Chapter 15
Clare
The boarding school looked like something from a gothic novel, all stone and shadows and bare winter branches scratching at a sky the color of old bruises.
Every window was completely dark except one warm glow on the ground floor of the main building.
A boarding school. He was hiding us in a boarding school.
“Closed for Christmas holidays.” Havoc pulled around toward a side entrance. “Empty. The headmaster’s an old friend who owes me several lifetimes of favors.”
The campus felt like a ghost town, a place built for children, now abandoned to the silence. It was the kind of heavy quiet that pressed against your eardrums, making you hyperaware of your own breathing.
In the back seat, our clothes had mostly dried into us during the long drive, stiff, uncomfortable, salt-stained from sweat and rain water.
Xavier’s hand had been on my thigh the entire time, grounding himself, anchoring to my presence.
I’d been monitoring his pupils obsessively every time we passed under a streetlight.
One blown wide. One pinprick. Better since we left the city, but it raised every neurological red flag in my nurse brain.
Havoc stopped near a side entrance marked R?‰SIDENCE DU DIRECTEUR in faded letters. Principal’s residence.
We followed him to the door. It opened before Havoc could knock.
The man standing in the doorway was backlit by warm interior light, creating a halo effect that should have been comforting but somehow wasn’t.
My clinical assessment kicked in automatically: six-four at least, lean but powerfully built, with an eerie stillness that immediately reminded me of Xavier.
The kind of stillness that came from being a predator waiting for the right moment to move.
Dark brown hair streaked with silver. Golden-hazel eyes too sharp, too knowing, scanning us with the same intensity Xavier used. A deep scar visible where his shirt collar didn’t quite cover skin, jagged, old, the kind that came from surviving something that should have killed you.
But his face held something softer than I expected. Weariness, almost. Something that might have been kindness if you squinted hard enough and ignored the part of him that looked like he could kill you without breaking a sweat.
His voice came soft, deliberate, measured in a way that was unsettling in its calmness. Like every word was carefully weighed before being released.
“You must be the nurse who wouldn’t let him die.”
Not a question. A statement of fact delivered with something that sounded uncomfortably close to approval. Then he looked at Xavier.
“Blackout.” The name came out soft. Deliberate. Like each syllable required effort to shape. “I heard you were dead.”
Xavier’s hand found my wrist. Gripped tight.
The stranger blinked slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. Almost apologetic. “I’m sorry. That’s not...” He stopped. Started over. “Come inside. It’s cold.”
He stepped back, holding the door. We filed past him into warmth that felt almost aggressive after the freezing weather.
The space beyond was small but lived-in.
Bookshelves crammed with philosophy texts and novels.
A working fireplace crackling with real wood.
Family photos on the mantel, headmaster with students, awards ceremonies, graduation days.
Someone’s actual home. Not a safehouse. A life.
The smell of coffee drifted from the other room. Real coffee, not the instant shit I’d been surviving on. My stomach growled.
Xavier’s hand found mine. Threaded our fingers together with careful deliberation, like he was testing whether I’d pull away.
I didn’t.
The stranger returned carrying a tray, four mugs, sugar, cream, a plate of what looked like actual food. Sandwiches. Cheese.
He set it on the low table between us with careful precision. Then gestured to a medical kit on the side table I hadn’t noticed before, professional grade, the kind hospitals used. Not the makeshift collection of bandages and expired antibiotics I’d been working with.
“Supplies.” He gestured to the kit. “Antibiotics, sterile equipment, IV fluids if needed. Everything you’ll require to keep him stable.”
Relief flooded through me so fast it made my knees weak. Proper medical supplies. Finally.
He set everything on the table between us. Poured coffee with steady hands. Pushed a mug toward me without asking if I wanted any.
I wrapped both hands around the warmth. Took a sip. Nearly groaned. Actual good coffee. Strong enough to strip paint but smooth underneath. French press, probably.
“Thank you.” The words came out more genuine than I’d intended.
The man nodded. Settled into the remaining chair. His movements were economical, precise. No wasted energy. When he finally looked at Xavier again, something shifted in his expression. Softened, maybe. Or broke.
He noticed the contact between us. Xavier’s protective positioning, my instinctive step closer despite the stranger’s apparent lack of threat. Something shifted in his expression, approval mixed with something darker. Envy, possibly.
