"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.
