Logan cast his brother a sideways glance before turning back to her, his charm slipping into place like a well-worn jacket—effortless, practiced.
"He's like this with everyone," he said lightly. "Protective reflex. Comes with the uniform."
But his gaze lingered on Lara a heartbeat too long. Long enough for curiosity to edge into something else. He felt it then—the inexplicable tug, low and insistent, as if some unseen thread had tightened between them.
Leonard Norse watched the exchange with a faint, knowing smile. Age had softened him where war once hardened him. The steel was still there, but now it was tempered by something dangerously close to sentiment.
"Doctor Rivera said they will continue to run tests," he said calmly. "You're experiencing memory fragmentation. Likely trauma-induced. They'll keep you overnight, but you should be discharged tomorrow."
His eyes remained on Lara as he spoke, assessing without cruelty. After a moment, he gestured to Liam.
Liam stood, retrieved the carry-on luggage he'd left near the door, and set it beside Lara's chair with controlled precision.
"These are the belongings we recovered from your car before it exploded," he said, voice flat.
Lara accepted the luggage with hesitant fingers and nudged it aside. She would look through it later—alone, when she could brace herself for whatever pieces of her life waited inside.
"Dad," Logan cut in, urgency sharpening his tone. "Why aren't you telling her your plan?"
Lara's brows knit together. Plan? No one had mentioned a plan.
"Lara," General Norse said gently, his voice shifting, softening. "You're welcome to stay at our home while you recover. At least until you decide what to do next."
Liam turned sharply toward his father. He didn't bother masking his objection. The woman was a stranger—one who, disturbingly, shared features with his parents and their youngest brother, Lucas.
What if she were a spy? And the car accident was a calculated move by one of his father's enemies?
But even as the thought surfaced, it unraveled. A year-long coma was a long game. Too long. If this were an assassination attempt, someone should have finished the woman when she went into a coma.
Leonard met his eldest son's gaze. He knew that look. He'd worn it himself once.
"It's temporary," he added evenly. "She stays until she figures out her next step."
Lara hesitated.
When she'd first woken, she'd mistaken Leonard for her father. The resemblance still unsettled her. Was it strange to accept his offer? Maybe. But honesty pressed in on her ribs—she had nowhere to go. No memories to guide her. No plan of her own.
There had been another option. Ares' offer. A governess position. At least she would earn her fill.
Would she stay with strangers who looked familiar or with the man whose daughter lovingly called her mother?
Then something clicked.
She hadn't noticed it before—Logan had spoken too quickly—but now the words replayed in her mind, slow and unmistakable. She turned to him, her voice barely more than a whisper.
"Did you say the general's last name was Norse?"
A pause.
"Leonard Norse?"
Logan frowned, caught off guard. Liam stiffened instantly, every instinct flaring. Alarm bell ringing in his ears.
Did she remember something?
Logan nodded slowly. Something flickered across Lara's face—was it vulnerability or confusion?
He glanced at Liam, his gaze questioning.
Liam said nothing. He only watched her, waiting.
"I remembered," Lara said suddenly, the words tumbling out as if she were afraid they might vanish again. "My name is Lara Norse-Kromwel."
The room went still as if the past had just kicked the door open.
Layla burst out laughing.
It wasn't polite. It wasn't restrained. It was loud, sharp, and unkind—so sudden that it sliced straight through the room. She laughed until tears gathered in her eyes, one hand braced against the chair like she needed support.
"Oh my God," she said, breathless. "She's lost it."
Lara shook her head, slow and steady. "No. I haven't."
Layla's laughter cut off instantly. Her smile vanished, replaced by something colder.
"The only Norse family is my father," she said, voice suddenly razor-sharp. "For generations, only one male was born into the line. The rest were women. So tell me—how exactly do you have Norse blood?"
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "You're Larissa Reyes. That's who you are. And whatever this little performance is, it ends now. Because the only reason someone invents a last name like Norse is to get close enough to hurt my father."
Leonard's jaw clenched. "Layla."
"I'm asking questions, Dad." She folded her arms. "Because this is strange. And you taught us better than anyone that strange turns into dangerous real fast."
Liam caught the implication immediately.
This woman wasn't fragile. Not really.
Logan bristled, irritation flashing across his face. "Heavens," he muttered. "She's been in a coma for a year. What if her brain's still misfiring? What if she thinks she's dreaming? Layla, chill."
Layla didn't even glance at him. "You don't chill when someone latches onto our father, starts calling him Dad, and claims our last name." Her lips curved slightly. "What did she say her surname is? Norse-Kromwel? That even sounds fake. Like something out of a European aristocracy fantasy."
Her gaze slid back to Lara, sharp and calculating. "So if it's not madness," she asked quietly, "what is it?"
"Layla, enough," Liam said coldly. Suspicion was in his blood—but cruelty wasn't.
Lara straightened in her chair.
Whatever fragments of memory lived inside her, she knew one thing now: saying the wrong thing could make her a target, an enemy. And enemies die the fastest.
"But Liam—"
"That's enough," Leonard cut in, steel returning to his voice.
Layla met his stare without blinking. "You taught us to be careful, Dad."
"Yes, I did," he said evenly. "Not vicious."
A flicker of irritation crossed her face, but was gone almost instantly.
Logan stepped closer to Lara without thinking, positioning himself just slightly in front of her—subtle, instinctive.
"She just woke up," he said firmly. "She's confused. Back off, Layla"
Layla finally looked at him. Really looked.
"You're protecting her? Careful," she warned softly. "You don't know her. She's a stranger."
Liam raised a hand. "Enough. All of you." He turned to Lara, his voice controlled and professional. "You need rest. I apologize for the disturbance. On behalf of my sister."
Layla leaned forward a fraction. "You didn't need to apologize for me. I said exactly what needed to be said."
"Layla," Logan snapped. "We're leaving," he added, already turning as if ready to drag her out himself.
Layla sidestepped him.
She moved close to Lara—too close—and lowered her voice so only the two of them could hear.
"People like you don't survive by getting attached," she murmured. "Especially not to my family."
Then she straightened, composed once more, and walked out as if she'd already won.