Chapter Seventeen Compromised Position
Chapter seventeen
Compromised Position
Well, that was textbook.
Textbook on how not to handle an undercover assignment.
Warren had played it like a piss-poor UC.
No—worse. Like some lovesick teenager who couldn’t keep his hands or his head in check.
God, fuck… all he’d wanted in that moment was to scoop Jude up and get him out. Take him away from all this shit. Jude didn’t deserve it. Didn’t deserve to be a sitting duck, waiting for CID to decide if and when he’d be allowed protection.
He deserved some fucking humanity.
Hell, he deserved love.
Now Warren sat in his car outside the school, eyes on the gates, scanning for any sign that Callum Reid might make a return appearance.
He knew Jude was in his classroom as he’d already done a sweep but hadn’t gone in.
He was keeping his distance. Doing exactly what Patel had ordered.
Monitor. Identify the threat. Gather the intel.
And doing exactly what Jude was asking him to do.
Stay away. Even if it was torture not to cross that threshold.
Not to tell Jude he knew. Not to hold him.
Warren scrubbed a hand over his face. Yeah, he was compromised.
Not like the last op. This was worse. Much worse.
And if he wanted to keep his warrant card, he had to keep his head.
Especially after Callum clocked him earlier, camera in hand during the exchange.
He hadn’t bitten. Textbook said don’t. Feign it.
Act like nothing landed. Maintain cover.
He’d already pushed the stills of Reuban taking something off a known face to CID.
Fast-track PNC and intel checks had confirmed what he suspected, the bloke was working the Radley line.
Even if Callum had put two and two together, Warren could still play it off.
A PE teacher being cautious about a dodgy handover near the school gates.
Exactly the sort of safeguarding spiel a headteacher would back him on.
But the more Warren kept showing up, the more Callum was likely to suspect.
And if Callum suspected him, that could filter to Naomi. And all this would be for nothing.
But under it, every muscle in him had screamed to put Callum flat on his back in the mud and keep swinging until his jaw shattered. Until he was physically incapable of ever laying a hand on Jude again.
And Warren didn’t even know if he had.
He suspected. No proof. Which was the whole reason he was here—to get it.
He just didn’t want that proof to be a fresh bruise.
His burner buzzed. He thumbed it on. “Yeah?”
Naomi. “Check-in. I won’t be home tonight. Vivienne’s asked me to stay over. Full clean, heavy supervision. She’s out. Graham’s in. Could be my window.”
“You got someone keeping you company?”
“Already called Patel for a van. They’ll keep me company outside. I’ll call if I get lonely.”
“Good. Don’t take any risks.”
“You’re the risk taker.”
“Only if it’s worth it.”
“You got anything for me?”
“Reid was on school property.”
“Oh. He’s left the safety of cover, has he? What made him do that?”
“Guess? Ellison.”
“Did they get cosy?”
“Attempted. Also clocked an exchange. Already sent through to CID. Reid wasn’t in it, but the link’s there.”
“Location now?”
“Ellison’s still on site. Keeping an eye.”
A pause. “Keep your head, too.”
“I will.”
“Call in tomorrow.”
Warren cut the call as headlights washed across the car park and the last stragglers in the school left.
He kept his engine off, staying in shadow at the far end, eyes locked on the lit doorway.
It was full dark now. The school was hollowed-out, windows black, security lights throwing pale pools over the tarmac.
Then he sat up as Jude was shepherded out by the caretaker, his satchel slung over one shoulder, that faint stoop in his posture as if the day had wrung him dry. He exchanged a few words with the caretaker locking up behind him, then Jude crossed the empty lot. Unlocked his car. Got in.
Warren tightened his hands on the wheel and waited until Jude pulled out before switching his lights on and falling in two cars back.
Jude didn’t head home.
He drove without rush but with purpose, threading through the quiet streets, past the last lit shopfronts, then swung into a McDonald’s drive-through.
Warren held back a street away, eyes on the glow of brake lights, watching him collect a paper bag and pull away.
Warren fell in behind him once they were clear of town, the road opening into the coastal stretch running high over the black water.
Jude took a lay-by overlooking nothing but dark sea and darker sky. Engine off. Lights out.
Warren eased to a stop fifty yards back, tucked into shadow. Watched.
For a while, Jude sat there. Gazing at the water. Picking at his food. Turning pages in a paperback to the torch on his phone. Warren checked his watch. Eleven p.m. What the hell was he doing here?
