Chapter 15
ELI
The courtroom feels wrong.
Too open. Too many sight lines I can't control. Federal marshals positioned at key points but not enough coverage for the variables. Graves sits at the defense table in restraints, but restraints can be compromised. Systems fail. People make mistakes.
And Traci's about to walk into the kill zone.
Helena's in the witness room. Sequestered until she testifies.
Standard protocol that makes tactical sense but leaves me handling this alone.
Want her beside me. Want her scent cutting through the courthouse smell of furniture polish and fear.
Want the grounding contact of her hand in mine when tactical instincts scream to extract Traci and eliminate the threat.
But witness sequestration means she can't hear Traci's testimony before giving her own. So I sit in the gallery alone while Rebecca escorts Traci to the stand.
The prosecutor stands. "The United States calls Traci Vance."
Rebecca walks with her to the witness stand. Traci's small frame seems even smaller against the formal courtroom backdrop. She raises her right hand, takes the oath. Holds up her notebook with the words I do.
My hands grip the gallery bench. White-knuckled. Wishing Helena was here to ground me. But she's in the witness room. Waiting. Not knowing what's happening. That isolation probably eating at her the same way sitting here watching eats at me.
The questioning begins. Traci answering with careful precision. Facts delivered in writing in her notebook. Creating distance between herself and the memory.
Smart girl. Keeps her functional when emotion would break her.
But watching her testify—watching her relive what Graves did—makes violence simmer under my skin. The kind I've spent four years trying to contain. The kind that got children killed in Syria because I hesitated when I should've pulled the trigger.
Won't hesitate with Graves. If the system fails, if he walks, I'll handle it myself. Put him down like the predator he is and deal with the consequences after.
I need Helena here. Need her scent, her touch, the grounding pressure that keeps me from disappearing into operator mode where the only solution is elimination. But witness sequestration means she's isolated. Probably pacing. Probably running scenarios about her own testimony.
I wish I could go to her. Pin her against the wall until she stops thinking. Make her focus on my hands, my mouth, the certainty of my claim instead of courtroom anxiety.
The prosecutor walks Traci through timeline. Compound details. Who was there. What Graves said and did. Building the case methodically.
Then he asks the critical question. "Traci, did Simon Graves know you were being held at his compound?"
She writes quickly and surely in her notebook Yes. He gave orders about me specifically. Told the handlers I was valuable merchandise. That I needed to be kept in good condition for high-value clients.
My jaw clenches. Hearing it stated in open court. The clinical terminology Graves used to describe a teenage girl he was selling.
I want Helena here. Want to feel her body against mine. Want the distraction of her scent and warmth to cut through the rage building in my chest. But she's isolated in the witness room. Won't know what Traci just said until she reads the transcript later.
Good. She doesn't need to hear this twice. Once when she testifies will be enough.
Defense gets their turn. Expensive suit. Practiced sympathy. Questions designed to undermine.
"Ms. Vance, you testified that you were held for approximately two years. During that time, were you given any medications?"
The strategy becomes clear. Attack Traci's reliability. Plant doubt about her mental state.
Bastard's good at his job. Making reasonable arguments sound compassionate. Making Traci question her own memory.
But Traci holds. She writes the answers to each question with the same careful precision. When defense produces photos showing no visible scar on Graves's hand, she doesn't break. Just waits while prosecution pulls arrest documentation proving she's right.
Pride cuts through the violence. That's my niece. A survivor who learned to see everything because noticing details meant staying alive.
Finally, defense counsel sits. Traci's released from the stand.
She's shaking when she walks back toward the gallery. Rebecca guides her to a seat. Traci's eyes find mine across the courtroom.
My hand finds her shoulder when she sits beside me. Steady pressure. You did good.
She nods. Exhausted but holding together.
The prosecution calls more witnesses. Federal agents. Financial analysts. Other survivors. Each one hammering nails into Graves's defense.
Then the prosecutor stands. "The United States calls Dr. Helena Sage."
A bailiff exits to retrieve her from the witness room.
My pulse kicks. About to see her for the first time since we walked into this building. About to watch her take the stand and establish Traci's credibility under cross-examination.
Helena enters through the side door. Professional. Composed. The same calm competence she brings to medical emergencies.
