"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, gentlebut 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.
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."
