Chapter 9
JJ
New Year's Eve finds us at Baker Street, overseeing the biggest party of the year. The club is packed, decorated in silver and black, champagne flowing freely. Music pulses through the space—something modern and infectious that has the dance floor crowded with bodies moving in rhythm.
I'm wearing a new dress—midnight blue silk that shows off Fitz's collar beautifully—and heels I can actually walk in. The bruises have faded and are barely visible under makeup. The bandages are gone, and I finally feel like myself again.
Mostly.
The past week has been strange. Being back in London, falling into familiar routines, yet everything feels slightly off. Like watching my life through glass—recognizable but distant. The therapist Fitz insisted I see says it's normal after trauma. That it takes time to feel fully present again.
"You're scowling," Fitz says, appearing at my elbow with champagne. "It's a party. Try to look happy."
"I am happy." I take the glass, sipping the crisp bubbles. "I'm also thinking."
"Dangerous combination." He guides me toward a quieter corner, away from the music and crowd. His hand at the small of my back is warm, grounding. "What about?"
"About how close we came. About what happens next. About whether I'm really cut out for this partnership thing when my instinct is always to act alone."
Fitz has been coordinating with Sawyer, with Adeyemi, with intelligence contacts all week. Making plans, implementing security. And every time, he includes me. Asks my opinion. Treats me like an equal partner.
It should feel natural. Instead, it feels foreign. Years of working alone didn't disappear just because I said "I’ll try to change how I operate."
"No, but you’re getting the hang of it, lass, and you have the rest of our lives to learn."
"The rest of our lives," I repeat. "You really think we'll make it that long?"
Given my track record, it seems optimistic. I've been shot, stabbed, beaten, nearly blown up. And that was before someone organized a multi-million dollar operation specifically to kill me.
"I know we will. Because neither of us knows how to quit." He kisses me softly, careful not to smudge my lipstick. "And because I have a vested interest in keeping you alive so I can continue spanking that gorgeous ass of yours."
I laugh despite myself, the tension breaking. "Such a romantic."
"Always."
Across the room, I spot Chelsea working the crowd with practiced ease. She catches my eye and grins, raising her glass in salute. The club has thrived in my absence—which is both reassuring and slightly humbling. Turns out Baker Street doesn't actually need me here every night.
Turns out I'm not indispensable. The realization should sting. Instead, it's almost a relief.
Malcolm and Lily approach, both glowing with happiness.
Lily is wearing Malcolm's collar—a beautiful piece of crafted leather with silver accents.
The sight makes my heart squeeze. I remember when she first came to Baker Street, broken and terrified.
Now she trains submissives and is happily married to Malcolm.
Lily hugs me. "Thank you. For everything. For Baker Street, for giving me a safe place, for introducing me to Malcolm."
"You did the hard work yourself," I tell her. "I just provided the space."
But watching them walk away, Malcolm's arm around Lily's waist, I feel something settle in my chest. Worth it. All of it. Every risk, every close call—worth it so women like Lily can fall and get the happily ever afters they deserve.
Fitz pulls me against his side, following my gaze. "We could have been more like them if we'd had a normal wedding without people trying to kill us."
"Our wedding was memorable."
"It was traumatic."
"That too." I turn to face him, studying the sharp angles of his face, the grey eyes that see too much. "But I wouldn't change it. Because it taught me something important."
"What's that?"
"That life is short and unpredictable. That danger can come from anywhere. But also that I have someone who will fight through hell to keep me safe. Someone who accepts me exactly as I am—reckless, stubborn, and occasionally stupid."
"Frequently stupid," he corrects, but there's no heat in it. Just affection and exasperation in equal measure.
"Frequently stupid," I concede. "But you love me anyway."
"I do." He kisses me, deep and claiming, uncaring that we're in full view of the club. His hand tangles in my hair, the other gripping my hip. "I love you more than anything, Jordan James-Fitzwallace. Even when you drive me absolutely insane."
Around us, the party continues. But for a moment, it's just us. The kiss, the connection, the certainty that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.
The countdown to midnight begins. Club members and guests are cheering, embracing, celebrating. The energy in the room builds to something almost physical.
"Ten!" the crowd chants. "Nine! Eight!"
"Ready for a new year?" Fitz asks.
