For a moment, disorientation clouds everything. Then memory returns: New Orleans. The Pascal mansion. The guest suite just down the hall from Remy's bedroom suite—the one he had as a child and a young man.
The planning session stretched past midnight, all of us building an approach for New York that might actually work.
And before that, the back gallery with its moonlight and magnolias. We established parameters between us with clinical precision that somehow made everything more intimate, not less.
My body remembers the weight of his gaze, the deliberate way he stepped into my space, the promise in his voice when he said he'd show me what control means. When we have time, he'd told me. When it's safe.
That time might be sooner than either of us planned.
I shower in the guest bathroom, grateful for the clothes Margot lent me last night. The sundress is simple, fitted, moreelegant than anything I've worn since Remy pulled me out of that warehouse in Prague.
When I look in the mirror, I almost don't recognize myself. The fugitive scientist is gone. In her place stands someone who could belong in a house like this.
The moment won't last. It can't.
Downstairs, voices carry from the kitchen. I follow the sound and the coffee smell, find Margot at the stove and Luc reading something on his tablet at the breakfast table. There's no sign of Remy yet.
"Bonjour," I say.
Margot glances over her shoulder. "Coffee's fresh. Mugs in the cabinet above the pot."
I pour myself a cup, add cream from the small pitcher on the counter. The first sip is perfect—dark, rich, with a hint of something earthy I can't quite place. It tastes distinctly of New Orleans.
"You slept well?" Margot asks, plating what looks like pain perdu.
"Very well. Thank you for letting me stay."
"Remy's family. That makes you family by extension." She sets plates on the table, gestures for me to sit. "Whether I like it or not."
The words could be hostile, but her tone carries something softer than yesterday's rage. Something that might be the beginning of thaw.
Luc looks up from his tablet. "Morning planning session starts soon. Remy's checking perimeter security, then we'll review the New York approach."
"I thought we finalized everything last night."
"We finalized the initial plan." His smile is sharp. "Now we stress-test it until we find the holes."
Military thinking. Assume the plan will fail, prepare for every contingency. I'm learning their language, the way operators communicate in tactical shorthand that carries weight beyond words.
Margot sets pain perdu in front of me—thick slices of bread soaked in custard, fried golden, dusted with powdered sugar. "Eat. You'll need your strength."
The command is so much like something Remy would say that I almost smile. Family resemblance runs deeper than features.
Partway through breakfast, Remy appears in the doorway. He's wearing jeans and a black t-shirt that shows the bandages on his arms, the careful way he moves around cracked ribs.
He looks at me, holds the contact a beat longer than casual before turning to his brother.
"Perimeter's secure," he tells Luc. "No signs of surveillance, no unusual activity. If Lazarev tracked us here, he's being subtle about it."
"Or waiting," Luc says.
"Or waiting." Remy pours coffee, leans against the counter. "We leave for New York tomorrow morning. Early flight, separate bookings, meet at the hotel. Cerberus will coordinate with my contacts for backup."
"And the approach?" I ask.
"Depends on what we learn today." His attention shifts back to me, brief but intense before control locks it down. "We'll need your technical expertise for the planning session. Details about the research, what buyers would ask, how to verify authenticity."
"Of course."
