"She did this for us." I follow her inside, closing the door behind me. "Knocked down walls, renovated everything. Made it into something we could build a life in."
"That's a hell of a gift."
"It is." I move to stand behind her, hands settling on her hips as we both look out at the gardens. "So this is home."
"This is home." She leans back against me. "At least for now. We'll figure out the rest as we go."
The suite is everything Margot promised: fully appointed, thoughtfully designed, comfortable without being ostentatious. Isabella explores while I secure the perimeter out of habit, checking locks and sight lines even though we're probably safer here than anywhere else in the country.
When I find her in the bedroom, she's standing by the window looking out at the gardens. Moonlight catches in her hair, and exhaustion is written in every line of her body. We've been running on adrenaline for days, and the crash is finally catching up.
"Come here," I say quietly.
She turns, crossing to where I stand by the bed. I cup her face, thumbs brushing her cheekbones. Claiming the moment. Claiming her.
"We made it," I murmur. "Rotterdam, Lazarev, all of it. We survived."
"We did." Her hands come up to cover mine. "And now what?"
"Now we figure out what building a life actually means." I kiss her forehead, breathing in her scent. "Together. If that's what you want."
"That's definitely what I want." She rises on her toes, pressing her mouth to mine. Slow and deep and full of promise. When she pulls back, she's smiling. "But first, I need sleep. Real sleep, without worrying about explosions or mercenaries or whether you're going to get yourself killed playing bait."
I see everything I need in her eyes. The fear she carried tonight, the relief that I'm here, the commitment to whatever we're building.
"I love you," I say quietly. Not a declaration. Just truth.
Her smile softens, and something in her expression shifts. "I love you too."
"Deal." I start pulling off my clothing, every muscle reminding me we've been running for days straight. "Sleep first. Future second."
We collapse into bed together, and Isabella immediately curls against my side. Within minutes her breathing evens out, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I lie awake longer, staring at the ceiling of my renovated bedroom suite in my family's mansion in the city I swore I'd never return to. With a woman I never expected to find and a future I'm choosing instead of just surviving.
Tomorrow we'll figure out details. Partnership with Luc, Isabella's academic career, whatever this life is going to look like beyond explosions and extractions.
But tonight, I'm just home. Finally, actually home.
Isabella is asleep, but I lie awake watching moonlight move across unfamiliar-familiar walls. My phone sits on the nightstand, dark and silent. No mission briefings. No extraction orders. No next target waiting in some encrypted file.
For the first time in years, I'm choosing my own path. Not running from Cerberus, not cutting ties, just stepping off the operational treadmill to build something that's mine. Fitz's words echo in my head—the door stays open, always. Family doesn't end.
But I'm not walking through that door unless I choose to. And that makes all the difference.
The freedom should feel lighter. Instead, it feels like standing at a cliff edge. Exhilarating and terrifying and impossible to step back from.
17
ISABELLA
Sunlight streams through windows, warm and golden in a way Geneva's winter light never managed. I wake slowly, disoriented for a moment before memory returns: New Orleans. The Pascal mansion. Remy's childhood suite with walls half-knocked down to connect it to what will become our shared space.
Our space. Permanent. Real.
Remy's already gone from the bed, but the indent in his pillow still holds his warmth. I stretch, feeling muscles protest from days of running and fighting and surviving. The aches ground me, proof that Rotterdam happened, that we made it out, that this isn't some fever dream conjured by exhaustion and adrenaline.
Voices drift up from downstairs, and the smell of coffee mingles with something sweeter. Beignets, maybe, or pain perdu. My stomach reminds me we survived on protein bars and adrenaline for the better part of a week.
