"This isn't an op. I don't know what it is, but I know that."
"Isn't it?" Her hand finds my chest, palm flat over my heart. "You're already planning how this goes. Mapping variables, calculating risks, figuring out how to protect me while taking what you want. That's control. That's who you are."
She's not wrong. Every word is accurate assessment delivered with precision that bypasses my defenses entirely.
"There are rules," I say quietly. "Lines that don't get crossed. Safe words, boundaries, aftercare. This isn't just about taking what I want. It's about knowing when to push and when to stop. About reading you better than you read yourself."
"And if I trust you to do that?"
"Then you need to understand what you're trusting me with." I catch her wrist, hold her hand against my chest so she can feel my heartbeat. "Control means I decide when, where, how. It means you surrender that decision-making to me. Not because you're weak, but because you're strong enough to let go."
"I'm strong enough," she says without hesitation.
"When we have time," I say quietly. "When it's safe. When I can focus on you instead of keeping you alive. Then I'll show you exactly what control means."
"I'll hold you to that."
The promise hangs between us, charged with everything we're not saying. Everything we're agreeing to once the immediate crisis passes. Everything that's building between us like pressure before a storm.
My phone buzzes. Fitz. I step back, break the moment, answer.
"Talk to me."
"We've been monitoring Lazarev's known associates since Prague." Fitz's voice is tight with urgency. "Someone made contact with high-level buyers in New York. Iron Choir operative negotiating chemical weapons. Meeting's in a few days at a location we're still tracking down."
"Who's the buyer?"
"Don't know yet. But whoever it is has resources. We're talking serious money, serious connections, serious interest in weapons-grade chemical compounds."
I glance at Isabella—she's watching me with that quick intelligence that misses nothing. "Can we intercept?"
"Maybe. But it's going to require fast coordination and we're working on a tight timeline. Chicago office can provide support, but you'll need boots on the ground who know the territory." A pause. "Remy, if we can identify the buyer, we might be able to shut down this whole network before it metastasizes."
"Understood. Send me what you have."
"Sending now. And Remy? Watch your back. This thing's bigger than we thought."
The call ends. I look at Isabella—she already understands what comes next.
"New York," she says.
"Yeah."
Luc's voice comes from the doorway behind us. "New York. Buyer meeting."
I turn to find my brother leaning against the frame, arms crossed. Must have come back during the call.
"You were listening."
"Hard not to when you're on speaker." He pushes off the doorframe. "You're not doing this alone, brother."
"Luc—"
"Don't." He cuts me off. "You came here for help. For resources, for sanctuary, for whatever family can still give you. So let me help. I know people in New York. People who can provide intelligence, logistics, things you need for an op like this."
"You haven't run an op in years."
"That's what you think." His smile is dark, dangerous. "You've been overseas playing contractor. I've been here taking jobs that need someone who can move through systems that don't officially exist. Intel gathering, asset extraction, security work that never makes the news. I know people in New York. People who can help."
