Chapter 9 Uninvited
UNINVITED
CALLAHAN
I'd been sitting in my car outside a Canary Wharf office building for three hours, watching the twentieth-floor windows where Damian Holloway supposedly worked late every night preparing reports.
His wife thought he was shagging his assistant.
I thought she was probably right, but proving it required patience and a willingness to drink terrible coffee while cataloguing the movements of people who thought tinted windows made them invisible.
My camera sat ready on the passenger seat, the long lens pointed at the building, settings adjusted for low light. The payout was good. Simple infidelity case. Boring but necessary.
I checked my watch and Holloway's office light was still on.
The curtains were still open, giving me clear sight lines to his desk where he sat with someone who definitely wasn't his assistant unless his assistant had started wearing short skirts and sitting on desks in ways that suggested familiarity beyond professional.
I raised the camera, adjusted the focus and started shooting.
Then my passenger door opened.
My knife was at the intruder's throat before conscious thought could catch up to reflex.
I'd moved on pure instinct, camera forgotten, blade pressed against warm skin hard enough to dimple flesh without breaking it.
My other hand had fisted in their jacket, dragging them close enough that I could smell their cologne.
Sandalwood. Leather. Clean sweat.
Dom didn't flinch. Didn't pull back. Just met my gaze with those pale eyes and raised one eyebrow like I'd done something mildly interesting instead of threatening to open his carotid.
“Evening,” he said. Voice calm. Conversational.
I held the position for three more seconds, heart rate spiking, adrenaline flooding my system. Then I withdrew the knife, folded it closed with practised ease, and tucked it back into my jacket.
“Don't do that again,” I said.
“Do what? Get in your car, or make you pull a weapon on me?”
“Both.” I set the knife aside, turned to properly look at him. He filled the passenger seat the way mountains filled valleys—inevitably, unapologetically, making everything else feel smaller by comparison. “How did you find me?”
“You're not as careful as you think you are.”
“I would have noticed a tail.”
“You were distracted.”
His gaze moved across my car's interior with systematic attention.
The empty coffee cups in the centre console—three, four, I'd lost count.
Energy bar wrappers on the floor. A half-eaten sandwich from yesterday wedged between the seats, forgotten.
Files stacked on the back seat beside my laptop, papers sliding everywhere.
“When's the last time you ate something that wasn't processed sugar and caffeine?”
“This morning.”
“Try again.” His eyes came back to my face, taking in details I'd rather he didn't notice. Whatever he saw made his jaw tighten. “You look exhausted.”
“I'm fine.”
“You pulled a knife on me because you didn't hear me approach. That's not fine. That's running on empty and instinct.” He shifted in the seat, somehow making the confined space feel even smaller. “When did you last sleep?”
“I sleep fine.”
“You have bruises under your eyes dark enough that I can see them in streetlight. Your hands are shaking.” He gestured at the coffee cups. “And judging by the state of this car, you've been living out of it.”
“I've been working.”
“You've been avoiding going home because work is easier than stopping.” His voice stayed level but carried weight. “How long, Cal?”
I wanted to lie. Wanted to insist I was functional, perfectly capable of managing my own needs. But Dom was looking at me with that particular expression that suggested he'd sit here all night until I admitted the truth.
“Couple days,” I said finally. “Maybe. Time blurs when you're tracking patterns.”
“Couple days since you ate properly or couple days since you went home?”
“Both.”
Dom was quiet for a moment. Then he reached across me—close enough that I could feel his body heat, smell that sandalwood scent that made my brain do inconvenient things—and turned off my camera.
“Hey—”
“You're done for tonight.”
“I'm in the middle of a job.”
“You got your photos. I saw the timestamp.” He settled back, somehow taking up even more space.
“Holloway gave you everything you need thirty minutes ago.
Now you're sitting here running surveillance you don't need because stopping means thinking, and thinking means acknowledging you're running yourself into the ground.”
The accuracy of that made irritation spike. “You don't know what I'm thinking.”
“Don't I?” His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. “You're obsessed with a case that's eating you alive. You work until you collapse because exhaustion is easier than grief. You avoid anything that feels like self-care because taking care of yourself feels like giving up.”
