19. The Wound & The Will
The Wound & The Will
Janice
The bullet graze along my side has reached the annoying stage of healing.
Itchy and just tender enough to object whenever I twist too quickly, stand too long, or forget Steve has appointed himself Minister for Watching My Every Movement.
Unfortunately for everyone involved, it isn’t bad enough to keep me in bed or out of work.
The shaded sitting room has become a temporary coordination center, which means Brian MacLeod’s pristine Aegean retreat now contains medical forms, aid directories, embassy contact lists, asylum notes, trauma referral pathways, and three different laptops balanced between coffee cups and plates of food.
Back home in the US, Brian’s probably sensing a disturbance in the luxury force.
I sit at the long table with Mercy on one side and Solace on the other, working through the names one by one.
No one is being moved today unless she asks to be moved.
No one is being interviewed by anyone official without an advocate present.
No one is being handed back to a system that already failed her.
That last part matters most.
Solace has spent the morning helping us separate real agencies from polished traps.
Legitimate international organizations. Vetted European NGOs.
Medical aid groups with actual oversight.
Legal advocates who understand refugee status, trafficking indicators, and the difference between helping a survivor and harvesting her story for paperwork.
Every report she files is copied, timestamped, and routed through channels Victor has already checked twice.
The documents she sent to her colleague in the UK have been preserved.
The port records are backed up. The names of the missing women are no longer buried in Meridian’s system where corrupt men can rename them out of existence.
They exist. We make sure of that.
Across the room, Dr. Tran sits with one of the younger women, his voice low and patient. Liberty is beside the pregnant woman from Ariadne, holding a phone while she speaks to an aunt in Germany through a shaking combination of Arabic, English, and tears.
Her name is Lina. She’s only twenty-two, and she’s in her second trimester.
When the call ends, Mercy moves closer and asks if Lina wants to tell us what happened.
Lina looks at her hand resting over her stomach, then nods.
What she gives us is fragmented, but clear enough.
Small boat. Night crossing. Too many bodies. No room to move. One man who decided terror made him entitled.
The room goes quiet in the way rooms do when decent people are trying very hard not to break something.
I write only what Lina gives permission to record. Nothing more. Nothing less.
When Mercy asks where she wants to go, Lina looks down again. “My aunt says Germany isn’t right for me now. She is old. In a nursing home.” Her hand curves protectively over her stomach. “She says maybe America. If they’ll take us.”
“America isn’t magic,” I tell Lina gently. “It’s paperwork, lawyers, medical reports, sponsorship, and people who know which doors to knock on. HAVEN pays for all of that, and Victor makes sure nothing disappears once it’s filed.”
“They will take you,” Mercy says.
Her voice doesn’t shake.
Mine might have, if I’d spoken.
Liberty notes the request while I add medical priority, prenatal care, trauma support, immigration counsel, and safe housing. Steve appears behind my chair with a fresh cup of tea and the expression of a man pretending he isn’t checking whether I need to lie down.
I take the tea. I do not lie down.
Steve looks at Lina. “If Meridian still poses a threat, we work with the authorities to protect you. Sometimes that means a new address. Sometimes a legal name change. Sometimes an entirely new start. We don't decide that for you, but if it's the safest option, we'll help make it happen.”
Solace glances at me, then at the table covered in names, choices, routes, and futures beginning to form in cautious pencil.
“They all get to choose?” she asks quietly.
“As much as we can make happen,” I say.
Her eyes shine, but she nods.
Choice is where healing starts.
And today, no matter how much my side aches, I’m making damn sure every woman in this house gets hers.
MacLeod’s Aegean, Santorini, Greece. 1215 hours
Steve brings my tea out to the terrace because he’s decided carrying a cup counts as medical supervision if I’m the one drinking it.
I don’t argue. Mostly because the tea is exactly how I like it, and partly because the look on his face says he needs these five minutes as much as I do.
The terrace is quiet at this hour. The worst of the morning rush has moved indoors, where Liberty, Mercy, Solace, and Dr. Josh are helping the women with calls, choices, and the first careful steps toward whatever comes next. Beyond the white wall, the Aegean is too bright to look at directly.
