Chapter 9
The world tilted, sound bleeding in and out like static.
The chop of helicopter blades still rang in his skull, ghosted over by sharper sounds, shouts, the snap of gunfire, the crack of fists against flesh.
South Africa pressed in, sweat and blood and chains, voices in a language he didn’t understand, the sting of fists, the stink of fear.
He forced his eyes open.
Spotlights overhead emitted low, warm light. The sterile tang of antiseptic. He wasn’t in the township anymore. Not in the dark cell where Hansen had laughed and broken him piece by piece.
“Easy,” a woman’s voice murmured. Aoife. Bein’s wife. Calm, capable, her accent soft as her hands pressed against his side. “Nothing vital was hit. You lost blood, aye, but you’ll mend. Fluids, rest, and no more heroics for a while.”
He tried to push himself up, pain slicing down his side from where the blade had plunged into him.
Strong hands pinned his shoulders, forcing him back down.
“Lie still and let Aoife stitch you up.” Bás stood over him, arms folding tight across his chest, the look on his face a storm of anger and worry, both tangled and unreadable.
“What you also need,” Bás growled, “is a good slap around the fucking head to knock some goddammed sense into you. What the hell was this stunt, Watchdog? Going rogue? Dragging a civilian into a fight? You could’ve got yourself killed. ”
Again.
Unspoken, but it was there in the silence, causing the guilt to spiral inside him.
The words snapped sharp in the air, but Watchdog barely registered them. His lips moved before he could stop himself. “Clara. Where is she?”
Aoife’s stitching hand stilled for just a second. Her gaze flicked to Bás, the briefest exchange before she pressed a pad more firmly to his side. “She’s fine,” Aoife said. “Lotus has her.”
It wasn’t enough. His chest rose too fast, his mind clawing for control that wasn’t there. “Fine? Where? Did they hurt her? She, she wasn’t supposed to be…”
“Jesus, Watchdog,” Bás snapped, stepping closer, his shadow falling hard over the bed. “You’re bleeding all over the place, and you’re worried about a woman you barely know?”
He flinched, the words landing too close to the truth, but he felt like he did know her. His body trembled, his pulse spiking as panic clawed at him. This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to happen. Too much. Out of control. He dragged in a breath, tried to steady himself the only way he knew how.
“The wingspan of a Eurasian eagle-owl can reach one hundred and eighty-eight centimetres,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Their flight is almost silent due to specialised feathers that dampen turbulence.”
He saw Aoife glance up at Bás again, brows knitting in his peripheral vision. He closed his eyes, clinging to the numbers, the facts, the order. “Hydrogen is the lightest element. Atomic number one. Density of point zero eight kilograms per cubic meter.”
The panic eased slightly with each word, his mind slotting facts into neat rows, rebuilding a wall against the chaos.
A soft hand touched his temple. “Enough, Watchdog.”
Valentina. Ever since his kidnapping, he and Valentina had shared a closeness, a silent, unspoken bond of shared experience. She had been the one to find him, to lead him from hell and he would never forget that.
Watchdog opened his eyes. She stood at the side of the bed, her other hand brushing against Bás’s arm. He turned his head toward her automatically, his hard features softening under her gaze. She gave him the quiet, steady smile that had tamed storms before.
“Give him space,” she murmured.
Bás’s jaw worked, his fists tight at his sides.
He stared down at Watchdog, anger still sharp in his eyes, but love ran under it, fierce and helpless.
With a low curse, he pushed back from the bed.
“For you, grá mo chroí,” he muttered, his voice roughened as he bent to press his lips briefly to hers. “But he owes us all an explanation.”
Aoife washed her hands and followed him out. Watchdog listened to the sound of their footsteps receding, guilt pressing heavy against his ribs.
The room quieted. Val took Aoife’s place, her fingers deft as she worked to finish the stitching. Her movements were steady, sure, unhurried. The smell of antiseptic and clean linen surrounded him, anchored him.
Two shapes padded in, Monty and Scout, her shepherds, their ears pricked, eyes sharp but gentle. They came to the bed without hesitation, pressing close, leaning their weight against the frame as though they knew he needed it.
Watchdog’s hand trembled as he reached down. Warm fur brushed his palm, the steady weight of Monty’s head settling into his touch.
The knot in his chest eased. His breath slowed, the storm inside softening.
Val met his eyes, her voice low. “You’re safe. Let yourself rest.”
For the first time since the night began, he let his body sink back into the mattress, fingers tangled in thick fur, the weight of Val’s presence easing the edges of the world.
Val’s stitches were neat, small loops that tugged the edges of his skin together with quiet precision.
He watched her hands move, the way she worked without hurry, her face calm and patient, the weight of Monty’s head still grounding him before his eyes closed to block out the light of the room, and the first vision in his mind weren’t the painful memories of South Africa, like he thought they would be, but something or someone else entirely.
