Chapter 7 #2
The cold is seeping into my bones now, my fingers going numb. I go back inside, strip off my clothing, and slide back into bed beside her. She stirs immediately, turning into my warmth automatically, her body seeking mine even in sleep.
"Fitz?" she mumbles, her voice thick and slurred. "Everything okay?"
"Everything's fine, love. Go back to sleep."
"Liar," she whispers, but she's already drifting off again, her breathing evening out.
She's right. I am lying. Nothing is fine. We're targets. There's a second team out there somewhere. Someone with significant resources wants her dead.
But we're alive, we're together, and I have a name and a target. Graham Warner. Shell corporations. Financial trails. A signature methodology across Europe.
I pull her closer and close my eyes, though I know sleep won't come.
Morning arrives too soon. Jordan wakes slowly, stretching carefully to avoid aggravating her injuries. I watch her come to consciousness, cataloging the winces and grimaces that tell me where she's hurting most.
"Merry Christmas," I say, offering her coffee that I'd prepared while she was still sleeping.
"Merry Christmas." She takes the cup, wincing as her split lip protests the heat. "Not exactly the holiday we planned."
"No. But we're alive. That counts for something."
She's quiet for a moment, staring out at the snow-covered mountains. The morning light highlights the bruises on her face, the swelling around her eye, the split in her lip. Evidence of what happened. Evidence of how close I came to losing her.
"Fitz? What happens now?"
"Now, we deal with the authorities. Give statements. Make sure everyone is accounted for." I sit beside her on the bed, close enough to touch but giving her space. "And then we go home to London and figure out who tried to kill you."
"Kill us," she corrects, that stubborn set to her jaw appearing. "They wanted both of us."
"You specifically. The rest of us were collateral or leverage.
" I fill her in on Sawyer's call, watching her expression shift from shock to anger to determination.
I tell her about Graham Warner, the shell corporations, the attacks across Europe.
The second team that didn't show up. The months of surveillance.
By the time I finish, her coffee has gone cold and her hands are clenched into fists.
"So someone's been tracking me. Planning this." Her hand goes to her collar unconsciously, fingers tracing the pearls. "Because I helped rescue the Chibok girls."
"Because you've been interfering with their operations. Jordan, you've made powerful enemies. People who profit from trafficking, from terrorism, from keeping women enslaved. And they've decided you're enough of a threat to eliminate."
"Good." Her eyes flash with fury. "Let them know I'm coming for them."
"We both are," I say, my voice hard. "Together. But first, you recover. You let the Swiss police do their investigation. And you let me put security measures in place to make sure this doesn't happen again."
"You want to put me in a cage." The defensiveness in her voice is immediate, automatic.
"I want to keep you alive." I cup her face carefully, my thumbs gentle on her bruised skin.
"Jordan, they will try again. And next time, we might not be lucky enough to have a Nigerian special forces major in the room.
Next time, you might not have a Paul to tackle the shooter at the last second. Next time, you might die."
"So what do you suggest?" But there's less fight in her voice now. She's listening, at least.
"We need to talk about Orpheus," I say carefully. "About how you've been operating."
"My methods work, Fitz. Dozens of girls rescued over the years. Hundreds more helped through the foundation—"
"I know. And I've never questioned that." I take her hand. "But this is different. This isn't random. Someone planned this. They knew how you operate. Knew that you respond to situations as they develop and can think on your feet. That you would prioritize others over your own safety."
Her jaw tightens. "So what's the alternative?"
"Not changes to what you do. Changes to how you do it.
" I choose my words carefully. "You've built something remarkable with Orpheus.
But you've built it alone, kept it small and flexible.
That's worked until now. But these people—" I gesture at the window, at the resort visible up the mountain, "—they're not random kidnappers or opportunistic traffickers.
They're organized, well-funded, and they've demonstrated they're willing to kill dozens to get to you. "
She's quiet, her jaw set.
"I'm not asking you to stop. I'm asking you to scale up. Hire proper security. Make better use of Cerberus' tactical support and intelligence. Keep your operational control, but do it with a team that can protect you while you do your work."
"You've never pushed this before."
