Chapter 11
When Clara opened her eyes again, she knew at once she wasn’t at home.
The room was unfamiliar but not unpleasant.
The walls were painted a soft grey, bare of decoration, the furniture plain but sturdy.
The bed beneath her was larger than her own, the sheets crisp and faintly scented of lavender, as though someone had thought about comfort but not about character.
She sat up slowly, her body stiff, her mind thick with questions.
There were no windows. Only a vented panel high up that hummed with the sound of filtered air, steady and quiet. The overhead light glowed warm, not harsh, and it painted the room in tones that felt oddly domestic despite the strangeness of it all.
Her gaze drifted to the small sofa in the corner, the wardrobe against the far wall, the desk with nothing on it but a lamp and a notepad. A self-contained little world. A cage disguised as a guest room.
Her chest tightened.
The door handle turned.
Clara tensed, her pulse spiking, breath catching in her throat. For one wild moment, she thought about darting for the bathroom door or snatching up the bedside lamp as a weapon, but the door opened too quickly, too quietly.
And there he was.
The man from the museum. Her kidnapper.
He filled the doorway in a way that made her breath stumble. Tall, broad, his shoulders framed by the simple dark clothes he wore. His hair was damp, curling slightly where it brushed his forehead, and the light caught the angles of his face, the strong jaw shadowed by stubble.
For the first time, she had the chance to really see him.
Catalogue him. His build was powerful, more muscular than she had expected from a man she knew as a name whispered in her head.
His hands were large, one steady on the doorframe, the other carrying a tray.
And his eyes, dark, watchful, haunted, met hers with a weight that made her insides twist.
Something in her stilled. Against every reasonable instinct, a certainty rooted itself in her chest. He would not hurt her.
That truth rang as clear as any she had ever known, and it unsettled her more than the locked room or the absence of windows.
He stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him with the quiet click of someone who did not want to intrude. Then he crossed to the desk, setting the tray down with care.
“I brought you something,” he said. His voice was low, gravelly, but not unkind.
She blinked, still gripping the sheets tight around her. “What is it?”
He shifted aside so she could see. Soup. Fresh bread. And a slice of lemon drizzle cake. Her favourite.
Her throat closed. “That is unsettling, but I guess that’s why they call you Watchdog,” she murmured.
His brows drew together. “What is?”
“That you know what I like.”
A flush rose across his cheekbones, startlingly human. He glanced away, clearing his throat. “I…notice things. And uh, you can call me Jonas if you like.”
Clara’s lips twitched despite herself. He was supposed to be her captor, the shadow that had pulled her from her home.
Yet he was standing there awkward and embarrassed, as if she had caught him doing something indecent, and she guessed stalking her was.
Yet his blush disarmed her, softened edges she wanted to keep sharp.
He turned back, his voice quieter. “Are you all right?”
The scoff escaped before she could stop it. “Do I look all right to you?”
His gaze dropped. He nodded once, accepting the sting without protest, and the flush deepened. For a moment, he looked less like the man who had broken into her flat and more like someone ordinary, even endearing.
Something flickered in her chest, sharp and unexpected.
He gestured to the tray. “You should eat.”
“I’m not particularly hungry,” she said, her voice cool.
“You’ll feel better if you do,” he replied, and though his words were gentle, there was no mistaking the quiet insistence.
She rose cautiously, as if testing both him and herself, and crossed to the desk. He stepped back immediately, retreating to the sofa and lowering himself with careful precision, leaving the space between them wide open. Respectful, as if he wanted her to feel comfortable around him.
Clara sat at the desk. She lifted the spoon, dipped it into the soup, and brought it to her lips. Warmth spread through her chest, the herbs familiar and soothing, and despite herself, she felt her stomach loosen.
She glanced up. He was watching her, not hungrily, not cruelly, but with the intent focus of a man memorising every detail.
She lowered the spoon, her heartbeat far too loud in her ears for such an ordinary act.
She forced herself to take another spoonful. The warmth spread through her chest, grounding her, even as her mind rattled with questions too sharp to contain.
“Where am I?” Her voice was steady, though her grip on the spoon was tight enough to whiten her knuckles.
He shifted slightly on the sofa, his broad frame still but his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that pressed against her skin. “Somewhere safe.”
“That isn’t an answer,” she said quietly, setting the spoon down.
“It’s the one I can give you,” he replied. His voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it, a weight that told her pressing further would yield nothing.
She leaned back in the chair, folding her arms, and studied him. He didn’t fidget, didn’t look away. He simply watched, his expression composed but shadowed.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the faint hum of the air system. Clara’s pulse quickened, and she found herself speaking before she could stop. “Why me?”
