Chapter 7 #3
I force them open. What I see there stops my heart for a full second—the control is gone\], stripped away, and what's underneath is raw and unguarded and entirely focused on me. This is what he keeps locked down. This is what he only lets out here, in this room, with me.
"Come for me," he says. "Right now."
My body doesn't wait for permission. The orgasm breaks like a wave cresting—sudden and total, drawn up from somewhere deep—and I press my face into his shoulder and shake through it while he keeps moving, keeps pushing, working every last tremor out of me.
His rhythm splinters. A low, broken sound against my hair—barely controlled, swallowed almost before it forms—and then his whole body goes rigid, release hitting him in waves I feel from the inside. His grip on my wrists tightens to the edge of pain and eases all at once.
For a long moment neither of us moves.
Then the tension drains out of him in one long exhale, and he drops his forehead to mine, and he is just Remy—not the operator, not the protector, not the man who keeps everything locked behind tactical efficiency. Just Remy, utterly spent, skin warm against mine.
After a moment he withdraws, rolls to his side, pulls me against him. We lie there without speaking, letting the aftershocks fade, letting reality seep back in.
Finally, I turn my head to look at him. "So that's what control looks like."
"That's what it looks like when control fails." He's watching the ceiling, jaw tight. "I meant to take more time. Make it better for you."
"It was perfect."
"It was fast and desperate and probably too rough."
"It was exactly what we both needed." I reach up, touch his face until he looks at me. "Stop overthinking it."
His mouth quirks into something that's not quite a smile, but close. "You're giving me orders now?"
"Someone has to." I trace the line of his jaw, feel him relax slightly. "Besides, I liked it rough. Liked you losing control."
"That wasn't losing control." His hand comes up, catches mine. "That was barely hanging on to it. There's a difference."
"Show me the difference next time."
"Next time you might not be able to walk after."
The promise makes heat pool low in my belly again, even though my body is still recovering. "I'll take my chances."
He pulls me against him, careful of his injuries. We lie there in silence, listening to sounds from downstairs that prove his family hasn't noticed anything unusual.
Voices in the kitchen, cabinet doors closing, Luc's phone ringing.
Normal life continuing while we've just crossed a line that changes everything.
"We should get dressed," I say eventually. "Planning session."
"In a minute."
But a minute stretches into several, neither of us quite ready to leave this moment behind.
Finally, he moves, helps me up, finds my clothes scattered across his bedroom floor.
He picks up the emerald dress. "You'll wear this in New York," he says. "Walk into that room looking like this, and anyone will believe anything you tell them."
"Because of the dress?"
"Because of the confidence." He turns me to face him. "You look like someone who belongs in that world. Someone who makes things happen."
"I'm still just a scientist."
"You're brilliant, brave, and standing in my bedroom wearing expensive silk after letting me take control. You're a lot of things, Isabella. 'Just' isn't one of them."
The words settle something in me, quiet the doubt that's been building since Prague. He sees me—really sees me—and still thinks I'm capable of this.
We make ourselves presentable, check each other for evidence of what just happened. His hair is mussed, but that's normal. My lips are swollen, but lipstick can fix that. I step back into Margot's sundress, hang the emerald gown carefully in his closet for tomorrow.
To anyone else, we'd look like we've just been trying on clothes.
When we head downstairs, Luc is still at the table, now reviewing tactical maps on his tablet. He glances up, nods, goes back to his work without comment.
Margot, however, looks at me once and her expression shifts to something knowing. Years of reading people, of recognizing the signs.
She says nothing, just pours fresh coffee, sets it in front of me with the barest hint of a smile.
"Tu devrais bien dormir ce soir," Margot says.
"Je l'espère bien," I reply.
"Good. You'll represent the family well." Her gaze shifts to Remy, eyebrow raised. "Both of you should rest before tomorrow. New York will be dangerous."
"We know," Remy says.
"Do you?" Margot leans against the counter, arms crossed. "Because it looks like you're taking unnecessary risks already."
The words carry double meaning. Remy's jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn't argue. Just nods.
"We'll be careful," he says.
"See that you are." Margot returns to the kitchen, dismissing us.
By late afternoon, we've stress-tested every contingency for New York—scenarios ranging from simple transaction to violent confrontation. My head aches from tactical thinking. My body aches from everything else.
When Luc finally closes his laptop, I'm grateful for the reprieve.
Later, lying in the guest room, I listen to the sounds of the house settling. Down the hall, Remy is in his bedroom suite—close enough to reach, too far given his family's presence.
Tomorrow we leave for New York. Tomorrow the mission becomes real. The emerald dress hangs in the closet, waiting.
I'll walk into a room full of weapons dealers and pretend I belong there. I'll pretend I'm someone who trades in death for profit.
It should terrify me.
But tonight, I have the memory of his hands on my skin, his voice commanding obedience, his control fraying just enough to show me the man underneath. Tonight, I know what it feels like to surrender completely and discover power in the letting go.
Tomorrow, I'll need all of it.