"Because your methods worked. The threat level was manageable. You were careful." I meet her eyes. "But someone just tried to kill you by using a teenage girl as bait. They knew exactly which buttons to push. That changes everything."
She sets down the coffee, stands carefully, her body protesting. "I need a shower. And then I need to check on Grace and her mother."
"Jordan—"
"I heard you." She heads toward the bathroom, then pauses in the doorway, looking back at me. "You're right. About the threat level changing. About needing better security." Her fingers touch the collar at her throat. "We'll figure it out. Together."
It's not a detailed plan, but it's acknowledgment. She's not fighting me on this, and that's significant.
I let her have her shower, giving her time and space to process.
While she's in the bathroom, I check in with the security team Sawyer sent.
Two men, both former special forces, both on high alert.
They've been rotating shifts, watching approaches, monitoring communications. Nothing suspicious so far.
When Jordan emerges, clean and bandaged, we head downstairs to meet with the Swiss authorities.
We spend Christmas Day giving statements to Swiss police, coordinating with Major Adeyemi, and making sure all the hostages have what they need.
The process is exhausting, repetitive, as we're questioned by multiple agencies—Swiss federal police, Interpol, intelligence services.
Everyone wants to know exactly what happened, who said what, who shot whom.
Jordan is patient through most of it, but I can see her energy flagging as the day wears on. The adrenaline has long since faded, leaving her with just the pain and exhaustion.
Grace and her mother are being escorted back to Nigeria by a military security team. Major Adeyemi herself is accompanying them, along with three of her unit. When it's time for them to leave, Grace hugs Jordan goodbye for a long time, both of them crying.
"Thank you," she whispers. "For everything. For three years ago, and for last night."
"Stay protected," Jordan tells her, holding the girl's face between her hands. "And remember—you're not a victim. You're a survivor. You're strong, and you're free, and no one gets to take that from you."
"Because of you."
"Because of you," Jordan corrects firmly. "You survived. You escaped. You rebuilt your life. I just helped with the logistics."
As they leave, Jordan sags against me, exhausted emotionally if not physically. I wrap my arm around her waist, taking some of her weight.
"Come on," I say gently. "Let's get you back to the room. You need rest."
"I need..." She trails off, looking up at me with an expression I know well. Heat and vulnerability mixed together. "I need you."
Not rest. Not comfort. She needs the physical affirmation that we're alive, that we survived, that we're still connected. She needs to feel me, to know this is real, to ground herself in something primal and immediate.
"You're injured," I remind her, though my body is already responding to the heat in her eyes. "Bruised, exhausted—"
"I don't care." She takes my hand, pulling me toward the elevator. "I need to feel you. Need to know this is real. Please, Fitz."
The answer is obvious.
We ride the elevator in silence, the tension building with each floor. By the time we reach our room, her breathing is shallow, her pupils dilated. The pulse jumps in her throat, just above the pearl collar.
Inside, I secure the door, check the windows, confirm we're alone. Then I turn to face her.
"Are you sure about this?" I ask, giving her one more chance to back out. "You're hurt. If we do this, I'm not going to be gentle."
"I don't want gentle." She's already pulling off her borrowed sweater, revealing bare shoulders marked with fingerprints. "I want to feel you. I want to forget everything else for a while."
"Stop." My voice drops into the register that makes her spine straighten. "Put that back on."
She freezes, the sweater clutched in her hands, confusion flickering across her face.
"If I'm going to see what they did to you, you're going to show me properly." I sit on the edge of the bed, legs spread, arms crossed. "Now strip. Slowly. I want to see every bruise, every mark. I want to know exactly what happened to you."
She obeys, and watching her undress is both arousing and heartbreaking.
The sweater comes off first, revealing shoulders marked with fingerprints.
The t-shirt beneath follows, and she's wearing nothing underneath—the borrowed clothes included no proper undergarments, and her ribs were too damaged for anything with structure.
When she raises her arms to pull off the shirt, she winces—a sharp intake of breath that tells me her shoulder hurts.
Her torso is a canvas of bruises—purple and yellow and green blooming across pale skin.
Dark marks on her ribs where he kicked her.
The shadow of fingers on her upper arms where the guards held her.
The marks from the zip ties on her wrists are angry and red.