It was Clara.
When Val tied off the last thread, she set the needle aside and touched his arm lightly. “Let’s get you upright.”
He let her guide him, her strength surprising for her frame. The motion tugged at his side but not enough to matter. She propped him up against the headboard, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a steaming mug and a small plate balanced carefully in her hands.
“Tea,” she said, offering it to him with a quiet smile, “and Hobnobs. Don’t tell me I don’t know how to bribe you.”
The scent hit him first, sweet oats, the faint hint of chocolate. His chest eased despite himself. “You remembered.”
“Of course I remembered,” Val said, easing down into the chair beside his bed. Monty settled at her feet, Scout curling close at her other side, both of them watchful, protective. “You think we don’t notice you and your habits? That would be insulting.”
He managed a faint huff of air that almost passed for a laugh. He dipped the biscuit into his tea, the steam fogging his lashes. For a long moment, silence sat between them, comfortable in its own way.
Then Val spoke, her tone soft but not idle. “So, Watchdog. Do you want to tell me what’s going on?”
His chest tightened. He could feel the weight of her eyes, the warmth of her presence pressing against the sharp edges of his guilt. He thought about spinning a story, something neat and sterile that would keep her out of the fire. But Val knew him too well.
She tilted her head slightly, caught the flicker in his gaze. Her hand lifted, palm up, stopping him before he’d even spoken as she stood. “Forget it. You can’t lie to me. You can tell me nothing, you can tell me to go to hell, but you cannot lie to me.”
The truth of it sat heavy in the air. Watchdog sighed, low and rough, his shoulders slumping slightly. “Stay.”
Her lips curved. She sank back into the chair without a word, Scout shifting to rest his chin on her knee.
“Is Clara really all right?” The question scraped raw from him before he could stop it.
Val nodded, her expression steady. “She’s in one of the spare apartments. Fed, clothed, warm. She’s frightened, yes, but no one has touched her. She’s resting now.”
Relief cracked through his chest like sunlight. He let out a long breath, his eyes closing for a beat. “Thank you.”
Her hand brushed his shoulder briefly, steady.
“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” he said finally, voice low. “But not just you. I think…I think I owe the whole team the truth. Maybe I should’ve remembered sooner, but you’re more than colleagues. You’re…” He stopped, jaw tightening against the word.
“Family,” Val finished softly, her smile gentle but her eyes fierce. “We are a family, Watchdog. You might have forgotten for a minute, but none of us did.”
Something shifted in him, a knot loosening. He let himself nod once, curt but honest. Then he pushed off the bed, slower than usual but with determination, his movements deliberate. “I need to go to my room.”
Val arched a brow. “Your actual room, or the one with more screens than furniture?”
He didn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth tugged faintly upward.
She trailed him down the corridor, Scout and Monty padding close. The familiar hum of his tech room reached him first, the quiet beeps, the low murmur of voices. The door opened, spilling light across his skin, and for the first time since the night began, the world felt almost right again.
Snow was perched at one console, her pale hair caught in the glow of monitors, while Duchess leaned over another, eyes scanning feeds with razor focus.
“Watchdog!” Snow was on her feet instantly, her smile breaking wide as she hurried across the room. Without hesitation, she wrapped her arms around him, careful of his side but firm all the same. “God, I’m glad you’re okay. We missed you, and Fleur missed her favourite uncle.”
Her warmth soaked into him, foreign but not unwelcome. He patted her shoulder awkwardly before she let go, her grin irrepressible.
“Don’t let Bás hear you talking like that,” he muttered, but there was no bite in it.
Duchess looked up, a rare smile softening her sharp features. “Good to see you vertical, Watchdog.”
He inclined his head, then moved past them both, his steps drawing him straight to the wall of screens. His fingers flew over the keyboard automatically, calling up the feed he’d already coded into muscle memory.
Clara’s room.
The camera angle was high, discreet. She was curled on the bed, bundled in fresh clothes, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.
The sight uncoiled something inside him, tension easing with the proof that she was safe.
He let himself watch for a long moment, longer than he should have, before turning back.
“Val,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, “gather the team. I owe them all of this.”
Val’s hand brushed his arm, the same steady comfort she’d offered for years. “Good. That’s the man we know.”
Snow leaned on the console beside him, eyes twinkling. “Oh, this is going to be interesting. Family meeting with Bás in a mood? I’ll make popcorn.”
Watchdog let out a faint exhale that almost passed for a laugh, his gaze returning to the sleeping figure on the screen. “Popcorn might not save me.”
Val’s smile curved warm and sure. “Family will. And anyway, my husband’s a pussy cat.”
That made them all laugh and broke the last of the tension in his chest. What came next wouldn’t be easy to admit but surrounded by his team, his friends, he knew it would work out somehow.