Something flickered across his face, an instinct to answer, a reflex to protect, and then it was gone, shuttered behind the same guarded calm.
“You were in danger,” he said at last.
Her chest tightened. “From whom?”
“The same men who came to your building last night. The same men who would’ve taken you if I had not.”
The words hit her like cold water. Images rushed back, the struggle, the van outside, the sharp sound of gunfire as they lifted into the sky. And Oliver. Her fiancé. His face twisted in fury, his gun aimed at the helicopter.
She swallowed hard. “And what about him?”
He frowned faintly. “Him?”
“Oliver.” She almost choked on his name. “He was there. He was shooting at you. At me. Why?”
The question hung between them, trembling with urgency. His gaze softened for just a moment, as though he wanted to tell her everything. Then he leaned back, resting his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped. “I don’t know yet,” he said carefully. “But I will.”
Clara’s breath shuddered out, frustration and fear tangling inside her. She looked away, her eyes falling on the slice of lemon drizzle cake. The scent of sugar and citrus rose faintly, achingly familiar, a tether to a world that suddenly felt very far away.
She picked up her fork and cut a small piece. It was light, sweet, exactly as it should be. She let it rest on her tongue, her throat tightening with the taste of home.
When she looked up, he was still watching her. Not like a captor, not like a guard. Like a man trying to reassure himself she was real, that she was here.
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered.
His mouth twitched, as if with words he wouldn’t give voice to. He straightened and inclined his head. “You don’t have to. Not yet. Just eat.”
The instruction should have rankled, but something in his tone, quiet, careful, tinged with an almost old-fashioned courtesy, stole the edge from her anger. She took another bite, slower this time, her eyes never leaving his.
And when his gaze finally flicked away, his shoulders rising and falling with a quiet breath, Clara was startled by the oddest sensation of all.
Relief.
The soup was warm, the bread soft, the lemon drizzle bright with sugar and citrus. She ate more than she had intended, each bite steadying her nerves even as her mind spun faster.
He had said little else, just sat there with the quiet watchfulness of a man who seemed more sentinel than human. The weight of his gaze pressed against her as if he were measuring every breath, every twitch of her hand, committing them to memory.
When at last she pushed the tray aside, the silence between them thickened again. He rose from the sofa slowly, careful not to startle her, and moved towards the door.
Something inside her jolted. Before she thought better of it, her hand shot out and brushed his arm.
The contact was brief but searing. Electricity snapped through her fingertips, a sharp spark that startled her enough to snatch her hand back as though she had touched a live wire.
His eyes dropped to hers instantly, dark and searching.
“What will happen to me now?” she asked, her voice lower than she intended.
“You’ll be safe here,” he replied. His words were quiet, but the certainty in them pressed against her chest like a weight. “Until the threat is dealt with.”
Her throat tightened. “Safe? People will be looking for me. I have a job I need to get back to.”
“I’ve taken care of that.
Frustration flared, hot and swift. “That’s not an answer. You cannot simply erase me.”
For a moment, he was silent, then his gaze softened almost imperceptibly. She thought she saw a flicker of regret, quickly buried.
“The museum thinks you’re on annual leave.”
That was all well and good, but she could not just sit here. “Let me help,” she said suddenly, surprising herself as much as him. “If I can help you figure out what this is, if I can help you end it, then perhaps I can go home sooner.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her, as though weighing both her words and her worth. The silence stretched long enough for her pulse to trip in her throat. Then, at last, he gave a single, slow nod.
Relief swelled inside her. She rose, intent on seizing that momentum, moving past him into whatever waited outside that door.
But his arm lifted, barring her way. “Not now.”
She froze, startled.
“You should rest,” he continued, his tone firm but not unkind. “I’ll have some books brought to you.”
Disappointment coiled through her. She hated doing nothing, hated the idea of sitting idle while her life unravelled elsewhere. But she swallowed it, recognising the small victory she had already won. “All right,” she murmured.
He inclined his head slightly, as if granting her that point, and reached for the door again.
The memory of blood stained across his shirt flashed in her mind. Before he could step out, the words slipped from her lips. “Are you…Are you all right? You were bleeding.”
He paused, surprise flickering across his face, as though he hadn’t expected her to care. Then his mouth curved faintly, almost wry. “I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”
Her stomach tightened. Worse. The casualness of it, the weary certainty. It left her wondering again who these people were, and what kind of world she’d been dragged into.
He slipped out then, closing the door softly behind him, leaving her with too many questions and the faint echo of that strange spark still tingling across her skin.