Steve sits beside me, his knee brushing mine.
“How’s the side?”
“Annoying.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you’re getting.”
He huffs out a laugh and looks toward the water.
“Stubborn woman.”
“Lucky man.”
“Bloody oath.”
For a minute we drink our tea in companionable silence, listening to the sounds drifting from inside the house, doors opening, soft voices, someone crying, someone else answering with comfort instead of alarm.
“We can’t keep doing this forever,” I say.
Steve’s hand stills around his mug.
I look at him before he can misunderstand. “I’m not talking about stopping.”
“I know.”
Of course he does.
“We’re growing too fast,” I say. “More women. More countries. More fronts. Now Legacy. This can’t stay as a handful of people flying from crisis to crisis and hoping Victor can bend the universe before breakfast.”
Steve’s mouth curves. “He does enjoy a challenge.”
“Victor is one man. So are you. So is Adrian, no matter how much money he throws at the problem.”
Steve looks back at the sea, weighing it the way he weighs everything that might put the team at risk.
“HAVEN needs to grow,” I continue. “More people. More resources. Better legal pathways. More vetted doctors, advocates, translators, lawyers, psychologists. Safe houses that aren’t being improvised in luxury retreats because Brian MacLeod has excellent taste and no instinct for saying no.”
“That last bit’s useful.”
“It is. But it isn’t a plan.”
“No,” Steve says quietly. “It’s a patch.”
The word settles between us, accurate and uncomfortable.
“Eventually,” I say, “we need legitimacy. Not full visibility. Not a public logo and charity gala nightmare where people ask me to wear heels and smile for donors.”
“That would be a tragedy for everyone. Except me.”
I raise an eyebrow.
He shrugs. “I love you in high heels.”
“Exactly. But something. A foundation arm. A legal clinic. A survivor services network. A way to operate above board where we can, so the covert side isn’t carrying everything alone.”
Steve studies me for a long moment.
“What?”
“You’ve been thinking about this for a while.”
“Yes.”
“And you waited until I was trapped on a terrace with tea.”
“I’m strategic.”
“You’re terrifying.”
“Also true.”
His hand finds mine beneath the table, warm and careful around my fingers.
“We’ll talk to Victor,” he says. “Adrian too.”
“And Faith. Mercy. Liberty. Solace, if she wants in. Serenity already has training programs we can adapt as well as the Danger app.”
Steve nods slowly.
“A real structure.”
“A future,” I say.
Inside the house, a woman laughs. Small. Surprised. Alive.
Steve hears it too.
His thumb brushes once across my knuckles.
“Alright, love,” he says. “Let’s build one.”
MacLeod’s Aegean, Santorini, Greece. 1230 hours
Steve reaches across and takes my hand.
His thumb brushes slowly over my wedding ring, as though reminding himself it’s real.
“So,” he says. “Foundation. Lawyers. Safe houses. Training. International partnerships.”
“And proper survivor services.”
“And proper survivor services.”
He smiles into his tea. “You’ve planned this.”
“I’ve been thinking about it.”
“For how long?”
“Since Arizona.”
His expression softens.
“I kept waiting for us to catch our breath,” I admit.
“Then Miami and Virginia happened. Then Tuscany happened. Then Atherton. Now Greece.” I glance back toward the house where women are beginning to rebuild lives that almost ended before they had the chance to choose them.
“Every rescue teaches us something. We keep adapting. But adapting isn’t the same as building. ”
Steve nods slowly.
“After,” he says.
I know exactly what he means.
“After we dismantle them.”
“After,” I agree. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t start planning and throwing ideas around.”
The words hang between us, less a promise than a destination we’ve both quietly chosen.
My fingers drift unconsciously to the bandage beneath my shirt.
The wound will heal. In another week or two there’ll be little more than a pale scar running along my side, one most people will never notice.
The one I’ll always carry is invisible.
The crack of rifles. Stone exploding beside us. Steve throwing himself over me without hesitation, using his own body as my shield while bullets tore into the rocks around us.
No scar tissue can measure that kind of love.
“Lesson learned,” I say. “From now on, I’m wearing a bulletproof vest on every mission. You never know when a shootout’s going to happen.”