And all I can think about is how those hands feel on my skin. How she touches me like she's memorizing every scar. How she takes what I give her and asks for more.
Wrong thoughts for a courtroom. Don't care. She's mine, and watching her command the room with quiet authority makes me want to bend her over the nearest surface and remind her exactly who she belongs to.
She doesn't look at me as she takes the stand. Professional distance. But I see the slight hitch in her breathing when she passes the gallery. Knows I'm watching. Knows what I'm thinking.
Later. After this is done. Taking her home and making good on every dark promise.
The prosecutor establishes her credentials. Then gets to the point.
"Dr. Sage, in your professional opinion, is Traci Vance cognitively competent to provide reliable testimony?"
"Absolutely." Helena's voice is steady. Professional. The tone that makes patients trust her judgment. "Traci demonstrates clear memory recall, logical processing, and the ability to distinguish between actual events and emotional responses to trauma."
She goes on. Clinical assessment delivered with the precision I'd use for mission planning. Defense tries to shake her on cross but gets nowhere.
When she returns to her seat, I catch her hand. Pull her down harder than necessary. She makes a small sound—surprise mixed with something that goes straight to my cock.
"Did I hurt you?" Low enough the people around us can't hear.
"No." Her eyes meet mine. Dark and dilated. Reading the intent in my expression. "But you're going to later."
"Damn right I am."
Her breath hitches. Thighs press together. She knows exactly what I'm planning. What I'm going to do to her when we're alone. And she wants it.
The trial continues. Defense presents their case. Prosecution dismantles it. By the time both sides rest, the verdict feels inevitable.
We wait while the jury deliberates.
Three hours that stretch like days. Traci is decompressing in a private room with Rebecca. Helena and me in the hallway. Federal marshals maintaining security.
Helena paces. Nervous energy she can't burn off in professional settings. But I know how to handle that energy. Know exactly what she needs to settle the restlessness.
"Come here."
She stops. Looks at me. Reading the command in my voice.
"Eli, we're in a courthouse—"
"Don't care. Come here."
She does. Always does when I use that tone. Stops in front of me, close enough I can feel her body heat.
I pull her between my legs. Back to my chest. Arms wrapped around her waist. Possessive hold that makes it clear to anyone watching that she's mine. My hand splays across her stomach. Thumb brushing just under her breast.
"Relax." Quiet command against her ear. "Verdict comes back guilty. Then we go home. Then I spend the rest of the night reminding you who you belong to."
Her body softens against mine. Accepting the dominance. Trusting me to handle what she can't.
The bailiff announces the jury's ready.
We file back in. Traci between Helena and me. Rebecca nearby.
The foreman stands. "We the jury find the defendant, Simon Graves, guilty on all counts."
Guilty. Every fucking charge.
Traci's hands are gripped together in her lap. I hear Helena's breath catch. Relief and vindication mixing with the knowledge that justice actually worked this time.
Can't touch her yet. Not until we're out of this courtroom. But soon. Very soon. Going to take her apart and put her back together until she forgets how to think about anything except my hands on her body.
Two weeks later at the sentencing justice delivers what it should. Life in federal prison without parole. Graves remanded to maximum security.
The gavel falls.
Justice, delivered.
We're escorted out through a side exit to avoid the press. Federal marshals maintaining security until we're clear of the courthouse.
The moment we're in the secured hallway, I find Helena. Pull her against me. Hand fisting in her hair. Not gentle. Need the contact too much for gentle.
"You did good," I tell her. Voice rough.
"So did Traci." Her hands find my chest. Gripping my shirt like she needs the anchor as much as I need her.
"Yeah. She did." I kiss her. Hard and claiming. Possessive in ways that should probably concern her but only make her press closer. When I pull back, my thumb traces her swollen lips. "Let's go home."
We leave Anchorage that afternoon. Helena sits beside me for the drive. Traci sleeps in the back. First real rest she's had in weeks.
Helena's hand rests on my thigh. High enough to be possessive. Her fingers trace patterns that have nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with the promise I made in the courthouse hallway.
"You're thinking about it," she says quietly.
"Yeah."
"About what you're going to do to me when we get home?"
"Among other things."