers as much as she was his.

They moved to the couch, James easing down with a faint wince, his injuries still a quiet presence. Madeleine followed, settling beside him, her legs tucked under her, her hands never leaving him. She kissed him again, softer now, her lips lingering on his, savoring the taste of him - something uniquely James.

Every kiss, every touch, was a reminder—that they were still here.

That they still had each other.

And James wasn't going to waste a single second of it.

Madeleine's fingers traced over his ribs, gentle, mindful of the healing wounds beneath.

James let out a slow breath, his hands slipping under her sweater, feeling the warmth of her skin.

She let him pull it over her head, her hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.

James exhaled sharply, his fingers running down the curve of her back.

Madeleine shivered, leaning into him, kissing him again—

Slow. Lingering. Unrelenting.

She moved carefully, guiding him back onto the bed, her body pressing flush against his.

James groaned softly, one hand curling around the back of her thigh, pulling her closer.

She gasped slightly at the contact, her fingers tangling in his hair.

Their bodies shifted, her legs straddling his, careful not to put weight on his injuries.

James tilted his head back as her lips trailed along his jaw, down his throat.

His hands slid lower, gripping her hips, grounding himself in the feeling of her.

She was everywhere.

And he never wanted to let her go.

Madeleine pulled back slightly, her hands slipping under his sweater, her fingers tracing every scar.

James inhaled sharply, watching her.

She looked mesmerized.

Like she was memorizing him.

Like she needed to feel every part of him—to know he was real.

James swallowed hard. "Madeleine…"

She met his gaze, her fingers tightening around the fabric.

"Let me take care of you," she whispered.

James' breath hitched.

Then—he let her.

She pulled his sweater over his head, exposing him completely to her touch.

James shivered as her hands ran down his chest, over the bruises, the fading wounds.

She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss over one of the scars. Then another. Then another. James' fingers dug into the sheets, his body responding to every delicate touch. His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

"Madeleine."

She looked up at him, her eyes dark, filled with something deeper than just desire. Something more. Then—she kissed him again.

James felt like he was unraveling.

Madeleine's touch wasn't just soft—it was reverent. Like every scar, every bruise, was something sacred. A reminder that he was still here. That he had fought, bled, survived. For her.

His hands slid up her back, pulling her closer, needing to feel her warmth against him. Her skin was like fire against his own, her body molding to his in a way that felt inevitable. Like they had always been meant to find each other like this—worn down but still standing, still wanting.

Her lips trailed lower, brushing over the bruises along his ribs, pressing soft, lingering kisses against each one. James let out a slow, shaky breath, his fingers threading through her hair. She wasn't just touching him—she was grounding him, pulling him back from the storm that had been raging inside him for weeks.

"Madeleine," he rasped, his voice rough, needy.

She looked up at him, her eyes dark with something deeper than just desire. Vulnerability. Devotion. A silent promise.

"I almost lost you," she whispered again, her voice breaking slightly. "I need to feel you, James. I need to know you're here."

His chest tightened. He reached for her, pulling her up until their lips met again, slower this time, more deliberate. His hands traced the curves of her waist, slipping under the lace of her bra, feeling the way her breath caught when his fingers brushed against her skin.

Madeleine gasped against his mouth, her body pressing flush against his, every movement a silent plea for more. James tilted his head back as she kissed along his jaw, down his throat, her hands sliding over his chest, his stomach—like she was memorizing him.

He groaned softly, flipping them so she was beneath him, her legs parting instinctively to accommodate him. He braced himself above her, careful, always careful, his lips hovering just above hers.

"Are you sure?" he asked again, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Madeleine's hands framed his face, her thumbs brushing over the rough stubble. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life."

That was all he needed.

James kissed her deeply, letting himself get lost in her, in the way she felt, the way she moved beneath him, in the soft sounds she made as his hands explored every inch of her. Every touch, every kiss, was a silent confession—of how much he needed her, how much she meant to him.

James took his time.

