"After the threat's eliminated. When Traci doesn't need constant protection. When there's no tactical mission to focus on." His jaw tightens. "When I have to figure out how to exist without an objective."
The vulnerability beneath that admission makes my chest ache. Years of isolation because he didn't know how to live with what he became. Now forced into proximity with people who need him to function as both protector and human.
"You figure it out by trying," I tell him. "By not running back to your cabin the minute the dust settles."
"That your professional opinion?"
"That's my personal opinion." I meet his eyes. Dark and direct and searching for certainty I'm not sure I can give. "I'm not asking for promises you can't keep, Eli. But I'm also not interested in being the woman you sleep with between tactical operations before you disappear into the wilderness again."
Silence stretches between us. Eli processing, calculating, running scenarios the way he does with everything.
"I'm not going back," he says finally. "To isolation. To pretending I can outrun what I am by hiding from it." His hand finds my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. "Traci needs family. Needs someone who stays. And you—" He stops. Starts again. "You make me want to stay."
Heat floods through me. Not lust this time. Something deeper that terrifies and steadies me simultaneously.
"Okay," I whisper. "Then stay."
We wait, connected in ways that complicate everything and simplify it simultaneously, and prepare for what's coming next.
By the time we leave Finn's compound, the sun has climbed higher over the mountains. Eli drives the lead vehicle in the convoy, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on my thigh. Possessive weight that makes me hyperaware of every shift, every deliberate squeeze. Traci sits in the back, quiet but alert,watching the landscape roll past. The federal marshals maintain position behind us, a reminder that even with Graves in custody, protocols remain in place.
The drive to Anchorage takes time. Long stretches of highway cutting through wilderness, mountains rising on either side. Eli's hand stays on my leg the entire time, thumb occasionally stroking in slow circles that have nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with claiming. I shift in my seat, trying to ease the ache he left this morning, and his hand tightens.
"Still thinking about it?" His voice is low enough Traci can't hear through her headphones.
"Yes."
"Good." His fingers dig in slightly. Deliberate pressure. "Want you thinking about me. About what I did to you. What I'm going to do to you later."
My breath catches. Wrong time for this. Wrong place. But my body doesn't care about timing when his voice drops into that register.
"Eli—"
"You're wet right now, aren't you?" Not really a question. He knows my body too well. "Sitting there in the passenger seat, trying to act normal while you're remembering how I felt inside you this morning."
Heat floods my face. "Traci?—"
"Is listening to music and can't hear a word I'm saying." His hand slides higher on my thigh. Not quite touching where I need him, but close enough to make the point. "Answer the question, Helena."
"Yes." Barely a whisper.
His mouth curves. Satisfaction and dark promise. "Later, then. When we're alone. Going to make you show me exactly how wet you are."
The rest of the drive passes in a haze of anticipation and frustration. Every casual touch feels deliberate. Every glance carries intent. By the time we reach Anchorage, I'm wound so tight I can barely focus.
The time that follows passes in careful preparation—and constant, burning awareness of Eli.
Special Prosecutor Whitmore coordinates everything from Anchorage. Conference calls with Rebecca Macintosh, the victim advocate who's been working with Traci since the initial rescue. Trauma-informed testimony protocols. Security arrangements for transport and courthouse access.
Traci handles it with quiet determination. Writing responses when asked questions. Nodding when Rebecca explains what to expect. Processing information without breaking.
But I see the cost. The way her sleep deteriorates as the trial date approaches. How she startles at unexpected sounds. The nightmares that wake her gasping for air until Eli appears in her doorway.
And I see Eli. The way he moves through the hotel suite we're sharing like a caged predator. Checking locks. Monitoring hallway traffic. Running scenarios in his head that I can read in the tension of his shoulders.
Late at night, after Traci's asleep, he comes to my room. Doesn't knock. Just walks in like he owns the space. Like he owns me.
"Can't sleep," he says. But that's not why he's here.