Then he got his answer.
Jude climbed into the back seat, stretching out awkwardly, jacket bunched under his head. Settling in for the night.
Warren exhaled hard.
Fuck.
Callum Reid had driven him out of his own home.
Warren hit the steering wheel enough to bruise his palm, the thud loud in the stillness.
Then movement caught his eye. A cluster of hooded youths skated past, boards rattling over tarmac.
Jude flinched up from the backseat, a silhouette behind misted glass, eyes tracking until they passed. Then he sank back down.
Warren’s nostrils flared with the force of his exhalation.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He dropped his head back.
Enough.
He got out, boots crunching on grit, and closed the distance to the rear driver’s side door and gave two firm knocks on the glass. Enough to wake him, not enough to threaten or spook.
It didn’t matter.
Jude bolted upright, a blur of movement in the dark. No glasses, no streetlamps, he wouldn’t be able to make out more than a silhouette, and he scrambled for something in the footwell.
“It’s me,” Warren said, low and calm. “Warren.”
But Jude didn’t ease. His shoulder hit the far door as he twisted away, breathing hard, still searching.
“Jude. Open the door.”
No reaction. Either he couldn’t hear, or the panic had drowned everything else out.
Warren slipped a hand into the inside pocket of his jacket, finding the slim strip of tempered steel he kept there.
A habit from years on the job. To carry bits passing off as mundane.
A ruler, a scraper, or, in moments like this, something else entirely.
He slid it down between the glass and seal and with one practiced click, the lock gave with a soft ping.
The moment he opened the door, Jude lunged, steel flashing in his hand.
Warren dodged. “Fuck—”
His training kicked in. He caught Jude’s wrist mid-swing, twisting it outwards.
The knife skittered into the footwell, but Jude kept fighting, shoving forward, all adrenaline and instinct.
So Warren had to step in hard, using his weight to pin Jude back into the seat, driving him across the upholstery.
The struggle carried them both inside until Warren’s knees were jammed into the edge of the seat, one arm across Jude’s chest to hold him down, the other braced by his head.
“Easy,” Warren said, breathing hot air onto Jude’s face. “It’s me. You’re safe.”
Jude’s breathing was ragged, chest pounding under the press of Warren’s forearm, every muscle locked like a coiled spring.
“Breathe with me.” Warren held him steady. “In… and out…”
Wide, dark eyes stared up at him, but Jude obeyed. A sharp inhale, a shuddering exhale. Warren stayed where he was, body caging him in, bracing one hand in the upholstery above his head, easing the other from Jude’s chest to his jaw, cupping his face and stroking the hard line of it.
“That’s it,” Warren said softly. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
Warren dropped his gaze to Jude’s mouth.
His lips were parted, feathering warm breath across Warren’s skin and dragging him to the edge of whatever restraint he had left.
And when Jude stopped fighting, the tension bleeding from his body, leaving him loose beneath Warren’s weight, eyes locked on his, a faint tremor ran through him and Warren hit the point of no return.
He’d made the decision long before this moment, if he was honest.
This was only the inevitable follow-through.
Still, he hesitated. Because he knew how it would look. How easily this could be misread. So he forced the words past his breath, “Fuck, Jude… can I kiss you?”
Jude answered by rising to meet him, lips finding his in a trembling, testing brush.
The world fell away. Then Jude fisted the front of Warren’s jacket, dragging him down until there was no space left to think, no air left to question.
And he sank fully over Jude, crushing him into the seat, the cramped space forcing them together, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, heat sparking through every point they touched until Warren could feel nothing but him.
The kiss turned urgent. All heat and hunger.
The solid press of Jude beneath him was impossible to ignore.
Hot, insistent, sending a sharp jolt straight through Warren’s core.
He slid his palm from Jude’s jaw, over the tense line of his throat, the rise of his chest, down to the curve of his hip, and Jude arched into the touch, a low sound catching in his throat making Warren tighten his grip.
And Warren kissed him. Again. And again.
Couldn’t fucking stop kissing him.
Then Jude slid his hand between them, palming Warren through his shorts, and the shock of it tore a grunt from Warren’s throat, followed by a low groan.
Christ, he was hard. Painfully fucking hard.
Every pulse in his body pounded for Jude’s touch.
So he instinctively rocked his hips up and one-handedly shoved his shorts down until they caught at his thighs, freeing himself to the charged air between them.