"And Remy? Watch your six. If they're tracking you this close, they're getting intel from somewhere."
The call ends. Remy drives in silence, tension radiating off him in waves.
"You don't have to do this," I say. "If going home puts your family at risk?—"
"Everywhere puts someone at risk." His voice is flat, measured. "At least in New Orleans, I know the ground. I know who to trust."
"Will they help? Your family?"
The laugh that escapes him is bitter, dark. "That's complicated."
I want to ask why, want to understand the shadows that cross his face when he mentions home. But we've been running for two days, and some wounds aren't mine to probe.
Vienna appears in pre-dawn light, all baroque architecture and sleeping streets. Remy navigates to a residential district, pulls into an underground garage, and leads me to a door I wouldn't notice if I wasn't looking for it.
The safe house is sparse—two rooms, basic furniture, nothing personal. Windows overlook an alley, security bars on the glass, exit routes clearly marked.
Remy checks the coded drop, finds an envelope with cash and instructions. "Passports will be ready by noon. Flight leaves at three."
"That's fast."
"Fitz doesn't waste time." He opens the envelope, counts the cash with practiced ease. "We've got a few hours. You should rest."
Rest. Like my body knows how anymore.
But Remy's already moving, checking windows, mapping exits, doing what he does. Protecting. Planning. Maintaining control over variables that want to spiral.
I watch him work. Understanding settles over me, or maybe it's just recognition finally surfacing.
"Remy."
He turns, alert.
"In the compartment, on the train." I choose words carefully. "You said I needed to trust you when things go sideways."
"I did."
He steps back, and the walls rebuild. "Get some rest," he says. "We've got a long journey ahead."
It's a dismissal, clear and absolute. But I've seen what he tried to hide, and I can't unsee it.
I retreat to the bedroom, close the door, and lean against it. My hands are shaking—not from fear, but from the charged moment we just walked away from.
From the way his touch doesn't ask permission.
From the way I don't want it to.
The safe house has basic supplies. I shower first, washing away Prague and smoke and fear. The clothes in the closet are generic—jeans, a simple sweater, nothing that would stand out. European sizes, slightly loose on me, but they'll work.
When I emerge, Remy's already changed. Dark jeans, a button-down shirt that actually fits him. And his boots—the same custom Lucchese boots he's been wearing since Prague.
"You're keeping those?" I ask.
"Checked them again, twice. They're clean." He sees my expression. "I know the risk, Isabella. But these are custom-made, cost me a fortune. I've had them for years. They fit, they're broken in, and I'm not walking into my family's house in borrowed shoes."
"Your family cares what shoes you wear?"
"My family notices everything." His jaw tightens. "And showing up after years away in somebody else's boots? With a gorgeous woman at my side? That's a conversation I don't need."
