Chapter 6
REMY
"You should rest," I tell Isabella. "It's been a long day."
"So should you."
"After I secure the house."
"Remy." Margot appears in the doorway, arms full of clothes. "Your room's ready. Isabella can use the guest suite just down the hall" She looks at me, something shifting in her expression. "You look terrible. Let her take care of those injuries before you collapse."
It's not quite forgiveness, but it's acknowledgment that I'm here, that I'm family, that maybe the wound can start healing eventually.
"Thank you," I say quietly.
"Don't thank me yet." Margot hands the clothes to Isabella. "We're going to talk later. All of us. About what happened, why you're here, and how long you plan to stay."
"Understood."
She leaves. Luc follows, giving us privacy. I lead Isabella upstairs, past Maman's portrait, past the gallery where light streams through tall windows, to the bedroom that was mine for years before I left for the Navy.
Nothing's changed here either. Same furniture, same books on the shelves, same Navy SEAL recruitment poster I'd hung over my desk in high school. Margot's kept it like a museum, preserving the past because moving forward means accepting that our parents are gone.
Isabella sets the borrowed clothes on the bed, then turns to me with clinical assessment. "Shirt off. Let me check those burns."
"I'm fine."
"You're not." She crosses to me, starts unbuttoning my shirt before I can argue. "You've been running on adrenaline and stubbornness for days. Sit down before you fall down."
The order in her voice does something to me. Not submission, exactly. Recognition, maybe. She's stepping into a role without being asked, and some part of me responds to the challenge.
I sit on the edge of the bed, let her ease my shirt off, exposing the burns and bruises that map every mistake I made extracting her from Prague.
"These need cleaning," she says, examining the burns with gentle fingers. "Where's the medical kit?"
"Bathroom. Cabinet under the sink."
She disappears, returns with supplies. Peroxide, gauze, antibiotic ointment. Her touch is efficient, professional, cleaning wounds that sting but don't quite hurt enough to make me flinch.
Something shifts in me as she works. Not the pain, though that's there.
It's the care itself—methodical, focused, the way her hands move with scientific precision across damaged skin.
I'm used to field medics, to patching myself up in safe houses, to treating wounds as operational necessity rather than something requiring tenderness.
Isabella treats them like they matter. Like I matter beyond my utility as an operator.
"You're good at this," I say quietly.
"I've had practice." She doesn't look up, attention fixed on cleaning a particularly nasty burn along my collarbone. "Research labs have accidents. Chemical burns, equipment failures. I've patched up more colleagues than I care to count."
"Not the same as field injuries."
"No." She pauses, meets my gaze. "But pain is pain. And everyone deserves care when they're hurt, even if they won't admit they need it."
The words land heavier than she probably intends. Her fingers brush the edge of a scar on my ribs—old damage, unrelated to Prague. She traces it without asking, reading the story my body tells. Yemen. The compound. The explosion that killed civilians I was supposed to protect.
She doesn't ask about it. Just acknowledges its existence with that gentle touch before moving on to the next burn.
Luc appears in the doorway, watches without comment. I meet his gaze over Isabella's shoulder—the question's there. Not quite accusation. More like assessment.
"She's under my protection," I say. "Nothing more."
"Right." Luc doesn't sound convinced. "Margot's making dinner. Be ready in an hour."
He leaves. Isabella finishes with the burns, moves to check my ribs. Her fingers probe gently, testing for damage. When I hiss slightly at a particularly tender spot, she frowns.
"Cracked, not broken," she diagnoses. "But you need to rest them."
"After I secure the house."
"Remy." She meets my gaze, something fierce in her expression. "You're no good to anyone if you collapse. Rest. Let your brother handle security for a few hours."
The logic is sound. My body knows it even if my training rebels against trusting someone else with tactical decisions.
"Fine. Few hours. Then I'm checking everything myself."
"Deal." She starts rebandaging the burns, movements precise. "Your family's... intense."
"That's one word for it."
"They love you." She tapes down the gauze. "Even angry, they still love you. I can see it."
"Love doesn't fix what I broke."
"Maybe not." She sits back, studies me. "But it's a start."
Before I can respond, she stands, gathers the medical supplies. "I'm going to shower. Use some of Margot's clothes. Meet you downstairs for dinner?"