"Seven! Six! Five!"
"With you? Always."
"Four! Three! Two!"
"Then let's make this year count. No more near-death experiences. Just us, building something that matters."
"One! Happy New Year!"
The club erupts in cheers, champagne corks popping, kissing couples everywhere. Confetti rains down from somewhere above, silver and black pieces catching the light. Fitz pulls me close, and the kiss is tender and fierce and full of promise.
When we break apart, I see Sawyer across the room, nodding at Fitz. Business, even on New Year's Eve. Some threats don't respect holidays.
"Go," I tell him. "I'll be fine."
Fitz hesitates, clearly torn between duty and staying with me.
"Five minutes," he finally says. "Then I'm back and we're celebrating properly." He kisses me once more, then disappears into the crowd toward Sawyer.
I find a quiet spot near the bar, watching my club in full celebration. My space. My people. My life. Baker Street started as cover for Orpheus operations. But it became more than that.
A community. A safe space. A place where people could explore their desires without judgment, where submissives could find dominants who actually gave a damn about their wellbeing.
Mine and Fitz's now. Cerberus and Orpheus. Partnership in all things.
Someone sits down beside me—Major Adeyemi, looking elegant in evening wear. The military bearing is still there, but softened by the black cocktail dress and heels.
"I didn't expect to see you here," I say.
"I'm in London coordinating with Interpol and MI6 about the Swiss attack. Thought I'd stop by to check on you." She accepts a drink from the bartender—whiskey, neat. "And to tell you that we identified the financial backing for the operation."
My breath catches. "Who?"
"A consortium of groups—Boko Haram, yes, but also several other organizations you've interfered with over the years. Someone convinced them to pool resources and eliminate a common enemy." She looks at me seriously. "You, JJ. You're the common enemy."
The words should terrify me. Instead, I feel a strange sort of vindication. "Flattering."
"Not really. It means you've been effective enough to unite people who normally hate each other. That's dangerous." She sips her whiskey. "The organizer is still unidentified. Whoever they are, they're good at covering their tracks. But we're getting closer."
"What happens now?"
"Now, we dismantle the network. Track down the organizer. Make sure they can't try again." She stands, setting down the empty glass. "But that's official business. Unofficially? Watch your back. These people are patient. They'll wait months or years for another opportunity."
"I'll be careful."
"Good." She smiles, and it transforms her stern face. "Because the world needs crusaders like you. Just try not to die being one."
She disappears into the crowd as Fitz returns. He takes one look at my face and knows something's changed.
"What did she want?" he asks.
I tell him, watching his expression darken. The soldier emerges—focused, calculating, dangerous. Every part of him aligned—soldier, mercenary, husband. All focused on one goal.
"Then we end this," he says flatly. "We find everyone involved and we eliminate the threat permanently."
"Fitz—"
"No arguments, Jordan. I will not spend our marriage waiting for the next assassination attempt. We end this, and we do it properly."
We can't wait for the next attack. Can't spend our lives looking over our shoulders. We need to be proactive. Aggressive.
We need to hunt them before they hunt us.
"Together," I say firmly. "We end this together."
He nods, jaw set. "Starting tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," I agree. "But tonight—"
"Tonight, we celebrate surviving." He pulls me close, and I smell his cologne mixed with champagne and something uniquely him. "Tonight, we remember why we fight so hard to stay alive."
He kisses me like he owns me—because he does. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, and I taste champagne and intent. When we break apart, I'm breathless and aroused and so in love I can barely stand it.
The party continues around us, but I'm done being the club owner, the crusader. Right now, I want to be Jordan. Fitz's wife. His submissive.
His.
"Take me home," I whisper. "I need you."
"Music to my ears, wife."
We slip out through the back entrance, leaving Adam and Chelsea to close down the party. The cold London air hits my flushed skin, sobering and sharp. Fitz keeps me close as we walk the short distance home, his hand possessive on my hip.
Back home, Fitz wastes no time reminding me exactly who I belong to.
He strips me slowly, reverently, until I'm wearing nothing but the pearl collar.
His hands are gentle but firm, each touch deliberate.
The dress pools at my feet. Heels kicked off.
Bra discarded. Until there's nothing between us but intention.
"On the bed," he commands. "On your knees. Present yourself to me."