Chapter 7
Sleep wouldn’t come.
Clara had curled beneath the duvet, her phone still clutched to her chest after Lena’s message, the laughter fading into a kind of hollow ache.
But even as exhaustion pulled at her, her body refused to settle.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again, the stranger in the museum, his eyes shadowed with pain, gaze so steady it had unsettled her all the way to her bones.
It was ridiculous. She didn’t know him. She shouldn’t even be thinking about him. Yet something about that look had lodged itself in her chest, sparking warmth where there should only be guilt.
She shifted, kicked off the duvet, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
Her cocktail glass still sat by the sink, a few melted cubes rattling faintly when she set it by the dishwasher.
She told herself it was the sugar, the caffeine, the leftover fizz in her system that kept her awake, but deep down she knew better.
She was restless because of him.
Which was why, when the faint click sounded at her door, she thought at first it was her imagination. A pipe. A neighbour. Anything but what it truly was.
The lock turned.
The door eased open.
Her blood iced. She snatched up her phone, heart hammering, and stepped into the hall, just in time to see a tall shadow slip through the door and close it soundlessly behind him.
The museum man.
For a heartbeat, she was frozen, disbelief locking her in place. Then he stepped into the light and she saw him fully, hood pushed back, dark hair damp from mist, eyes locked on hers with the same intensity she remembered.
Her breath caught, her pulse went wild.
He lifted his hands slightly, palms out, voice low and rough. “Quiet. I’m not here to hurt you.”
Her phone slipped from her hand, clattering against the floorboards. She spun for the door, panic fuelling her steps, but he was faster. His hand caught her wrist, his other braced firm against her shoulder.
“No,” she gasped, twisting hard, kicking, fighting like instinct demanded. She aimed for his ribs, felt him jerk back, but he didn’t let go. His grip was iron, his body heat flooding through her, his breath ragged against her hair.
“Let me go!” The words ripped from her throat, high and sharp.
“I can’t.” His voice cracked with urgency, the sound not cruel but desperate. “If I do, they’ll take you instead. I won’t let that happen.”
Her mind reeled. They? None of this made sense. She shoved against him, chest heaving, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold. Not malice. Not lust. Something darker, heavier. Fear.
A noise outside shattered the moment, the roar of an engine pulling up, too close, too deliberate.
The stranger swore under his breath. In one motion, he pulled a canister from his pocket, pressed it to her smoke alarm, setting it off with a shrill beep. The lights died as he threw the breaker, plunging them into darkness.
“Trust me,” he rasped, dragging her toward the back door.
“I don’t even know you!” Her voice cracked, half fury, half terror.
“I know. But you will.”
She stumbled barefoot into the stairwell, the cold linoleum biting her feet, her hand trapped in his.
She tried to wrench free, nails biting into his arm, but he hauled her forward with relentless strength.
The air filled with shouts, men’s voices, deep and harsh, boots pounding the stairs below. Her heart slammed against her ribs.
They burst into the alley, the damp air thick with rot and diesel.
A figure blocked the far end, tall and solid.
She barely had time to cry out before the man shoved her behind him, taking the first blow himself.
The crack of a fist against flesh echoed, her captor staggering but answering with brutal precision, an elbow to the throat, a fist to the gut, efficient and terrifying.
Clara pressed herself against the wall, trembling, breath tearing through her lungs.
Then his hand was on her again, dragging her upward, forcing her onto the rusted fire escape. Metal clanged under her feet as they climbed, as shouts echoed below. Her chest burned, tears stung her eyes.
“Stop, please,” Her plea tore out of her, raw and desperate.
He didn’t answer. His silence was worse than shouting. He climbed, pulling her with him until they spilled onto the rain-slick roof, shivering under the city lights.
Below, doors slammed, engines revved, shadows swarmed. She was trapped, caged in the dark with the man who had stolen her from her own flat, and yet he kept his body angled between her and danger, his hold bruising but protective.
Then his hand pressed to his ear, voice low and sharp. “Command, this is Watchdog. I’m compromised. I need an urgent exfil.”
Her stomach twisted at the words. God, who the hell was he was talking to? What the hell was happening? She couldn’t hear a reply, couldn’t make sense of what he was doing, but the certainty in his voice chilled her to the core.
They ran again. Through the streets, the alleys, her bare feet slapping against wet pavement. She stumbled, nearly falling, but every time his arm caught her, pulling her upright, dragging her forward.
Gunfire cracked. Shouts echoed. A motorcycle roared. Clara sobbed, panic shredding her lungs, but he didn’t slow, didn’t falter.
