"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.
