Twenty-four hours later. Zurich. The Dolder Grand Hotel.
The dirt and blood of the mountain had been replaced by the scent of expensive cologne and French lavender. Silas stood in front of a three-way mirror, his torso wrapped in fresh medical bandages.
The door opened. Elara walked in.
Silas stopped breathing. She was wearing a gown of liquid gold—cut so low in the back it revealed the faint, silvery scar from a mission in Prague they'd shared years ago. Her hair was swept up, pinned by a dagger-thin diamond ornament.
"You look..." Silas struggled for the word.
"Dangerous?" she suggested, walking toward him. She held a black silk tie in her hand.
"Lethal."
She stepped into his space, her scent—sandalwood and something fiercely feminine—filling his lungs. She began to tie his necktie, her fingers grazing his throat.
"Marcus is downstairs with Leo," she whispered. "He's watching the perimeter. Silas... if my father is really there... if he's the Architect..."
"Then we finish him," Silas said, covering her hands with his. "Together."
He tilted her chin up. The "fake" marriage had stopped feeling fake a long time ago. He leaned down, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that didn't belong to a man called the Ghost.
"I'm not letting him take you away from me again, Elara. Not him. Not the Syndicate. Not anyone."
The hotel's secure line chirped. It was M. "The Architect has arrived at the Opera House. He's not alone. He's brought the 'Director'—the head of the CIA's internal affairs. Silas... this isn't just an auction. It's a merger. Ouroboros is taking over the Agency from the inside."