Chapter 5 Nightingale #2
Something inside me snapped. Years of frustration, of being diminished, of being seen as less than what I was—all boiled over in an instant.
I whirled on him, my torch beam catching his surprised expression. “Stop calling me that.”
He blinked at my vehemence. “I didn’t mean—”
“Stop treating me like I’m fragile. Like I’m something to protect and pat on the head.
” The words poured out, a flood I couldn’t stop even if I’d wanted to.
“You do it every single day. Every. Single. Fucking. Day. I’ve killed people, Tag.
I’ve run ops that would make seasoned agents think twice.
I survived alone for months in Syria, extracted assets from Tehran when everyone said it was impossible and decoded intelligence that saved dozens of lives.
I’ve earned my place at Unit 23 ten times over.
But you call me ‘kid’ like I’m someone who needs to be managed rather than trusted. ”
“That’s not fair,” he spat at me.
“Isn’t it?” I stepped closer, fury overriding every instinct that told me not to.
“You told me yesterday it wasn’t about me being Idris’ sister.
That it was about you, about your past. Fine.
I get that. But that doesn’t change the fact that you treat me like I’m nineteen, like I’m that girl at her brother’s funeral.
I’m twenty-two years old. I speak five languages fluently, and I can kill a man sixteen different ways with my bare hands.
I’ve infiltrated organizations that would execute me without hesitation if they knew who I really was.
I’m not a child, Tag. I haven’t been one for a very long time. ”
“I know that.” His tone was low, seething.
“Do you? Because from where I’m standing, you see the teenager you and Typhon approached at the cemetery. The girl you promised to protect. Well, I don’t need protecting, Tag. Not from missions, not from danger, and certainly not from you.”
The hush that followed was deafening. Even the constant drip of water somewhere in the tunnels seemed to pause. Tag’s eyes had gone almost black in the torchlight, and when he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I don’t see you as a kid.” Each word dragged from him against his will, like he was confessing under torture. “That’s the problem.”
My breath caught, and the hair on my arms stood up. Understanding crashed through me—the walls weren’t about dismissal. It was defense. He was trying to convince himself as much as me.
“Tag—”
“We should return to the main level.” He stalked off, leaving me standing alone with my heart hammering.
I eventually followed, and when I emerged from the undercroft, the warmth I’d anticipated was nonexistent.
As if it were the proverbial straw breaking the camel’s back, the generator wheezed, then died completely. The lights flickered off, leaving us in the gray twilight.
“The heat’s given out,” he said, checking the cooling radiators. “We’ll have to rely on other ways to stay warm.”
We built up the fire in the bedroom since it was the most contained space, but even with the flames roaring, the chilled air was bitter, seeping through the exterior and finding every gap in the windows where frost had formed on the inside of the glass.
Night fell early, the bad weather turning daylight to dusk by sixteen hundred hours.
We ate dinner sitting as close as we could to the hearth—bread and cheese accompanied by a bottle of whiskey Tag had discovered in a cupboard.
It was aged and smoky, and the burn of each sip spread warmth through my chest and limbs.
“We’re going to freeze,” I said as my breath clouded in the air despite sitting close to the fire.
Tag had been staring into the flames, but at my words, he glanced up. The light caught his features, casting shadows that emphasized the exhaustion on his face and the tension in his jaw. “We’ll manage.”
“No, we won’t.” I stood, decision made. “We need to share body heat, or we’ll both be hypothermic by morning.”
I saw him tense, saw the automatic rejection forming, but I cut him off.
“This isn’t about us. It’s about survival.”
He was quiet for several seconds, then nodded once. “You’re right.”
We sat with our spines against the sofa, sharing the blankets we’d gathered from around the castle. At first, we maintained space between us, but the cold was relentless. Within minutes, we’d shifted closer, our bodies naturally seeking warmth.
His arm was behind me on the sofa, not quite touching but close enough for me to sense its presence. Heat radiated from him through our clothes.
“Better?” His tone was low and rough.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about Idris when you were growing up,” he said into the quiet. “What was he like as a brother?”
“He was…” I searched for words to capture someone so complex. “Protective. Brilliant. Infuriating.” A smile tugged at my lips despite the ache in my chest. “He taught me to pick locks when I was twelve. Mum and Dad were furious.”