There was no rush, no urgency—only the slow, deliberate unraveling of two people who had spent too long on the edge of oblivion. His hands mapped her body like he was learning her all over again, tracing the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the softness of her thighs beneath his fingers. Every touch, every lingering press of his lips against her skin, felt like a promise.

Madeleine arched into him, her breath catching as he dragged his mouth down the column of her throat, over her collarbone, lower still. She let out a quiet, shuddering gasp when he pushed the straps of her bra off her shoulders, his fingers deft as he slid the delicate fabric away, baring her to him.

James pulled back slightly, his gaze raking over her with something close to reverence. "You're beautiful," he murmured, his voice rough, like the words were scraped from deep inside him.

Madeleine exhaled softly, threading her fingers through his hair, tugging him back down. "Then don't stop looking at me."

A low sound rumbled in his chest as he obeyed, his mouth tracing a path over her skin, slow and unrelenting. He took his time, savoring the way she trembled beneath him, the way her fingers dug into his shoulders when he teased, explored, worshiped.

Her breathing grew uneven, her body arching, restless beneath his touch. "James—"

He hushed her with a kiss, swallowing her sigh as he slipped a hand between them, his fingers skimming the last barrier of lace between them. Her body jolted at the contact, heat pooling between them as he stroked, coaxing soft, broken gasps from her lips.

James watched her, mesmerized. She was breathtaking like this—bare, vulnerable, completely open to him. And she wasn't holding back.

"More," she whispered, her voice trembling.

He groaned against her throat, shifting lower, his mouth following the path his hands had traced moments before. She gasped when his lips replaced his fingers, her body tensing, then melting into him as he worked her apart with slow, precise movements.

Madeleine's hands fisted in the sheets, her breath coming in sharp, uneven pants. "James—oh God—"

He hummed against her, sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her, his grip tightening on her thighs as he held her exactly where he wanted her. She shattered beneath him, her back arching, a soft, desperate moan breaking free as she lost herself completely.

James pressed soothing kisses against her skin as she came down, his hands stroking over her trembling body, grounding her the same way she had grounded him.

She opened her eyes, still dazed, her fingers sliding over his jaw, guiding him back up to her. "I want you," she whispered. "Now."

His breath hitched.

She reached between them, making quick work of the last barrier between them, her touch stealing whatever control he had left. James groaned as she pulled him down, his forehead pressing against hers as he aligned them, teasing her, savoring the way she gasped against his lips.

Madeleine wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer, until there was nothing left between them. He sank into her slowly, inch by agonizing inch, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat as he finally—finally—became part of her.

They both stilled, their breathing ragged, their bodies locked together in something deeper than just desire.

James pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice barely more than a whisper. "You have me."

Madeleine cupped his face, meeting his gaze, her eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. "Then don't ever let go."

He never would.

And as he began to move, slow and deliberate, every thrust, every breath, every whispered moan between them was a promise:

For as long as they had—no matter what tomorrow brought—he was hers. And she was his.

The sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the sheets.

James stirred first, his body still heavy with exhaustion, but for once, it wasn't from pain.

It was from her. From them.

From the way their bodies had moved in sync, from the way she had held onto him like she never wanted to let go.

And James—he hadn't wanted to let go either.

Madeleine was still asleep.

Her hair was a mess of waves against the pillow, her body half-draped over his, her hand resting against his chest.

Her fingers were barely curled, as if she had fallen asleep holding onto him.

James exhaled slowly, letting his hand run softly down her back.

She hummed in response, but didn't wake.

James smiled faintly, his fingers brushing over the marks he had left on her skin.

It had been slow. Lingering.

But it had also been desperate.

Like they had both needed this—needed to remember, needed to feel alive again.

And for the first time in weeks, James did.

He felt alive.

And it had nothing to do with survival.

James tilted his head slightly, glancing toward the clock.

It was still early.

They could afford a few more moments like this.

The world was waiting. The war was coming.

But for now—he had her.

James sighed, closing his eyes again.

Madeleine shifted slightly, pressing closer to him in her sleep.

James tightened his arm around her, holding her there. Because for the first time in a long time—he didn't want to be anywhere else. James wasn't sure how long he lay there, just feeling her.