Page 73

Eight Months Later

The Judas Coin felt heavy in my pocket as I watched Lo gather his gear. After eight months of carrying the damn thing, I'd grown accustomed to its weight, but never comfortable with it. Some burdens don't lighten with time.

"So," Lo said, zipping his tactical bag closed, "how's it feel signing off on my contracts now, boss man?"

I snorted, leaning back in my office chair. "Like watching a toddler play with matches near a gas station."

"You love it." He grinned, checking his custom throwing knives one last time before sliding them into their sheaths. "Admit it, you miss fieldwork."

"Sometimes," I admitted, sliding the mission dossier across my desk. "But I'm finding other ways to keep busy."

Eight months as Director Ares had brought significant changes to the North American branch.

No more child recruits. No more conditioning through torture and manipulation.

The old methods were giving way to something different: still lethal, still efficient, but less monstrous.

Some days the changes felt glacial, other days revolutionary.

"How's Vincent adjusting to domestic bliss?" Lo asked, glancing at the framed photo on my desk: Vincent in the greenhouse, unaware of the camera, smiling as he tended his plants. The sight of it still made my chest tighten.

"Better than me." I smiled despite myself. "Though I'm learning."

We'd broken ground on the house two months after the Tribunal, a modern design perched on the hillside above the Acropolis, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river.

Vincent's greenhouse stretched along the southern exposure, twice the size I'd originally proposed.

He'd filled it with survivors from his old apartment and countless new additions, each with ridiculous names and backstories.

Ana's cottage sat a comfortable distance away on the same property, close enough for family dinners but far enough for privacy. After the initial shock of reclaiming her identity, she'd thrown herself into rebuilding her life with the same determination that apparently ran in our family.

"And Ana?" Lo asked, as if reading my thoughts. "Still dating that barista?"

"Coffee artist," I corrected dryly. "And yes. Though I still don't trust him."

Lo laughed. "You don't trust anyone."

"I trust you," I countered, then narrowed my eyes at his mission file. "Speaking of which, Rio? Personal business? "

Something flickered across Lo's face: eagerness mixed with something darker. "Long overdue justice."

I tapped the file, hesitating. I'd seen something in the details that bothered me.

The contract came directly from Dionysus, South American Director and the man who'd raised Lo.

Protocol strictly forbade sharing contract origins with field operatives to prevent conflicts of interest, but the parallel to my own situation with Prometheus sent warning signals screaming through my brain.

"You sure about this one?" I asked instead, careful to keep my face neutral.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Lo cocked his head, suddenly alert. "Something wrong with it?"

I shook my head, protocol winning over concern. "Just the usual hazards. Be careful."

Lo's smile softened momentarily. "Worried about me? How sweet."

"Practical concern," I replied dryly. "The paperwork for dead assets is a nightmare."

He laughed, slinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'll be back before you know it. Try not to get too soft while I'm gone."

As the door closed behind him, unease settled in my stomach. I'd signed off on hundreds of contracts since becoming director, but something about this one felt wrong. Not wrong enough to justify intervention, but enough to leave me restless.

"You're overthinking again," Vincent's voice came from the doorway, pulling me from my thoughts.

I looked up to find him leaning against the frame, casual in jeans and a simple button-down. Eight months together in our new life, and the sight of him still sent heat pooling low in my belly.

"How can you tell?" I asked .

"That little furrow between your eyebrows." He crossed the room and perched on the edge of my desk. "Lo's mission?"

I nodded. "Something feels off."

"Lo can handle himself," Vincent reminded me. "And unlike you, he doesn't have a superhuman therapist watching his back."

I smiled, catching his hand. "Superhuman?"

"I put up with you, don't I?" His thumb traced circles on my palm. "That requires special powers."

"I'm a delight," I deadpanned.

"You're something," he agreed, leaning in to kiss me. "Ready to go home? Ana's bringing dinner."

Home. Eight months later, and the word still felt foreign and precious on my tongue. Home had meant something very different in Bosnia—safety, family, belonging—all ripped away when Prometheus took me. Now, against all odds, I had reclaimed each piece.

"Almost done," I said, gesturing to the stack of files. "Just need to sign off on the new training protocols."

