Chapter 36
Raze
The first thing I noticed when I walked into the kitchen was sunlight. The second was her.
Izzy stood at the stove barefoot, wearing nothing but my shirt.
It swallowed her whole — sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem grazing mid-thigh.
Her hair was loose, slightly wild from sleep.
She was humming softly to herself while flipping something in a pan like it wasn’t the morning after the night I burned down her past.
I leaned against the doorway and watched her for a moment without speaking. There was something obscene about how normal this looked. Domestic. Peaceful. Mine.
She sensed me the way she always did and glanced over her shoulder. Her mouth curved slowly when she saw me.
“You’re staring again, Raze.”
“I am.”
She turned back to the stove. “It’s called breakfast. People make it every day.”
“I’m aware.”
But I wasn’t staring at the eggs.
I was, unabashedly, staring at the round of her ass as it moved against my shirt. I’d probably never wash that shirt again.
My mind drifted to last night. The war was over. The Russians were no longer a threat. Nathan was gone. The ghosts that had followed her — followed me — were finally silent.
For the first time in years, I didn’t wake up calculating threats. I woke up calculating how long before she realized I was watching her like a man who had no intention of ever letting her go.
Before I could cross the room and make good on that thought, footsteps sounded behind me.
Tone’s voice cut through the suffocating silence.
“Is it safe to come out now?”
Izzy blinked and turned. I glanced over my shoulder.
Tone stood at the entrance to the hallway, arms crossed, eyebrow raised. She looked rested. Amused. Entirely too pleased with herself.
“Safe?” Izzy repeated.
Tone walked further into the kitchen, eyeing both of us suspiciously. “I just needed to confirm. I value my hearing.”
I frowned. “What are you talking about?”
She looked between us, unimpressed. “You spared no cost when you built this place, Raze. Reinforced windows. Security grid. Panic rooms.” She gestured vaguely at the walls. “But insulation? Apparently optional.”
Izzy froze.
Then slowly, very slowly, she turned pink.
I stared at my sister for a beat. Then I grinned.
Tone rolled her eyes. “Honestly. I considered putting in earplugs. Or a white noise machine. Or relocating to the non-existent garden.”
Izzy covered her face with her hands, embarrassed. “Oh my God.”
“You’re being dramatic, Tone.”
“Am I?” Tone shot back dryly. “Because from where I was standing, it sounded like someone was either being murdered or very enthusiastically not being murdered.”
Izzy groaned.
I pushed off the doorway and walked toward her, sliding a hand around her waist. “If you’re going to eavesdrop—”
“I wasn’t eavesdropping,” Tone cut in. “I was dying.”
She moved past us and grabbed a mug from the cabinet. “For the record, I’m thrilled for you. Truly. Just… consider wall padding… or something.”
Izzy was still blushing, but I could feel her laughter building beneath it.
Tone caught my eye then. And for a split second, the humor faded into something softer.
She was happy for me. Genuinely. She’d watched me lose everything once.
She’d watched me harden. She’d watched me choose war over peace more times than she could count.
And now she was watching me stand in a kitchen with a woman wearing my shirt like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“When do we go home?” she questioned casually, sipping her coffee.
The words felt heavier than they should have.
Home.
Not this house. The other one. The real one. The one that no longer felt like a battleground.
“After breakfast.”
Tone nodded, satisfied. “Good. I’m ready.”
Izzy plated the food and set it down at the table. I pulled out her chair before sitting beside her.
The three of us ate like normal people. It felt strange.
“Well,” Tone stretched the word like it personally offended her, “I suppose this means we’re back to normal.”
I glanced at her. There was a faint crease between her brows — not fear, not even frustration. Reluctance.
Tone without a crisis was like a race car stuck in a school zone. She didn’t idle well. She thrived on urgency. On chaos. On being the calmest person in the room while everything else burned.
Now the fire was out. And she didn’t quite know where to put her hands.
“We’re not exactly in crisis mode anymore,” she added, as if the idea required mourning.
I almost smiled. Tone was dramatic in a way that would’ve been exhausting if it weren’t so predictable.
“You say that like it’s a tragedy, Tone.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I just got used to having a purpose.”
“You have a purpose,” I told her. “You’re just not stitching gunshot wounds in a hallway at three in the morning anymore.”
She considered that.
“Hm,” she said thoughtfully. “I do look good under pressure.”
“That wasn’t a compliment,” I muttered.
“It absolutely was.”
Izzy snorted softly beside her.
Tone crossed her arms. “I’m just saying. It’s very quiet.”
“Yes,” I agreed evenly. “That’s generally what happens when the enemies are dead.”
She waved a hand. “Details.”
I studied her for a second longer. Beneath the theatrics, there was something real there. Adrenaline had been our oxygen for years. Waking up without scanning for threats felt unnatural.
Peace required adjustment.
I leaned back in my chair. “You don’t need a war to be useful.”
Tone arched a brow. “You sure about that? Because historically—”
“Tone.”
She held my gaze for a beat. Then sighed.
“Fine. Maybe I’ll find a hobby,” she decided rather dramatically. “Something safe. Like skydiving.”
Izzy laughed outright.
I shook my head. Back to normal.
If this was normal — breakfast conversations without gunfire, arguments about insulation and hobbies instead of body counts — then maybe we could learn to live in it.
Tone might pretend to miss the chaos. But I saw the relief in her shoulders. We were done fighting for survival. Now we had to learn how to live. And that, apparently, required significantly less drama than my sister preferred.
Tone leaned back in her chair, directing her gaze at Izzy.
“What are you going to do now?” I know that Tone had grown close to Izzy. “Now that you’ve got your life back?”
Izzy hesitated for a second, unsure of herself.
“I’ve been thinking about looking into something more stable. In the arts.” She glanced at me. “Gallery work. Or teaching art. Something steady.”
Something steady.
The idea of her shrinking herself into something small and contained didn’t sit right with me.
“You won’t need to teach unless you want to.”
She frowned slightly. “Raze—”
“I’ll set up a studio. Wherever you want it. Light. Space. No interruptions. You can paint. Sculpt. Throw clay at walls. I don’t care.”
Tone snorted into her coffee.
“I’m serious.”
Izzy stared at me like I’d grown two heads.
I’d burned down half of Tuscany for her. I could build her a damn studio.
“I don’t want to be living off you.”
“You won’t be.”
“How does that work?”
“You create. I fund. We both win.”
Tone shook her head. “You two are ridiculous.”
Maybe. But for the first time, ridiculous didn’t feel like weakness. It felt like freedom.
I watched Izzy laugh at something Tone said next, sunlight catching in her hair.
I’d killed for her. I’d destroyed men for her. But this — this tranquil morning — felt like the real victory.
I had slayed my demons. She had faced hers. And neither of us had walked away.
There was no war left to fight. No revenge left to take. Just the rest of our lives.
“Eat.” I stood and reached for Izzy’s plate when she slowed. “We’ve got a long drive.”
Tone stretched lazily. “Finally. I was starting to think this box was permanent.”