Chapter 4
ISABELLA
Remy's hand rests on my knee.
Not moving, not claiming, just there. Warm through the fabric of my borrowed leggings. A reminder that he's here, that he's watching, that I'm under his protection whether I asked for it or not.
I should move away. Assert boundaries. Make it clear I'm not the kind of woman who needs a man's touch to feel safe.
Except I don't move, and the weight of his palm grounds me in a way logic can't explain.
The train speeds through Prague's outskirts, city lights giving way to darkness punctuated by scattered villages.
We're in the middle car like Remy planned, away from exits where threats would enter.
Regular seats, open layout, other passengers scattered throughout.
A businessman a few rows ahead, headphones in, laptop glowing.
An elderly couple across the aisle, already dozing.
A young woman near the front, reading a paperback.
None of them know they're sitting near a woman carrying evidence of weapons trafficking. None of them realize the quiet American in the aisle seat is calculating kill zones and exit strategies.
Remy's attention never stops moving. He tracks every passenger who shifts position, every sound from the corridor, every reflection in the dark windows. His thumb moves slightly against my knee—probably unconscious, just maintaining contact while his focus stays sharp.
I watch Remy's reflection in the glass. Sharp angles, controlled stillness, that sharp-eyed focus that misses nothing. He hasn't slept since the extraction. His ribs are taped beneath that black henley, burns wrapped under the collar. Every breath costs him, but he doesn't slow down.
"You should rest," I say quietly.
"Not yet."
"When?"
"When we're secure." He finally moves, sliding away from my knee to check his phone. "Which won't be for a while."
The loss of contact feels like cold air rushing in. I tell myself I don't miss it.
The businessman ahead stands, stretches, heads toward the bathroom. Remy tracks him the entire way. When the man returns and sits back down, his attention shifts to the young woman with the paperback. She hasn't turned a page in several minutes.
"Is she a problem?" I ask.
"Don't know yet."
"How long before you know?"
"When she either turns that page or puts the book down." He settles back slightly, but tension coils in his shoulders. "Real readers move. Fake readers freeze."
I watch her. Another minute passes. She turns the page.
"Not a threat," Remy says.
The train's rhythm changes as we pass through a small station without stopping. Lights flash by—platform, signs, empty benches. Then darkness again.
My messenger bag sits heavy on my lap. Everything I stole from Geneva, everything that's turned me into a target. Weeks of hiding in Prague, thinking I was smart enough to disappear before anyone found me.
Before Remy pulled me from burning chemicals and explosions.
I watch him in the dim light. The sharp line of his jaw, the scar along his temple that disappears into his hairline, the way his gaze never stops scanning even when he's talking to me. He hasn't slept since the extraction. Every breath costs him, but he doesn't slow down.
The door between cars opens. A conductor enters, crisp uniform, checking tickets. He’s older, tired, with the practiced efficiency of someone who's done this route a thousand times.
He works his way down the aisle. Reaches us.
Remy produces our tickets without being asked. The passports too—I catch a glimpse of the names. Fontaine. Monaco residents married six months ago according to the date.
The conductor glances at me, then at Remy. "Long journey to Budapest?"
"We're used to traveling," Remy says in English.
"Ah. American?" The conductor's English is accented but clear. "Your wife, she is French?"
"Oui," I say softly, playing the role.
The conductor smiles. "Young love, yes? But these seats—" He gestures at the open car, the other passengers. "Not so private for honeymoon. We have sleeper compartment available. Upgrade, very reasonable price."
Remy tenses slightly. I feel him calculating—threat assessment, tactical advantage, cost versus benefit.
"How much?" he asks.
The conductor names a price. Remy doesn't hesitate.
"We'll take it."
Cash changes hands. The conductor's smile widens slightly. "Very good. Compartment in next car forward. More privacy for you and your beautiful wife."
He moves on. Remy stands, offers me his hand.
"Why?" I ask quietly.
"Because anyone searching this train will check open seating first." He pulls me to my feet, steady and certain. "A locked door buys us time. And privacy means we can talk without being overheard."
We gather our minimal belongings. Remy keeps me close as we move between cars, guiding me with that possessive touch at the small of my back. The contact doesn't ask permission—it directs.
