33. Mira #2
The metal door closes behind us with a hollow click. Petrov's desperate shouts echo from the interrogation room, but the soundproof walls muffle them into pathetic whispers.
Jax moves beside me down the narrow corridor, his shoulder brushing mine with each step. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the way his hands flex at his sides.
"You chose us."
His voice carries something raw and desperate. Before I can respond, he spins me around, pressing my back against the elevator wall. The metal is cold through my tactical shirt, but his body radiates heat as he cages me between his arms.
"You chose us over revenge."
Yes. I did. And that choice changes everything.
His mouth finds mine, hungry and claiming. The kiss tastes like relief and possession and something deeper I'm still learning to name. His arousal presses hard against my hip, evidence of what watching me spare Petrov did to him.
He gets off on my control. On my strength. On watching me choose something harder than violence.
"Elevator," I breathe against his lips.
He reaches over and hits the call button without breaking contact. His free hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back so he can trace his teeth along my throat.
"Watching you in there..." His voice drops to that rough register that makes my thighs clench. "Seeing you choose justice over blood. Christ, Mira."
The elevator arrives with a soft ding. We step inside, and Jax immediately crowds me against the back wall, his hands mapping my ribs over the tactical vest. Every bruise from Baltimore sings under his touch, pain mixing with pleasure.
"Ghost to Siren."
Kade's voice crackles through the speakers, making us spring apart. Jax hits the button for the main floor while I smooth down my hair, trying to look like I wasn't just about to let him fuck me against an elevator wall.
Professional. Have to look professional. Not like I'm dripping wet and desperate.
"Go ahead," I say, pressing the comm button.
"Holden's arranged transport tomorrow morning. Johnson takes custody at 0800. International Criminal Court wants Petrov in The Hague by Friday."
The elevator climbs past B4, B3, my stomach dropping with each floor.
Away from violence, toward whatever comes next.
"Twenty-three countries filing charges," Kade continues. "Human trafficking, weapons smuggling, murder. They want him breathing for this."
Good. Let him rot in a cell knowing his empire crumbled.
"You'll need to testify. London first, then The Hague. Could be weeks."
Jax's hand finds my waist, fingers digging in possessively. His entire body goes rigid beside me. His fingers start that restless drumming against my hip.
"Weeks?" His voice carries that edge I've learned to recognize. The one that appears when someone threatens to take something he considers his.
"I'm going with you."
I turn to face him fully. "You have team obligations here."
"Then they can wait." His eyes have gone dark, pupils blown wide. "Seven years you hunted him alone. That's over now."
The possessive declaration makes heat pool between my legs.
"Jax—"
"No." He steps closer, backing me against the elevator wall again. "We do this together or not at all."
The elevator dings softly as we reach the main floor.
Time to face the family I never thought I'd have.
The doors slide open to reveal the entire team waiting in the main hallway.
Cole leans against the wall, his arm in a sling from Baltimore but eyes sharp as always.
Damian sits on the metal bench, rolling his shoulders, blood still drying on his knuckles.
Xander paces near the weapons locker, his usual restless energy more pronounced with one arm compromised.
Asher stands perfectly still beside the briefing room door, but I can see the careful way he breathes—protecting ribs held together by surgical tape and stubbornness.
Vanessa hovers next to him with a medical kit, her dark eyes bright with that focused concern that comes after almost losing someone.
"So?" Cole straightens as we approach.
"He lives. Rots in court."
Xander stops pacing, running a hand through his dark hair. "Anticlimactic but legally satisfying." He tries to gesture with his bad arm and winces. "Fuck. Okay, maybe I shouldn't talk."
"Says the man held together with duct tape and spite," Damian rumbles from the bench.
"It's medical tape," Remy corrects, emerging from the briefing room with a steaming mug. "Though the spite part is accurate."
Cole shifts his weight, favoring his uninjured side. "We look like we lost a fight with a wood chipper."
"We won," I remind them.
"Barely," Asher breathes carefully. "But winning ugly still counts."
They're joking about nearly dying. For me. For my revenge.
Vanessa immediately moves toward him, unzipping the medical kit with practiced efficiency. "Sit down before you fall down."
"Little bunny, I'm fine."
"Your ribs look like abstract art." She points to the bench. "Sit."
Asher obeys with that rare smile he saves for her, settling carefully beside Damian. The contrast between them is striking—Asher's controlled precision next to Damian's coiled violence, but both watching their partners with identical protective intensity.
"International prosecution," Cole says, his analytical mind already processing implications. "That's bigger than killing him. Sets precedent."
"Your testimony will destroy him publicly," Remy adds, that diplomatic tone carrying weight. "Every victim gets their day through your words."
They're all here. All broken because they chose to fight my fight.
Four days of recovery, of Vanessa checking wounds, Cole making sure everyone eats, the team existing around my revenge like it matters to them.
"London proceedings could take weeks," Jax says, his voice carrying an edge that makes everyone's attention sharpen. His hands start moving again—that restless energy that means his mind is calculating odds, risks, how many betting apps he'd need to survive separation. "Then The Hague."
He's spiraling. I can see it in the way his fingers won't stop moving.
"Few weeks." I step closer, catching his hands to still them. "Then home."
Home. When did these people become home?
The word feels strange on my tongue. For seven years, home was whatever safe house I could find. Now it's these people. This man who conquered his deepest fear to save me.
Damian's quiet voice cuts through the moment, satisfaction threading through the words. "He'll wish you'd killed him."
There's professional pride in his tone. Not pleasure in causing pain, but satisfaction in breaking someone who deserved breaking.
Vanessa peels back the tape on Asher's ribs, making him hiss through his teeth. "Jesus, Frost. You pulled three stitches."
"Worth it."
"Sniper boy, I swear—"
The comm system crackles, interrupting her scolding. Holden's voice fills the hallway with clinical authority.
"Transport at 0800. Johnson takes custody." A pause that makes everyone tense. "One more thing—we intercepted chatter. Someone leaked the London testimony schedule."
Ice spreads through my chest. They know. The network knows.
"You'll have company at the courthouse. The network wants her silenced before she testifies."
Jax's hand finds mine, crushing hard enough to bruise. His separation anxiety just became survival fear. The drumming stops, replaced by stillness that's worse.
He's calculating odds again. Probability of keeping me safe across an ocean.
"How much company?" Kade asks, already calculating resources.
"Enough that I'm sending additional security. They know exactly where she'll be. When she'll be vulnerable."
Everyone shifts into combat mode despite their injuries. Petrov might be caged, but his network still hunts.
And now they know exactly where to find me.