"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 keepmy 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 hergrandmother, 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.