The control should bother me. Instead, my body responds with certainty that bypasses logic entirely.
The sleeper compartment is barely wider than a closet. Two narrow bunks, a fold-down table, a door that locks. The window shows darkness rushing past, villages and forests blurring into night.
Remy checks the space with practiced efficiency. Tests the lock, examines the window mechanism, maps the tight confines like he's placing explosives. Then he turns to me.
"Lift your arms."
"What?"
"Arms up. I need to check you for trackers. Physical ones—things that might have been planted on you at the warehouse or the station. In your hair, on your skin, anywhere they could have made contact. I can't scan for electronic bugs, but I can find anything attached directly."
Heat floods my face. "You think they tagged me?"
"I think the Iron Choir is resourceful, and the warehouse was chaos." His expression is professional, clinical. "They could have planted something else. Arms up, Isabella."
It's not a request.
I raise my arms. Remy steps close, moving over my borrowed sweater with impersonal precision. Sides, back, checking seams and hems. He's thorough, methodical, treating this like any other tactical assessment.
Except my pulse is racing, and his proximity does things to my nervous system that have nothing to do with operational security.
"Turn around."
I turn. His palms slide down my spine, along my sides. His touch is warm even through fabric, each movement deliberate and unhurried. He crouches, checking my ankles, running his fingers through my hair.
"Clean," he says, standing. "No physical trackers."
"Good." My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
He gestures to the lower bunk. "You're taking that one."
"You're taller."
"Top bunk gives me better sightlines if someone comes through that door." He's already unpacking—ammunition, knife, phone. Everything methodical. "And you need sleep more than I do."
I sit on the lower bunk because arguing seems pointless. The space is so small our knees would touch if he sat across from me. Instead, he leans against the door, arms crossed, watching me with that sharp intelligence that feels like being studied under a microscope.
"What?" I ask.
"You didn't question the tracker check."
"Should I have?"
"Most people would have." He tilts his head slightly. "You just obeyed."
The word hangs between us. Obeyed. Not cooperated. Not agreed. Obeyed.
"You give orders like you expect them to be followed," I say carefully.
"I do."
"And you're used to people following them."
"I am." He doesn't move, but something shifts in his expression. "Does that bother you?"
Every instinct says to establish boundaries before this—whatever this is—goes somewhere I can't take back.
"No," I hear myself say instead.
Remy's attention sharpens on me, dissecting that single word. "Why not?"
"I don't know." The honesty surprises me. "I've spent my career around men who gave orders like they were doing me a favor. Your authority doesn't feel like that."
"What does it feel like?"
"Like you know what you're doing." I hold his gaze. "Like I can trust you to make the right call when things go wrong."
"That's dangerous, Isabella."
"Is it?"
"Yeah." He pushes off the door, crosses the tiny space, crouches so we're eye level. "Because I'm not a good man. I've made calls that got people killed. I carry those names with me, and they don't get lighter."
"Yemen."
His expression goes blank. Professional. "You don't know anything about Yemen."
"Then tell me."
For a moment, I think he will. His guard drops fractionally, and I see the weight he carries—older than his years, ground down by choices that don't have good answers.
Then he stands, and the walls rebuild.
"Get some rest," he says. "We've got hours before things get complicated."
It's dismissal, clear and absolute. But I've seen what he tried to hide.
I lie down without arguing. The pillow is flat, the mattress thin, everything slightly shabby in the way of trains that have seen better decades. Remy dims the compartment light to barely a glow, then settles on the upper bunk.
The weight of his attention settles over me like a blanket.
"Remy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For coming for me."
Silence stretches. Then: "Sleep, Chère."
I close my eyes and try.
Sleep doesn't come easily, but awareness does. Every sound sharpens—the train's rhythm, footsteps in the corridor beyond, the subtle shift of Remy above me. He barely makes noise, but I feel him there, watching over me against whatever comes next.
Time blurs. I drift without quite sleeping, caught between exhaustion and the hyper-vigilance my body won't release.
The train slows, stops at a small station. I hear doors opening and closing in other cars, new passengers boarding. Voices in Czech, footsteps, the ambient sounds of people moving. Then we're moving again, picking up speed.
Minutes later, Remy touches my shoulder, firm but careful.
"We've got company," he says quietly. "Don't move."