Chapter 8
FITZ
We leave Switzerland two days after Christmas. Two days of debriefings, medical checks, and coordinating with Sawyer's investigation. Two days of watching Jordan heal physically while the psychological impact settles in.
Major Adeyemi arranges to have her protection detail escort us to the airport, having extended it to include Jordan. They move with military precision, forming a protective perimeter as we cross the tarmac toward Wyatt's helicopter.
"The threat against Mrs. Fitzwallace is credible and ongoing," her second in command explains as we board. His tone is matter-of-fact, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. "The Nigerian government has a vested interest in keeping her safe—she's saved too many of our citizens to let her die now."
"I appreciate that," Jordan says, though I can tell she's uncomfortable with the attention. She shifts in her seat, favoring her injured ribs.
I catch her hand, squeeze gently. She's not used to being the one protected. Not used to accepting that she needs protection at all.
"More than that," he continues, settling into the seat across from us, "Major Adeyemi has passed on the government’s wishes to offer Cerberus a contract.
Officially, you'll be consultants on counter-terrorism efforts focused on protecting rescued victims. Unofficially, you'll have access to intelligence and resources that might help identify who's targeting you. "
The offer is generous. Almost too generous, which means Nigeria's government wants something specific. I exchange glances with Jordan, reading the same calculation in her eyes.
"We'll need to review the terms," I say carefully.
"Of course. But consider it. You need allies right now.
And Nigeria needs people who actually give a damn about these women.
" He leans forward, his gaze intense. "I've read Mrs. Fitzwallace's file.
Read about the operations she's run, the women she's saved.
That kind of work makes powerful enemies, but it also creates powerful allies. Let us be one of them."
He shakes Jordan's hand, his grip firm. "Stay alive, Mrs. Fitzwallace. The world needs more people like you."
As the helicopter lifts off, Jordan watches the resort disappear below us—now swarming with investigators, emergency vehicles still parked in clusters. The pristine snow is trampled and muddy, the luxury tarnished by violence and death.
"Another aborted holiday together," she says wryly. "Think it'll make for another good story someday?"
"Only if we survive long enough to tell it." I pull her close, careful of her bruises. The thought of a future beyond the next threat feels both terrifying and necessary. "Ready to go home?"
"More than ready. I miss Baker Street. Miss London. Miss our own bed."
Home. The word settles something in my chest. We have that now—not just places, but the idea of belonging somewhere together.
"Survived." She leans into me. "I'm getting tired of that being our measure of success."
"Me too, love. Me too."
I turn serious, needing to check in with her.
Years of marriage have taught me that assumptions are dangerous.
"Jordan, we've built something together over the years.
Orpheus and Cerberus, working in concert.
Your mission, my methods. But this threat changes things.
It means more security, more protocols, more integration.
I need to know you're still good with that. "
She considers this, her jaw working as she thinks. Control has always been important to her—maintaining autonomy, making her own choices. We've navigated it for years, but Switzerland just escalated everything.
Jordan thinks for a moment longer and says. "Much as I hate to admit it, we need to tighten security. I won't pretend Switzerland didn't change things."
The flight stretches long, the landscape below shifting from Alpine peaks to French countryside to the English Channel.
Jordan dozes against my shoulder, exhausted despite two days of rest. The bruises on her face have faded from purple to yellow-green, but they're still visible.
Still a reminder of how close I came to losing her.
I watch her sleep, this woman who refuses to be anything less than extraordinary. Who throws herself into danger to save strangers. Who's been my wife, my partner, my equal for years now.
We've built a good life together. Not easy—we're both too stubborn, too used to running our own operations. But we've made it work through compromise and trust and the occasional spectacular argument.
Until someone decided Jordan needed to die.
I pull up the intelligence brief Sawyer sent last night. The terrorist cell has been identified—extremists with ties to several trafficking networks Jordan disrupted. The mastermind is still unknown, but the connection is clear. Jordan's work with Orpheus made her a target.
Which means the threat won't stop. Not as long as she continues rescuing women.
And she will continue. That's who she is.
So my job is to make sure she can do what she does best while staying alive. Adeyemi's offer is part of that. So is the upgraded security and the team we've built. Everything designed to protect Jordan while she saves the world.
Because that's what she does. Saves people. And I'll be damned if I let anyone stop her.
We land in London late afternoon, the city gray and drizzling in typical December fashion. The weather feels right—familiar, comfortable after Switzerland's pristine snow.
Adam meets us at the helipad with security—two of Sawyer's team plus Harry and Nigel from Baker Street. The sight of them, solid and dependable, eases something in my chest. Our people. Our team.
"Welcome home," Adam says, crushing Jordan in a careful hug. "You scared the hell out of us."
"Sorry about that." She returns the hug, wincing slightly. "How's the club?"
"Thriving. Christmas events were packed. Chelsea and Lily are fielding multiple inquiries about membership." He grins. "Apparently word got out about your heroics in Switzerland. People want to belong to the club owned by the woman who took on terrorists and won."
"I didn't take them on alone," Jordan protests.
"No, but you made yourself the target to save someone else. Again." Harry joins us. "You're collecting quite a reputation, JJ. The question is whether it's sustainable."
"Not if we have anything to say about it," I interject. "Which is why security protocols are being upgraded, both at Baker Street and for Jordan personally."
"Finally," Nigel mutters. "Olivia and I have been saying for years she needs proper protection."
Jordan rolls her eyes. "I'm standing right here."
"And we're grateful for that." I guide her toward the waiting car, my hand at the small of her back. "But we're implementing new protocols. Get used to it."
