Chapter 2 #2
"No." He kisses my temple, and I feel some of the tension leave his shoulders. "Sawyer can handle it. That's why I left him in charge. I'm wondering why everything in me is screaming that something's wrong."
I know that feeling—the sixth sense that keeps people like us alive. The one that made me look up half a second before Julia's husband pulled a gun at our wedding. "Your instincts are usually right."
"Usually. But they've also been known to go into overdrive when you're involved." He finds my hip, holding me close. Thumb stroking circles through the robe. "I don't want to be that guy, Jordan. The one who can't unplug. The one who ruins every holiday with work paranoia."
"You're not ruining anything." I turn in his lap to face him, straddling him properly now. The robe gapes open, but we're four floors up with no neighbors. "You're being you. The man who keeps people safe. The man who thinks six steps ahead. I married that man. I love that man."
"Even when he's a controlling bastard?"
"Especially then." I kiss him, soft and sweet, tasting coffee on his lips. "How about a compromise? You make one more call—check in with Sully, have him run his magic on whatever Sawyer's concerned about. If nothing's actionable, we put the phones away until tomorrow. Deal?"
He considers this, then nods. "Deal. But if I'm calling Sully, you're calling Adam. Make sure Baker Street is still standing."
"Fair enough."
We make our calls—mine to Adam, who assures me that Christmas Eve at the club is progressing smoothly, with only minor drama involving a sub who tried to top from the bottom during a demonstration.
Standard Tuesday, really. Fitz's call to Sully takes longer, and I study his face.
The micro-expressions I've learned to read over the years.
The tightening around his eyes. The way his free hand curls into a fist.
"What is it?" I ask when he hangs up.
"Probably nothing. There's been increased security at several high-profile locations. Some chatter about potential hostile action during the holidays. But nothing specific, nothing actionable." He pulls me close, burying his face in my hair. "I'm probably being paranoid."
"You're never paranoid. You're experienced." I rest my head on his shoulder, fitting against him the way I always do. "But Sully and Sawyer have it covered. And we're on top of a mountain in Switzerland. What could possibly happen here?"
Hours pass in that perfect holiday haze—hot tub on the balcony, another round of sex that leaves us both breathless, a lazy afternoon nap wrapped in Egyptian cotton sheets. The kind of day that makes you forget the rest of the world exists.
We're getting dressed for dinner—Fitz insisting I wear the red dress he packed for me, the one that shows off the collar beautifully—when his phone rings. Not the normal ring. The emergency tone—the one that means lives are at stake.
"Sawyer," Fitz answers, his whole body going rigid. Every muscle locks. I know that stance—combat ready in an instant. "Talk to me."
His expression transforms from relaxed to cold fury in seconds. Complete, absolute. This is the man who led special operations. The warrior, not the lover.
"When? How many? Who's the target?" A pause while Sawyer speaks.
"Fuck. Yeah, we're secure here. No, stay on mission.
I'll handle this end." Another pause, longer this time.
His jaw clenches. "Sawyer, I said handle it.
We're on holiday. I'm not—" He stops, listening. "Fine. Keep me updated. Every hour."
I shake my head. "I get it. Someone's made a move. Who and where?"
He studies me for a long moment. The war plays out in his eyes—between keeping me safe and treating me like the capable partner I am. The partner who's pulled him out of bad situations more than once.
"Multiple locations across Europe. Coordinated strikes against soft targets. Hotels, resorts, shopping districts." I watch as he moves with military precision. "High casualties. No one's claimed responsibility yet."
Fear knots in my stomach. The hair on my arms stands up. "Here? Are we a target?"
"Unknown. But this resort fits the profile—wealthy international guests, symbolic location, difficult for local authorities to respond quickly due to weather and terrain.
" He straps on a shoulder holster, checking his weapon with practiced efficiency.
Magazine out, check the rounds, chamber clear, reload.
"Perfect target if you want maximum impact with minimum risk. "
"We need to warn them."
"And say what? That we have intelligence from an illegal mercenary organization?" He's checking a second weapon now, ankle holster. "The best we can do is be prepared. And hope I'm wrong."
But he's not wrong. I've known him long enough to trust his instincts absolutely. When Fitz says something's wrong, people die if you don't listen.
"What's the play?" I ask, falling into the familiar rhythm of operational planning. My heartbeat slows, steadies. Fear transforms into focus.
"We go to dinner. We assess the situation. We identify exits and potential threats. And we're ready to move if this goes sideways." He cups my face in his hands, forcing me to meet his eyes. "But Jordan, if I tell you to run, you run. No arguments. No heroics. Promise me."
I want to argue—I'm not some damsel who needs protecting—but I see the fear in his eyes. Not for himself. Never for himself. For me.
"I promise," I lie, and he pulls me close, his mouth fierce against mine. As the elevator doors open, I catch movement in the lobby beyond—more security guards than there were this morning, moving with purpose.