“That's a lot of psychological analysis from someone who just broke into my car.”
“Didn't break. You left it unlocked.” He gestured at the door. “Which tells me you're even more distracted than I thought. When's the last time you had a proper meal?”
“Define proper.”
“Food. Actual food. Not whatever that is.” He pointed at the fossilised sandwich.
I couldn't actually remember. Yesterday maybe? The day before? “Why do you care?”
“Because I'm trying to decide if working with you is brilliant or suicidal.
And I can't make that call if you're half-dead from exhaustion.” His eyes held mine.
“So here's what's going to happen. You're going to let me drive you somewhere that serves actual food.
You're going to eat. And then we're going to have a conversation about whether this partnership actually makes sense.”
“Operational sustainability.”
He reached for the keys still dangling from the ignition. “I'm driving.”
“Like hell you are.”
“You're in no state to operate a vehicle safely. So either you move to the passenger seat voluntarily, or I move you myself.” His voice stayed calm but carried weight. “If I'm going to consider working with you, I need to know you're not going to collapse mid-investigation.”
“You're evaluating me.”
“I'm making sure my potential partner is worth the risk.” His eyes held mine. “Your choice.”
We stared at each other. The car felt too small, too warm, pressure building between us like weather about to break.
Part of me wanted to argue purely on principle.
The other part—the part that was exhausted and hungry and tired of fighting everything alone—wanted to let him take control just this once.
“Fine,” I said. “But if you crash my car, I'm billing you for repairs.”
“Noted.” But he didn't move. Just waited, one eyebrow raised.
“What?”
“You need to get out of the driver's seat.”
“You said I could choose to move voluntarily.”
“I did. You choosing?”
“You're enjoying this,” I said.
“Immensely.” His mouth curved properly now. Actual smile. “Come on, Cal. Don't make me manhandle you in a car park.”
“That's a very specific threat.”
“Is it working?”
Yes. God help me, yes. But I wasn't admitting that. Instead I opened my door, climbed out, walked around to the passenger side while Dom shifted over with only slightly less grace than should be possible for someone his size.
I slid into the passenger seat, watched him adjust the mirrors, the seat position, taking control of my space with casual authority that should have bothered me more than it did.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“Southwark. Turkish place I know. Best lamb in London.” He pulled away from the kerb with smooth competence, navigating evening traffic like he'd driven these streets a thousand times. “You've been?”
“To Southwark or to Turkey?”
“Either.”
“Never made it out of the country much. Work keeps me local.” I settled back against the seat, let exhaustion bleed into my bones now that I wasn't actively fighting it. “What about you? You strike me as someone who's seen things beyond London's borders.”
“Some. Worked private security before Adrian. High-risk clients in places where official protection wasn't reliable.” He took a turn onto Tower Bridge, the Thames glittering dark below us. “Istanbul. Lagos. S?o Paulo. Anywhere money and danger intersected.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Sounds exhausting. Which it was.” His hands were relaxed on the wheel, movements economical. “Good money though. And it taught me to read threats fast. Figure out who's dangerous before they announce it.”
“Is that your professional assessment? That I'm dangerous?”
“I think you're a different kind of dangerous. The kind that doesn't announce itself with weapons.” He glanced at me. “The kind that gets under people's skin and makes them do things they wouldn't normally do.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “That's a very dramatic way of saying I'm persuasive.”
“That's me saying you're trouble wrapped in competence. Which is its own kind of weapon.” But he was smiling. “When's the last time you did something that wasn't work? Just existed. Relaxed.”
“People who relax die.”
“People who never relax burn out and make mistakes that get them killed.” He took another turn, heading south. “There's a difference between vigilance and self-destruction.”
“Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, they feel pretty similar.”
“Then you're sitting wrong.” His voice went quieter. “You can't sustain this pace, Cal. Eventually something breaks. Either the case breaks or you do. And if you break first, Harrow wins by default.”
The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy. “I'll rest when he's destroyed.”
“That could take years.”
“Then I'll rest then.”
“Or you'll collapse in weeks and accomplish nothing.” Dom pulled into a car park behind a row of restaurants, cut the engine. “You're brilliant at what you do. But brilliance doesn't matter if you're too exhausted to think clearly.”