Then she's gone, leaving me standing in the gallery with her words echoing in my head.
I return to find Remy at the French doors overlooking the back gallery. Magnolias bloom white against green foliage, their scent drifting through on humid air. Luc has disappeared, probably to handle more logistics.
"What did she want?" Remy asks without turning.
"To welcome me to the family." I cross to stand beside him. "And she asked me not to get killed in the first week."
His mouth quirks. "Sound advice."
We stand in silence for a moment, watching afternoon light filter through magnolia leaves. The house is quiet around us, just the two of us and what we're planning.
"Are you scared?" he asks.
"Yes. But not enough to run."
Remy turns to face me, and the look in his eyes is raw. Possessive. Dangerous. Recognition that I've crossed some threshold from protected asset to operational partner. "Good. Fear keeps you sharp. Just don't let it freeze you when things get hot."
"I won't." Meeting his gaze takes effort. The intensity there could burn. "I trust you to keep us alive. You trust me to identify the compounds. We do this as partners."
His hand finds mine, fingers threading through in a gesture that's both possessive and grounding. The grip is firm. Claiming. I lean into him, letting myself have this moment of contact before Rotterdam and chaos and whatever comes after.
The afternoon passes in final preparations. Luc returns with updated intelligence—facility layout from his Rotterdam contact, entry and exit routes mapped from satellite imagery. Remy studies them with the focus of someone planning an op that could kill us all if we get it wrong.
I review my technical specifications again, making sure I can identify each component quickly under pressure. The base catalyst with its ammonia odor. The binding agent with its honey-thick viscosity. The activation compound that glows pale yellow under UV light. Limited time for identification. Remy needs enough for demolition. Tight operational window.
Not a lot of margin for error.
By evening, we're as prepared as we can be without being on the ground in Rotterdam. Margot returns from Beaumont's with containers of gumbo and rice, and we eat together at the kitchentable like a family preparing for something that might destroy them all.
How normal it feels. This house has become a staging ground for an operation that violates every law I once respected. From fugitive scientist to operational partner in the space of weeks.
But sitting at this table with Remy beside me and his siblings across from us, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be. Not running anymore. Not hiding behind scientific ethics and naive idealism. Standing with people who understand that some things are worth fighting for, even when the odds are terrible and the risks are catastrophic.
After dinner, Luc disappears to finalize last-minute coordination with the extraction team. Margot retreats to her room where an antique desk holds her current project—a cookbook of Pascal family recipes documenting their Cajun, Creole, and French ancestry.
Remy and I stand on the back gallery, watching twilight deepen over the gardens.
"Tomorrow we separate," I say. "Paris for me, London for you. Then Amsterdam."
"Then Rotterdam." His voice is quiet. "And then this is over. One way or another."
I lean against the gallery railing, breathing in magnolia-scented air and humid Gulf warmth. Tomorrow, I return to Europe. Return to the world where the Iron Choir is hunting me and Lazarev wants Remy dead. Return to danger I've been running from since Geneva.
But I'm not the same woman who fled Emil's lab with stolen research. I'm not the naive scientist who thought she could handle this alone. I've learned to read a room for threats, to think about exits and sight lines instead of just equations. And I've chosen this. Chosen Remy. Chosen to fight instead of run.
"I'm ready," I say.
Remy turns to face me, and the look in his eyes is raw. Possessive. Predatory. "Yes, you are."
His hand finds my jaw, thumb tracing my cheekbone with deliberate pressure. The gesture is claiming. Ownership without apology. "When we get back from Rotterdam, when this is finished, we're going to have that conversation about what comes next."
"I'm looking forward to it," I say.
His eyes darken, hunger and danger bleeding through the control. "So am I."
The heat and danger thread through the promise. Not just operational partnership. Not just temporary alliance forged in crisis. Something we're both choosing despite every logical reason to keep our distance.
Rising on my toes, I kiss him. Deliberate. A reminder that we're not just planning Rotterdam. We're planning after.
