My hand finds her shoulder when she sits beside me. Steady pressure.You did good.
She nods. Exhausted but holding together.
The prosecution calls more witnesses. Federal agents. Financial analysts. Other survivors. Each one hammering nails into Graves's defense.
Then the prosecutor stands. "The United States calls Dr. Helena Sage."
A bailiff exits to retrieve her from the witness room.
My pulse kicks. About to see her for the first time since we walked into this building. About to watch her take the stand and establish Traci's credibility under cross-examination.
Helena enters through the side door. Professional. Composed. The same calm competence she brings to medical emergencies.
And all I can think about is how those hands feel on my skin. How she touches me like she's memorizing every scar. How she takes what I give her and asks for more.
Wrong thoughts for a courtroom. Don't care. She's mine, and watching her command the room with quiet authority makes me want to bend her over the nearest surface and remind her exactly who she belongs to.
She doesn't look at me as she takes the stand. Professional distance. But I see the slight hitch in her breathing when she passes the gallery. Knows I'm watching. Knows what I'm thinking.
Later. After this is done. Taking her home and making good on every dark promise.
The prosecutor establishes her credentials. Then gets to the point.
"Dr. Sage, in your professional opinion, is Traci Vance cognitively competent to provide reliable testimony?"
"Absolutely." Helena's voice is steady. Professional. The tone that makes patients trust her judgment. "Traci demonstrates clear memory recall, logical processing, and the ability to distinguish between actual events and emotional responses to trauma."
She goes on. Clinical assessment delivered with the precision I'd use for mission planning. Defense tries to shake her on cross but gets nowhere.
When she returns to her seat, I catch her hand. Pull her down harder than necessary. She makes a small sound—surprise mixed with something that goes straight to my cock.
"Did I hurt you?" Low enough the people around us can't hear.
"No." Her eyes meet mine. Dark and dilated. Reading the intent in my expression. "But you're going to later."
"Damn right I am."
Her breath hitches. Thighs press together. She knows exactly what I'm planning. What I'm going to do to her when we're alone. And she wants it.
The trial continues. Defense presents their case. Prosecution dismantles it. By the time both sides rest, the verdict feels inevitable.
We wait while the jury deliberates.
Three hours that stretch like days. Traci is decompressing in a private room with Rebecca. Helena and me in the hallway. Federal marshals maintaining security.
Helena paces. Nervous energy she can't burn off in professional settings. But I know how to handle that energy. Know exactly what she needs to settle the restlessness.
"Come here."
She stops. Looks at me. Reading the command in my voice.
"Eli, we're in a courthouse?—"
"Don't care. Come here."
She does. Always does when I use that tone. Stops in front of me, close enough I can feel her body heat.
I pull her between my legs. Back to my chest. Arms wrapped around her waist. Possessive hold that makes it clear to anyone watching that she's mine. My hand splays across her stomach. Thumb brushing just under her breast.