"Yeah."
She leaves, and I'm alone in my childhood bedroom with ghosts and guilt for company. I should rest like she said, let exhaustion win for a few hours.
Instead, I move to the window, look out over the back gardens. Magnolias bloom white and fragrant, Maman's roses climbing the fence, everything she loved preserved in this house like amber trapping insects.
Too long. Too many years of running from this place, from the weight of choices that don't have good answers, from family that deserved better than a son who chose duty over presence.
The room behind me holds everything I was before Yemen.
Before the SEALs taught me how to kill efficiently.
Before Cerberus showed me how to kill for the right reasons.
That Navy recruitment poster on the wall—I remember the day I hung it up, seventeen and convinced I knew what service meant. What sacrifice cost.
I didn't know anything.
Now I'm back, bringing danger to their door, asking them to risk everything for a woman they just met because I can't keep my operational priorities straight. Because somewhere between Prague and New Orleans, Isabella stopped being an asset and became something I don't have words for yet.
Dinner proves surprisingly normal. Margot cooked—crawfish étouffée over rice, cornbread still warm from the oven, greens cooked with smoked ham hocks the way Maman always made them.
Must have started it before we arrived, knowing we'd be hungry after the long flight.
We eat in the formal dining room under the chandelier Papa installed for their anniversary, and for a few minutes it almost feels like family again.
Almost.
Isabella takes her first bite of étouffée and closes her eyes. "This is incredible. The depth of flavor—how long did you cook the roux?"
Margot glances up, surprise flickering across her face. "You know roux?"
"I'm a chemist. Roux is just fat molecules bonding with starch under controlled heat application." Isabella smiles. "Though that's a clinical way to describe something this good. Forty-five minutes?"
"An hour." Margot's posture relaxes slightly. "Maman always said you can't rush a proper roux. Dark as chocolate, smooth as silk, hot as hell. That's the trinity of Creole cooking."
"The holy trinity," Isabella says. "Onions, celery, bell pepper."
"You've done your research."
"I've visited before and eaten my way through a few French Quarter restaurants." Isabella takes another bite, considering. "But this is different. More complex. There's something smoky underneath."
"Andouille sausage," Margot says, and there's pride in her voice now. "Maman's recipe. She learned it from her grandmother, who learned it from hers. We've been cooking this dish in New Orleans for generations."
Isabella nods thoughtfully. "Food as cultural preservation. Every technique passed down carries history."
"Exactly." Margot actually smiles. "Most people just shovel it in without thinking about what they're tasting. You're paying attention."
"Hard not to when it's this good."
Luc watches the exchange with something that might be approval. And I track exits, map fields of fire, plan defensive positions even while passing the cornbread and pretending everything's fine.
After dinner, Margot and Luc retire. Margot to her old bedroom upstairs, Luc to the guest house out back. Isabella stands to help with dishes, but I wave her off.
"Go. Get some air. The back gallery's nice this time of night."
She studies me for a moment, then nods and disappears through the French doors.
I clean up methodically, stack dishes, wipe down the table, put everything back exactly where Maman kept it. Muscle memory, doing this by rote while my mind works through variables and calculates risks.
When I finish, Isabella's on the back gallery, leaning against the railing, looking out over the gardens. Magnolias bloom white in the darkness, their scent thick and sweet on the night air. Humidity wraps everything, making the air feel alive, pressing close.
I stop behind her, close enough to catch her scent under the magnolias. She doesn't turn, but her shoulders shift slightly—awareness of my presence.
This has been building since Prague. Since Vienna. Since every moment in between when professional distance became harder to maintain.
"We need to talk," I say quietly.
She turns, moonlight catching her features. "About what?"
"About what's happening between us."
For a moment, she doesn't respond. Then: "I wondered when you'd address it."
"Addressing it now." I step closer, deliberately invade her space. Testing. "This crosses every professional line. You're an asset under my protection. Getting involved is a tactical liability."
"And yet here we are." She doesn't back away. "Having this conversation."
"Here we are." Agreement settles between us. "So let's be clear about parameters before this goes any further."
"Parameters." A smile tugs at her mouth. "How very tactical."