“Sounds like him.” There was warmth in Tag’s voice, real affection. “He talked about you constantly. Every mission, every dead drop, there’d be something about his little sister. How proud he was. How smart you were. How he worried about you.”
“He talked about you too.” I raised my chin and turned in his direction. “He said you were the most honorable man he’d ever met and that if anything happened to him, I could trust you with my life.”
“He made me promise…”
“I know.”
Tag shifted and dropped his arm from the sofa to rest around my shoulders.
I leaned into him, fitting myself against his side. His arm tightened, and he exhaled as tension left his body.
“He wanted me to be happy,” I said quietly.
“He wanted you safe.”
“From what? From living?” I leaned away enough to see his face. “Tag, I chose this life. I chose Unit 23. I chose to follow in his footsteps not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Every decision I’ve made has been mine. Not his. Not yours. Mine.”
“I know,” he said as though the words hurt him to say. “God help me, I know.”
We stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in blankets and each other’s warmth. Neither of us suggested moving to the bed; we were nearer the heat where we were.
“Tag,” I whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I wish you could see me differently. As a woman.”
His hand found mine under the blankets, and he wove his fingers with mine. “I’ve always seen you as a woman.”
His thumb moved against my palm, and my breathing went shallow.
“Leila.” My name sounded like an oath.
I shifted an inch closer, but it was enough. Our cheeks touched, and he shuddered. His free hand came up to cup my face with heartbreaking gentleness.
“We shouldn’t,” he whispered, but his actions contradicted his words as he traced the line of my jaw.
I tilted my head toward his. “I know.”
For an instant, we hovered there, lips barely an inch apart. Then, as if pulled by invisible strings, the space between us disappeared.
The kiss was nothing like the desperate collision on the stairs. This was slower and deeper. His hand tangled in my hair, holding me like I might disappear. Every line of my body fitted against his as we shifted lower, lying on the blankets beneath us.
The sound that came from low in his throat conveyed surrender. He rolled us so I was beneath him, his weight pressing me against the floor.
His hands framed my face, then slid down to my shoulders, my waist, leaving trails of scorching heat through my clothes. I arched against him, my own hands exploring the broad expanse of his shoulders, the strong column of his neck, the silk of his hair.
“Leila,” he breathed against my lips, then trailed kisses along my jaw, down to the sensitive spot where my neck met my shoulder. I gasped, and my fingers tightened in his hair.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” I whispered. The confession tore from me. Even though I knew it might break the spell we were under, I had to say it.
His eyes were black with desire as he leaned away to look into mine. “You have no idea,” he said roughly. “Watching you, wanting you, telling myself all the reasons I couldn’t have you.”
“Stop telling yourself anything,” I said, arching up to kiss him again. “Stop thinking so much.”
His hand slid under my jumper, and he rested his palm flat against my stomach. The skin-to-skin contact was electric and overwhelming.
“Please,” I whispered, though I wasn’t sure what I was begging for. Everything. Anything. Him.
His hand moved higher, and his fingers traced the edge of my bra. When his palm covered my breast, we both groaned. Even through the thin fabric, the sensation was overwhelming.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmured against my throat. “So bloody perfect.”
He pushed my jumper up, and I helped him pull it over my head. There was only heat now, only him, only this moment we’d been racing toward since the day we met.
His eyes traveled over me with reverence that made my chest tight. “Beautiful,” he breathed, then lowered his head, pressing kisses to the swell of my breast.
The sight of him—all that controlled power, the defined muscles of his chest and arms—made my mouth go dry.
I ran my hands over his pecs, feeling the heat of his skin, the racing of his heart.
We were skin to skin now, and the sensation was almost too much. I was drowning in him, in his scent, his touch, the weight of him. I gasped into his mouth when his hand found my breast again and his thumb brushed over my hardened nipple.
“I need—” I said, but I couldn’t find words for the ache building inside me.
“I know,” he said roughly. “I know, love.”
He reached behind me, unclasping my bra with one hand, and then his mouth was on me, taking my nipple between his lips. I cried out as waves of sensation crashed through me.
The world narrowed to this—his mouth on me, his hands holding me steady.
The storm raging outside was nothing compared to the one building between us.