Chapter 35
CONNOR
The meeting room at The Sanctuary was smaller than I expected—deliberately so, I suspected.
Just a table that had seen better days, four chairs that didn't match, and a window that looked out over a quiet courtyard where nothing much happened except light moving across stone and the occasional pigeon making executive decisions about where to land.
It felt appropriate somehow. Not grand. Not intimidating. Just functional.
A place where real work got done.
Micah sat across from me, looking exactly like he had the first time we'd met—composed, sharp-eyed, expensive suit that somehow didn't make him look soft.
The kind of man who processed information faster than most people could speak it and made decisions while others were still figuring out the questions.
Ellsworth stood near the window, hands clasped behind his back, the perfect butler posture masking the operator awareness that never actually turned off. I'd seen him move. Seen him work. The posture was a costume he wore well, but it was still a costume.
I'd given them the full rundown over the past hour.
St. Paul's. The recruitment. The grooming. The abuse that escalated until it wasn't abuse anymore—it was systematic dismantling of everything we'd been before they got their hands on us. The nine of us who'd found each other in that hell and decided we were getting out together or not at all.
What they'd done to us. What we'd done to escape. The headmaster's death. The files we'd burned and the ones we'd saved. The choice to enlist because it was the only way to disappear and prove we were more than what they'd tried to make us.
My parents. The fire I'd thought was an accident for over a decade.
Merrick. Everything he'd confessed. Everything I'd done about it.
All of it.
When I finished, the silence held for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Just ... heavy. The weight of truth settling into the space between us.
Then Micah leaned forward slightly, his expression serious in a way that made me understand why people followed him.
"I'm sorry about your parents," he said.
And I knew he meant it. Not the performative sorry people offered because they didn't know what else to say. The real kind. The kind that came from understanding—actually understanding—what it meant to lose people who mattered.
The kind that came from a man who'd probably lost his own.
"Thank you," I said, and meant it just as much.
Micah nodded once, processing, then shifted gears with the efficiency of someone who knew when to sit with grief and when to move forward.
"What's next for you?" he asked. "Back to the CIA? The Teams?"
It was the question I'd been expecting. The logical next step. Return to service. Resume operations. Go back to being the weapon I'd been trained to be—first by St. Paul's, then refined by the military into something more precise.
But before I could answer, Micah and Ellsworth exchanged a look.
Something passed between them. Quick. Subtle. A decision already made, just waiting for the right moment to be spoken aloud.
"Your friends are still out there," Micah said, bringing his attention back to me. "All eight of them. Hiding. Running. Scattered across God knows how many countries, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Living like fugitives even though they've done nothing wrong except survive."
I straightened slightly, feeling the shift in the conversation.
"We'd like you to stay in Paris," Micah continued, his tone measured but certain. "Coordinate from here. As we find them—one by one—we bring them in. Protect them. Give them what you've got here. Safety. Resources. A chance to stop running."
"And then what?" I asked, needing to understand the full picture.
"Then we figure out who's behind the expanded network," Micah said. "The organization St. Paul's became part of. The people pulling the strings now that the headmaster is dead. Because this didn't end with Merrick. You know that."
I did. Had known it the moment Merrick said the old gang had gotten bigger.
Micah leaned back, hands folded on the table, the gesture somehow making him look more dangerous rather than less.
"You and whichever of your friends make it to safety will have full use of any and all resources from Dominion Hall," he said. "Intelligence networks. Field assets. Funding. Whatever you need to hunt down the people who destroyed your lives and make sure they can't do it to anyone else."
My chest tightened. Not from fear or pressure. From something else entirely.
Hope, maybe. Or purpose. Or the strange, unfamiliar feeling of being supported instead of abandoned.
"The Sanctuary initiative is working," Micah added, glancing at Ellsworth.
"You're proof of concept. Maybe at some point we expand to other cities—London, Monte Carlo, Tokyo.
Create a real network. But that comes later.
For now, Dominion Hall will help you find your friends.
And you'll be the one who brings them in.
They'll trust you. They won't trust us."
It made sense. Perfect sense. My brothers wouldn't come in for strangers, no matter how well-resourced. But for me? For one of the nine?
They'd come.
I looked at Ellsworth. "And you?"
The older man's expression was calm but there was something warm underneath it. Something that hadn't been there when we first met.
"I'd like to stick around," he said, the British understatement somehow making it more meaningful. "For the duration, as they like to say during wartime."
I stood and extended my hand across the table.
Ellsworth took it without hesitation, his grip firm. Solid. The handshake of a man who meant what he said.
"It would be an honor," I said.
Something flickered in his eyes—relief, maybe. Like he hadn't been entirely sure I'd agree. Like my acceptance meant more than he'd let on. Like maybe he'd been waiting for someone to give him permission to be more than a butler playing at being useful.
Now there was absolute satisfaction in the old warrior's face.
The kind that came from finding purpose again after thinking it was gone forever.
I was about to sit back down when something clicked in my memory. A detail from days ago that suddenly felt important.
I snapped my fingers. "Your weapons guy. The gunsmith. What's his name?"
Ellsworth's mouth curved into a genuine smile—the kind I'd only seen a handful of times. "Fergus MacLeod."
Micah's eyebrows went up in question.
"The Sanctuary should have its own Q," I explained, warming to the idea as I spoke. "Like James Bond. Custom weapons designed for specific operations. No questions asked. No paper trail. Someone who understands operational requirements and can engineer solutions we haven't thought of yet."
Understanding dawned in Micah's expression, followed by something that looked like genuine enthusiasm.
"Your own Q," he said slowly, mulling it over, testing how it sounded. "If you think it'll help, sure. Why not?"
There were smiles all around. The kind that came from men who understood that the right tools—the right people—could mean the difference between mission success and body bags.
The kind of smiles that said we were building something that mattered.
We were about to break up, chairs already scraping against the floor, when another thought hit me.
"My military service," I said, stopping halfway out of my seat. "What am I supposed to do about that? I've got obligations. Chain of command. People expecting me to report."
Micah's grin widened, and he winked—actually winked—like we were sharing a joke I didn't quite get yet.
"Don't worry," he said, his tone absolutely confident. "My brothers and I will take care of it. You worry about finding and bringing your friends in. Let us handle the bureaucracy."
And just like that, it settled.
The weight I'd been carrying—the uncertainty about what came next, the fear that I'd have to choose between my duty to the military and my duty to my brothers—lifted.
Not completely. Not all at once.
But enough.
I had a feeling—deep and certain, the kind that lived in your bones rather than your head—that what I'd dreamt about all along, what I'd wanted from St. Paul's before it turned into a nightmare, was finally happening.
A home. A purpose. Brothers who had my back without needing to be asked.
A mission that mattered.
I was still processing. Still dealing with the weight of everything that had happened. The grief for my parents was fresh and raw and would probably stay that way for a while. The memory of Merrick's laugh would wake me up at night for months, maybe years.
But underneath all of that, I was more content with the present moment than I'd been since that day so long ago when my parents had been proud of me and the world had opened up in front of me like a door I'd been waiting my whole life to walk through.
This felt very much like that.
Very much.