"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."
I go still. Through the compartment wall, I hear footsteps—purposeful, methodical, stopping at doors.
"Lazarev?" I whisper.
"His people." His palm stays on my shoulder. "Checking compartments. Looking for us."
