The hours that follow pass in tense, methodical preparation.
Remy stages the apartment to look like a panicked evacuation—clothes scattered across furniture, drawers hanging open, equipment abandoned mid-pack. He rigs shaped charges with the same precision he used in the warehouse, positioning each one for maximum effect within minimal blast radius. Wireless triggers sync to his remote. His phone gets positioned at the perfect angle to capture the kill zone.
Everything designed with the precision of someone who's done this before. Many times. In places far worse than Rotterdam.
Luc works his laptop, pulling strings through Rotterdam contacts until he finds what we need—a vacant apartment several blocks away, owner traveling, perfect sight lines to our current location.
"Observation post secured," Luc explains, marking it on the tactical map. "Clear view of the street and building entrance."
Which means watching everything. Including watching Remy put himself in a trap designed to kill the man hunting him.
Later that morning, Remy pulls me into the bedroom and closes the door behind us.
When he cups my face with both hands, the touch is gentle but the grip is iron—firm enough that I couldn't look away even if I wanted to.
"I need you to understand something." His voice drops low, quiet, the kind of tone that demands absolute attention. "What happens tonight isn't about revenge or settling scores. It's about ensuring Lazarev can never come after either of us again. That's the only equation that matters to me."
I want to argue. Want to tell him his life has equal value, that he doesn't get to sacrifice himself like I'm the only thing worth protecting. But the words lodge in my throat because I know he won't hear them. Won't accept any calculation that doesn't prioritize my safety above his own.
"I know."
"Do you?" His thumbs brush my cheekbones, the touch achingly gentle despite the grip that won't let me escape. "Because you look absolutely terrified."
"I am terrified." No point lying when he can probably feel my pulse hammering beneath his fingers. "You're using yourself as bait for a man who's spent years planning to kill you. Of course I'm terrified."
Something shifts in his expression—not softening, darkening. More possessive. More dangerous.
"Good. Fear keeps you sharp, keeps you alert." He kisses me then, slow and deep and claiming, staking ownership one more time before walking into danger. His mouth tastes like coffee and something darker—violence barely contained beneath the surface. When he pulls back, his eyes hold something that looks like possession and goodbye twisted together until I can't tell where one ends and the other begins. "But you trust me to handle this. You trust that I've survived worse than Lazarev and walked away. Yes?"
"Yes, Sir."
His hand slides from my face to my throat. Not squeezing—just resting there, thumb pressed against my pulse where it hammers frantically beneath my skin. Feeling the fear. Claimingthe fear. Taking ownership of every racing heartbeat and making it his.
"Good girl." Another kiss, harder this time, teeth catching my bottom lip hard enough to bruise. Marking me so I'll feel it hours from now, a reminder of who I belong to. "After tonight, we have the conversation about what happens between us. What this is, what it means, what you want from me. But until Lazarev's dead, you're mine. You do exactly what I say, when I say it, without question or hesitation. Understood?"
The command in his voice sends heat through me despite everything—despite the fear, despite knowing what comes next. Because this is the bargain I made when I chose him. When I chose to stand beside a man who lives in the space between absolute control and barely contained chaos.
"Understood."
"Say it properly." The reminder comes soft but inflexible.
The demand that even now—especially now—he expects my submission makes something tight and terrified in my chest loosen slightly. This is familiar ground. Safe ground in the midst of chaos. The place where I know exactly what he needs from me.
"I'll follow your orders, Sir."
"Perfect." He releases me, steps back, expression shuttering into tactical focus. "Get your things. Luc's waiting."
He doesn't come with us.
Remy stays behind to finish rigging the apartment, to position his phone at the perfect angle, to set the trap with the precision he's known for. I don't look back as we leave. Can't look back. Because if I do, I might refuse to go.
Luc and I move through Rotterdam's residential streets on foot, staying off main thoroughfares. He sets a pace that doesn't attract attention—just two people out for a late morning walk. Nothing to see here.
The secondary location is a small studio apartment with windows overlooking our former safe house. Luc sets up his laptop on a narrow desk, pulling feeds from Remy's phone still positioned in the rigged apartment.
Remy's visible on the screen doing final checks on the charges.
"He'll wait until Lazarev fully enters the kill zone," Luc explains, gesturing to the feed. "Shaped charges will detonate in controlled sequence. Contained blast, but absolutely lethal within the apartment itself."
