"How do you know?" I whisper.
"Timing. We just moved before that last stop, and suddenly there's a compartment check?" His voice is barely audible. "Realconductors don't work like this. And I heard them board—military cadence, tactical spacing. These aren't rail employees."
My heart hammers. We're the Fontaines from Monaco, honeymooners, perfectly legitimate travelers. We have every right to be here.
The footsteps stop outside our door.
Remy pulls me back against him in one smooth motion, his body curving around me like we've been sleeping tangled together. His free hand covers mine where it's braced on the mattress.
"Stay like this," he breathes against my ear. "Don't tense."
Impossible. Every muscle wants to coil for fight or flight. But Remy's solid against my back, and some part of my hindbrain recognizes safety even as danger knocks on our door.
A sharp rap interrupts the silence. "Kontrola jízdenek."
Ticket inspection—at this hour.
Remy doesn't move for a three-count. Then he shifts, deliberately groggy, and calls out in English, "Yeah, yeah, give us a minute." Annoyed, interrupted honeymoon. The door slides open a few inches.
A man fills the gap—tall, Eastern European features, too sharp-eyed for a conductor. He says something in Czech, gestures for tickets.
Remy makes a show of extracting himself from our supposed sleep, grumbling about honeymoons and privacy. He reaches for the tickets with movements that suggest interrupted intimacy rather than tactical awareness, but I feel the tension in him, coiled and ready.
The man examines our papers with more attention than any real conductor would give. His gaze flicks to me, still in the bunk, and I do what a new bride would do—pull the thin blanket higher, look annoyed at the interruption, refuse to meet his stare.
Modesty serves as misdirection.
Remy mutters in English, "Honeymoon. Privacy.S'il vous plaît." Playing the exasperated American husband perfectly.
Remy extends his hand for the tickets back. The man hesitates, then returns them and moves to the next compartment.
Remy waits until the footsteps fade before sliding the door fully closed and engaging the lock.
"That wasn't a conductor," I say.
"No." He moves to the window, watching the darkness outside. "That was reconnaissance. They're checking every compartment, looking for people traveling alone or in groups. A honeymoon couple doesn't fit their profile."
"Yet."
"Yet," he agrees. "Which is why we're getting off this train."
"We're moving at full speed."
A smile crosses his face, dark and not reaching his gaze. "I know."
Minutes later, the train slows for a scheduled stop—a small station outside Vienna where commuter lines intersect with international routes. Remy has our bag repacked, everything essential in his pockets, exit strategy mapped.
"When I tell you to move," he says, fingers finding my hip, "you move. No hesitation."
The touch is firm, commanding, positioning me where he wants me. I should resent the assumption that I'll simply obey. Instead, my body responds with certainty that has nothing to do with operational necessity.
"I understand," I say.
For a moment everything shrinks to just this—his touch, my response, awareness crackling between us like live current.
"When we move," he says quietly, "stay close. Let me lead."
"I will."