Vincent glanced at the documents. "The therapy requirement for all field operatives?"

I nodded. "Mandatory sessions before and after high-risk missions. Some of the old guard are still fighting it."

"Change takes time," Vincent said, a note of pride in his voice. "But look how far you've come."

His work within the Pantheon had exceeded all expectations. Despite initial resistance, Vincent had won over even the most hardened assets with his unique approach to therapy. The results spoke for themselves—improved success rates, fewer psychological breaks, better retention.

"We're making progress," I agreed, signing the final document. "Slowly. "

"Slow is better than not at all." Vincent stood, offering his hand. "Now come on. Ana said she has news."

I took his hand, allowing him to pull me from my chair. "What kind of news?"

"The kind she wants to share in person."

Vincent's car waited in the underground garage—the same model he'd driven when we first met, though newer. I'd offered to buy him something faster, more secure, but he'd refused. Some attachments ran deeper than logic.

As we drove toward home, Vincent's hand rested on my thigh, a casual intimacy that still surprised me. The countryside rolled past, summer greenery blurring as the city fell behind us.

"So," he said, squeezing my leg gently, "I have news too."

I turned to him, suddenly alert. "Good or bad?"

"Good. I think." He smiled, eyes on the road. "I've been asked to formalize my training program into a curriculum for the Pantheon. Classes for new therapists within the organization."

"You said yes?" I asked, studying his profile.

"I'm considering it. Two sessions per week, teaching others what I've learned working with assets." He glanced at me. "It would mean less one-on-one therapy time, but potentially greater impact organization-wide."

"You should do it," I said immediately. "If you want to."

Vincent had adapted remarkably to life within the Pantheon, finding ways to apply his expertise that benefited everyone. The chance to formalize his methods into a curriculum, to shape how the organization approached mental health, clearly excited him.

"It's just," he hesitated, "it means becoming even more integrated into the Pantheon. No turning back."

"Having second thoughts?" I asked carefully .

He shook his head firmly. "Not at all. Actually, the opposite. I've realized I belong here as much as I ever belonged in my old practice. Maybe more."

The road curved upward as we approached the hillside where our house perched. He put the car in park once we reached the driveway and turned to me, his expression suddenly serious. "I have one condition."

I raised an eyebrow. "Which is?"

"You guest lecture for one session." His mouth quirked. "Give them the field perspective."

"Me? Teaching therapists?" I laughed. "What would I even say?"

"You'd have to leave all weapons at home," he warned. "And possibly wear a tie."

I groaned. "The things I do for love."

Vincent's smile could still stop my heart. "Is that a yes?"

Instead of answering, I leaned across the console and kissed him, my hand curving around the nape of his neck. He sighed against my mouth, melting into me with the same responsiveness that had captivated me from the beginning.

"That's a yes," I confirmed when we broke apart.

Ana's car already sat in the driveway, her cottage windows glowing warmly in the fading light. As we approached our front door, the scent of garlic and herbs wafted from inside.

"She used her key again," I noted, not actually bothered.

"Family privilege," Vincent reminded me, unlocking the door.

Our home welcomed us with warmth and light.

Modern design tempered with comfortable furnishings, security systems disguised as smart home technology.

Plants occupied nearly every surface—Vincent's ever-expanding family that I'd learned to water correctly after multiple lectures on "drowning the poor things. "

Ana appeared from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. "Finally! I was about to eat without you."

Eight months had brought remarkable changes in her.

The confused, wounded woman from the tribunal had grown stronger, more confident, her accent now a blend of her recovered Bosnian heritage and American upbringing.

She'd kept her charity work but refocused it entirely on trafficking victims from war zones, using her personal experience to drive systemic change.

"Smells amazing," Vincent said, hugging her before heading to the kitchen. "I'll open the wine."

Ana turned to me, her ice-blue eyes—so like my own—sparkling with barely contained excitement. "I have news."

"So I heard." I kissed her cheek. "Good news, I hope?"

"The best." She glanced toward the kitchen, lowering her voice. "I've been offered a position running the International Children's Rights Initiative. Full directorship."

The world tilted briefly beneath my feet. "That's incredible, Ana. You deserve it."