Jordan stares out the window as we drive into the city, watching familiar streets pass. Regent Street's Christmas lights are still up, casting colored reflections on wet pavement. Tourists cluster under umbrellas, completely oblivious to the violence that happened hundreds of miles away.
Normal life, continuing as always. It's both comforting and surreal.
"I need to check in at Baker Street tomorrow," Jordan says quietly. "See the changes, talk to the staff. Make sure everyone knows I'm okay."
"We'll go together." There's no chance I'm letting her wander London alone right now. "I want to walk through the new setup anyway, make sure Malcolm didn't miss anything."
"You trust Malcolm."
"I do. But I verify everything when it comes to your safety. Always have, always will."
She leans into me, accepting the protection. We've had this dance before—her independence versus my protective instincts. Years of marriage means we've learned when to push and when to compromise.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
"For what?"
"For not trying to lock me in a tower somewhere."
"The thought crossed my mind." It absolutely did, right after the helicopter lifted us off that resort. "But we both know how that would end."
"With me picking the lock or climbing out the window."
"Damn right."
London has never looked better. We return home—which has been thoroughly swept by Cerberus security—and Jordan immediately heads for the shower.
I give her five minutes, then follow. The sight of her naked under cascading water is too tempting to resist.
"I can bathe myself," she protests halfheartedly as I soap her body.
"I know. But I need this. Need to take care of you." I'm gentle around her bruises, the bandages she removed before she stepped under the spray. The bullet graze on her shoulder is healing well, but it's still angry and red. "Let me, Jordan."
She softens, leaning into my touch. "Okay."
I wash her hair first, working shampoo through the dark strands carefully. She closes her eyes, letting me support her weight. The trust in that simple gesture undoes me more than any submission in the bedroom ever could.
This is real surrender. Letting me care for her when she's vulnerable, when she's hurt and exhausted and still processing trauma.
My hands move down her neck, massaging the tension from her shoulders with deliberate care. She makes a sound low in her throat—half pleasure, half relief—and leans into my touch. The water streams between us, warm and relentless, washing away the last remnants of Switzerland.
I rinse the shampoo away, my fingers working through the tangles gently. She tips her head back, exposing the vulnerable line of her throat. The pulse there beats steady and strong, and I press my lips to it, needing the proof that she's alive, that she's here.
"Fitz," she breathes, and the way she says my name carries weight—gratitude and need and something deeper.
I soap her body slowly, my hands learning every curve and hollow. The soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hips. She's lost weight these past few days, stress and injury taking their toll. My thumbs trace her ribs carefully, avoiding the worst of the bruising.
"You're beautiful," I tell her, because she needs to hear it. Because I need to say it.
"I'm a mess."
"You're mine." The possessiveness in my voice surprises even me, but I don't take it back. "Every bruise, every scar. Mine to care for. Mine to protect."
She opens her eyes, meeting my gaze. The vulnerability there makes my chest tight. "Yours," she confirms.
I slide my soapy hands down her stomach, feeling the muscles jump under my touch. Lower, to the apex of her thighs. She's still too injured for what my body wants, but I can give her this—the reminder that she's desired, that she's safe, that she's cherished.
"Let me," I murmur against her ear.
She nods, her breathing already changing. Her hand grips my shoulder for balance as my fingers move with purpose, gentle but insistent. The water cascades over us, creating intimacy in the steam-filled space. She's responsive despite her exhaustion, her body remembering how to trust mine.
I watch her face as pleasure builds, cataloging every expression. The way her lips part, the flush spreading across her chest, the flutter of her eyelashes. She's exquisite like this—open and unguarded, letting me see everything.
When she comes apart in my arms, she says my name like a prayer. I hold her through it, supporting her weight, feeling the tremors run through her body. The knowledge that I can still give her this, still make her feel good despite everything, settles something primal in my chest.
I rinse the soap from her body, my hands cataloging every injury one more time. The bruised ribs, the split lip that's nearly healed, the scrapes on her palms from when she fell during the escape. Each mark is a reminder of how close I came to losing her.
"I'm okay," she murmurs, reading my thoughts. "We're okay."
"I know." But knowing and feeling are different things. The fear still sits heavy in my gut, the knowledge that I can't always protect her. That sometimes, despite everything I do, she'll be in danger.
I just hold her under the spray, letting the hot water ease tense muscles. Her body fits perfectly against mine, soft curves and hard edges finding their natural places.
When the water finally runs cold, I dry her carefully with the softest towels, running the fabric gently over her skin. Her eyes are already drooping as I guide her to bed.
"Bed," I order, pulling back the covers. "Real rest."
"Will you rest too?"
"Eventually." I have calls to make, intelligence to review, security measures to implement. The list is endless, and sleep feels like a luxury I can't afford yet.
"Fitz." She catches my hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "Whatever you're planning, it can wait until morning. Come to bed. Please."
I see the need in her eyes—not for sex, but for presence. For the reassurance that we're safe, we're home, we're together.
The work can wait. The threats will still be there tomorrow. But Jordan needs me now, and that takes priority over everything else.
"All right," I concede, stripping down to boxers. "But tomorrow, we start planning how to find whoever tried to kill you."
"Tomorrow," she agrees, and pulls me into bed beside her.
I wrap around her carefully, conscious of her injuries but needing the contact. Her breathing evens out within minutes, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I lie awake longer, my mind already running through contingencies and countermeasures. Whoever came after Jordan will try again. They've made her a target, which means they won't stop until she's dead or they are.
Which means I need to find them first.
I stroke her hair gently, feeling her warmth against me. We survived this. We'll survive whatever comes next.
Because she's mine to protect, and I've never failed a mission yet.