Headlights blazed. A van swung across the alley mouth, tyres screaming. She froze, her heart hammering, but then the door slid open, and a woman leaned out with a rifle shouting, “In!”
The stranger shoved her forward, boosting her into the van before climbing after. Hands grabbed her, steadying her, then him. Strangers’ faces swam into view: one solid as stone, one grinning with unnerving calm, one sharp-eyed with a weapon ready.
“What the hell are you doing here?” the stranger rasped.
The largest of them clapped his shoulder. “You’re family, Watchdog. And family always knows when one of their own needs them.”
Watchdog, she’d heard it over the radio, but it hit different.
The name snapped through her like a crack of thunder. Her breath hitched, horror dawning. Whoever he was, whatever this was, it had a name, and they knew him by it.
The van lurched, throwing her sideways. The stranger steadied her automatically, his touch burning even through her panic.
“Well, mate,” the one with the grin said, voice sardonic, “looks like you’re in deep shit now. Snatching brides in the middle of the night? Even for you, that’s a new one.”
“Bás is going to kill you before he even asks questions,” the woman added flatly.
His reply was ragged. “He can get in line.”
The banter snapped around her like gunfire, incomprehensible, surreal. Clara curled tighter against the seat, hugging her arms to herself, unable to stop shaking.
Then the stone-solid one spoke again, his tone suddenly sharp. “Watchdog. You’re bleeding.”
Clara’s gaze jerked down and saw it. The dark bloom spreading across his shirt, the wet gleam of blood seeping through his side. Her breath caught in a broken gasp, a hand clamping over her mouth.
He blinked at the stain as though noticing it for the first time. “Oh,” he said softly, almost wryly. “That explains it.”
He slumped sideways, heavy and sudden, his head lolling against her shoulder.
Clara froze, her breath stuck in her throat, her body stiff under the weight of him.
Terror spiked through her chest, her heart stuttering as the van sped deeper into the night with strangers, with guns, with the man who had stolen her, and was now bleeding out beside her.
Warmth seeped through her sleeve, and she realised it wasn’t just sweat, it was blood, hot and slick and far too much.
“Oh my God,” she whispered, panic rising sharp in her chest. “He needs a hospital. He’s… he’s bleeding out!”
The others were already moving, fast but not frantic. The one with the easy grin was suddenly at his side, tearing open his jacket and shirt, pressing something firm against the wound. “I’ve got him. Pressure’s holding. He’s not done yet.”
The big one behind the wheel didn’t even look back, his deep Scottish accent steady. “We’re getting him clear. Hang on.”
Clear? Away? Her pulse pounded in her ears. “You don’t understand, he needs real doctors, he needs an emergency room! He’ll die if…”
The woman, dark-haired and sharp-eyed, shifted closer, her voice cutting through to calm Clara’s panic. “He’ll get care. We’ve got him.”
Clara shook her head, words tumbling out before she could stop them. “Who the hell are you people?” Her voice cracked, fear edging high and brittle.
The woman crouched slightly, hands visible, palms open as if Clara were the wild thing here. “Lotus,” she said simply. “That’s Reaper, and Bein is driving.”
Clara backed further into the corner of the seat, pressing her knees to her chest, every muscle tight, but she gave a nod to each person as they greeted her in turn.
Lotus’s gaze flicked down. “Your feet.”
Clara blinked, startled.
“You’re bleeding,” Lotus said quietly. “Glass and dirty asphalt on bare skin is a recipe for germs. Let me clean them before infection sets in.”
Clara’s throat tightened. She glanced at the man, Watchdog, they’d called him Watchdog, slumped and unconscious beside her, Reaper’s steady hands keeping pressure on his side, his chest rising and falling shallow but sure.
Lotus’s voice softened, though the steel never left it. “He’ll be fine. Reaper knows what he’s doing. Bein’s taking us out of the city, into the countryside. Someplace safe. That’s all you need to know.”
Clara swallowed hard, her mind a storm. Safe? With these people? With the man who had broken into her home and stolen her into the night?
“Please?” Lotus tried again, a breath slipping out, almost a sigh of relief when Clara finally gave the smallest of nods. “Good. I’d hate to piss off Watchdog by letting you bleed out after he’s gone to so much trouble to take you.”
The words landed heavy, equal parts reassurance and warning. Clara wrapped her arms tighter around herself as the van sped away from the city lights, deeper into the darkness of a countryside she didn’t recognise, with strangers whose calmness terrified her more than chaos ever could.