“He forgot to tell you, but this is Hellhound.” Havoc sat beside the man. “Real name doesn’t matter. He’s the one who’s been pulling Oblivion apart from the inside for the last five years. Tobias Dresner’s right hand and most loyal dog.”
Hellhound’s mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. “And doing a spectacularly poor job of it, apparently, since they’re still actively trying to kill you.”
My heart sank. Dresner’s man. Here. With us. In this room.
Perfect. Just what we needed. Another killer in a cozy living room with a fireplace.
Hellhound watched my reaction, his gaze unreadable. “Was trusted. Past tense matters.”
His voice stayed soft, deliberate, each word carefully placed like he was defusing a bomb instead of having a conversation.
“Havoc’s being dramatic.” A pause, golden-hazel eyes flicking to the man leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not Dresner’s anymore. Haven’t been for a long time. But I’m very good at pretending.”
Havoc pushed off the wall. “Five years of pretending. Playing loyal soldier while dismantling from inside. It’s exhausting watching him be that patient.”
Something in Hellhound’s expression shifted. “Patience is survival when the alternative is a bullet.”
Xavier’s grip tightened. The question in it: Can we trust this?
I didn’t know. But we were here. And Hellhound was studying Xavier with an intensity that felt less like threat assessment and more like grief.
“Sit.” Hellhound gestured toward the small dining table tucked near the fireplace. Six chairs, worn wood, the kind that had hosted countless family dinners. “You’re both about to collapse.”
Xavier didn’t move immediately. His body coiled tighter, that predator stillness I recognized as threat evaluation.
“Please.” Hellhound’s voice gentled. “I know what you’re thinking. I’d think it too. But if I wanted you dead, Havoc wouldn’t have brought you here.”
“He’s annoyingly principled about not killing people unless it blows his cover.” Havoc leaned against the wall. “Something about respect and boundaries. Very inconvenient.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed. The absurdity of it, standing in a headmaster’s living room discussing murder etiquette while bone tired.
“I need to know what you remember.” His voice stayed gentle. Patient. “Before I explain anything else.”
Xavier stared at him. Opened his mouth. Closed it. Frustration flickered across his face.
“He can’t speak. At all. Vocal cords work, but nothing comes out.”
“And he doesn’t remember anything. His name, his past, what happened to him, it’s all gone.”
Hellhound’s gaze sharpened. “Complete amnesia?”
“Everything before waking up in that alley three days ago. That’s where I found him, injured, beaten up, tremendous blood loss...”
Hellhound leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Xavier. Do you know who I am?”
Xavier shook his head.
“Do you remember Oblivion? The conditioning facility? Anything about your training?”
Another shake. Slower this time. His grip tightened.
“What about before? Your life. Family. Who you were?”
Nothing. Just Xavier’s throat working, jaw clenching, the familiar frustration of words he couldn’t force past the block in his brain.
Hellhound sat back. Exhaled slowly. “Then I’ll start at the beginning.
Oblivion is an organization.” His voice stayed measured.
Calm. Like he was explaining something simple instead of the nightmare that had destroyed Xavier’s mind.
“A covert black-ops program that takes people, criminals, highly skilled and dangerous individuals, and turns them into operatives. Assassins. Perfect soldiers who follow orders without question.”
My fingers tightened around the mug but I kept silent.
“It’s run by a man named Tobias Dresner.
Neuroscience pioneer although he’s not a doctor, but more of a businessman.
His work was deemed too extreme, experimenting on human subjects, trying to perfect compliance technology.
He was forced out of legitimate research circles decades ago.
” Hellhound’s expression darkened. “So he found people who shared his vision. A cabal of ultra-wealthy elite. Global reach. Political connections. They fund Oblivion in exchange for untraceable assassins who serve their interests.”
I looked at Xavier. His face had gone pale, jaw tight. Processing. Trying to reconcile what he was hearing with the blank space where his memories should be.
The room felt colder.
“How many?”
“Operatives? Dozens across five generations. Facilities on three continents. Support staff in the hundreds.” Hellhound leaned forward.
“They operate under the cover of legitimate businesses. CuraNova Biotech in Geneva is Dresner’s primary headquarters, a pharmaceutical company on the surface, conditioning facility underneath.
Clean. Professional. Completely legal-looking. ”
My stomach turned. A pharmaceutical company. Of course.