“Yeah, you’re right there, darls,” he agrees.
Steve catches the movement of my hand and gently covers it with his own.
“No regrets?” he asks.
I look at him.
The man who crossed an ocean without asking whether I was worth the risk.
The man who still makes terrible sandwiches, perfect cups of tea, and cooks a mean barbie.
The man who would stand between me and a bullet every single time if I let him.
“Not one.”
He smiles, slow and certain.
“Neither do I.”
Mercy appears at the terrace door with a tray balanced against her hip. “Private lunch delivery,” she says, setting down wrapped gyros, fresh fruit, and two bottles of water. “You both looked like you’d forgotten food exists.”
Steve grins. “Angel.”
“Correct,” Mercy says, then leaves us to it.
Later, I catch my reflection in the bedroom mirror while changing the dressing over my side. The wound is already knitting together.
Below it, my wedding ring catches the Santorini sun spilling through the window.
One small scar. One simple ring. One enormous purpose.
I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me. Not because she’s changed into someone else. Because somehow, through everything we’ve survived together, I’ve become more myself than ever before.
My mind is already racing ahead, sketching structures, partnerships, survivor programs, legal pathways, training networks, and safe houses that won’t depend on whoever happens to answer the phone first.
Ideas can wait until we’re all back in San Francisco.
The mission can’t.
But the future finally has a shape.
And I intend to help build every piece of it.
MacLeod’s Aegean, Santorini, Greece. 1300 hours
As we lie in the quiet of our bedroom for siesta, his fingers hover over my skin, hesitant and careful. The graze on my side has faded from an angry, raised red to a thin silver-pink line, but Steve still touches it like it might tear open again if he looks at it the wrong way.
I reach down, trapping his large, warm hand in mine, and press his palm flat over the mark before sliding it up to rest directly over my heart.
“Still here,” I tell him, my voice steady in the dark. “Still yours.”
What follows is slow and unhurried, no adrenaline or gunfire, just two people choosing each other again and again.
I set the pace, guiding him as I roll onto my stomach, looking back over my shoulder to meet his intense, dark gaze. I’m reminding him with every movement that I’m not breakable, that surviving is its own fierce kind of strength.
His broad palms slide slowly down my waist, cupping the full curves of my ass and squeezing with a heavy, possessive weight.
His fingers slip lower, easing one deep inside my wet, aching heat to make sure I’m slick and ready for him.
He groans at the damp warmth, his thumb tracing back to gently tease my tight entrance, the light friction making my hips twitch demandingly against his touch.
He moves in behind me, his massive warmth settling over my back as he presses his body against mine, pinning me to the mattress.
Gathering my hair over one shoulder, he kisses a slow path across my bare back before entering me from behind in one long, deep, satisfying glide that steals the breath from my lungs.
This isn’t the frantic, desperate coupling born of fear. It’s steady, deliberate, his thick length filling me completely with every slow, powerful thrust. I arch back to meet him, matching his rhythm and showing him how completely my body welcomes his strength.
He buries his face against my shoulder, his breathing growing rough as he drives deeper, holding me tightly against him as though anchoring us both to the earth.
He’s spent days afraid to hold me too hard.
Today I’m showing him his wife is still right here, scar and all.
And she’s not done living yet. Not even close.
When he finally lets the terror go, I feel it leave his body like a breath he’s been holding for days. The rigid tension drains from his muscles as he pours himself into me with a deep, shuddering groan, his release carrying away the last of the fear he’s been carrying.
Afterward he stays wrapped around me, one hand resting gently on my thigh to keep any weight off my healing side, his breathing slow and peaceful against my shoulder. He brushes his lips across my temple, his fingertips tracing lazy patterns along my arm in the quiet darkness.
“I’m looking forward to going home soon,” I whisper, leaning back into his solid chest. “Want to ride.”
“Yeah,” Steve rumbles, his deep voice vibrating against my back. “Me too. I’m missing my Harley, to be honest.”
He kisses my neck, his arms tightening around me, careful of my side.
“But we should do a little sightseeing before we leave,” he says. “Take the rest of the team with us.”
“I’d love that,” I say with a smile, closing my eyes, finally warm and safe in his arms.