Chapter 12
The bandages tugged uncomfortably when he shifted in the chair.
He’d insisted he didn’t need to be here, that there were better uses of his time, but Bás had been immovable.
And now he sat across from Peyton Lawson in the small therapy room tucked away at the edge of the compound, his palms flat on his thighs, every muscle taut.
Peyton was nothing like the interrogators he’d been conditioned to resist, and yet the weight of her calm gaze pricked at him all the same.
She sat in an armchair opposite, a notebook on her lap, her dark hair around her shoulders.
Her voice, when she spoke, was low and even, touched with empathy that softened the edges of her words.
After he’d been kidnapped, Peyton had offered to refer him to a friend of hers who dealt with complex trauma, but he’d only felt comfortable talking with her.
The fact that she was the wife of his teammate helped in some ways.
He didn’t feel the need to watch his words with her like he would’ve had to with anyone else, because Peyton knew the deal with the team.
“How’s the pain?”
Watchdog shrugged. “Manageable.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
His mouth twitched. He dropped his gaze to the floor, tracing the lines in the stone. “Four on the ten scale. Sometimes a five if I move wrong.”
“Thank you,” Peyton said simply, as though naming the number mattered more than the pain itself. She flipped her pencil idly, then looked back at him. “And the other pain? The one you didn’t get stitched up?”
His chest tightened. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
“The guilt,” she said gently. “The weight. The thing that keeps you up at night and makes you think you’re the weak link.”
The words cut sharply. He stilled, jaw clenching, a thousand deflections clawing for release. He could spout facts. He could quote statistics about trauma recovery or the biochemical effects of stress hormones. He could disappear behind numbers.
But Peyton waited. She always did.
His fingers twitched against his knee. “Taking Clara,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, “it wasn’t part of the plan.
I don’t…do things that aren’t planned. But when I saw her there, with them watching her…
something in me snapped. I couldn’t risk it.
I couldn’t let her be another name I failed to protect. ”
Peyton’s eyes softened, but she didn’t interrupt.
“And then,” he went on, pressing the heel of his hand against his temple, “I felt…different. Jittery. Unsteady. But lighter too. Like maybe I’d done something right for once.
Which is…” He exhaled hard, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.
“Which is insane, because I kidnapped her. I’m no better than the men who took me. ”
The room blurred. The walls pressed in.
It wasn’t Peyton in front of him anymore; it was Hansen’s men, their shadows looming, fists slamming into his ribs, the sharp sting of a boot on his ankle.
He could smell the filth of the cell, metallic blood and rust, the sound of a chain dragging across the concrete floor. The laughter. Always the laughter.
His breath hitched, too fast, ragged. His palms curled into fists against his thighs, nails biting his skin.
“Jonas.” Peyton’s voice cut through, calm and steady, the only thing tethering him. “You’re here. You’re safe. Feel the chair under you. Feel your feet on the ground. Breathe with me.”
He tried. The air caught in his throat, his chest refusing to obey.
“Look at me.” Her voice sharpened just slightly, not loud but commanding. “Look at me, Watchdog.”
His eyes snapped up, locking on hers. She held his gaze, slow and deliberate, her hand lifting just enough to point. “What colour are my eyes?”
It took a second. “Brown.”
“Good. And the chair you’re sitting in, what’s it made of?”
His breath shuddered out. “Leather.”
“That’s right. Now tell me one fact. Any fact at all.”
He latched on instantly, the reflex ingrained. “The wingspan of a peregrine falcon can reach one point two metres.” His voice was hoarse but steadying.
“Perfect.” Peyton nodded once, her tone softening again. “Stay with me. You’re here, not there. And you’re safe.”
The images receded, the ghosts of the cell pulling back like a tide. The hum of the compound’s air system seeped back in, grounding him. His heart still pounded, but the walls no longer closed in.
He dragged a shaking hand over his face. “Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologise for,” Peyton said gently. “That’s your body remembering. Not your failure.”
Jonas looked up, feeling exhaustion weigh like lead on his shoulders. “I’m just like them.”
Peyton reached out, laying her hand over his arm in comfort. “You did it to protect her,” Peyton corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” Peyton leaned forward slightly. “Because you didn’t take her to hurt her. You didn’t take her to control her. You took her to keep her safe. And that’s very different, Watchdog.”
His throat worked. The room felt too close, the air pressing on his skin. “It doesn’t feel different.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Peyton said softly.
“You live with the memory of South Africa pressing into every corner of your mind. To you, every decision is life or death, win or lose, succeed or fail. There’s no middle ground.
But protecting Clara wasn’t about winning or losing.
It was about care. And that’s why it feels so strange. ”
The knot in his chest loosened, just a fraction. Enough to let him breathe.
When the session finally ended, he left feeling unsteady, his limbs heavy as though he’d run miles, his mind jittery and raw. But beneath the exhaustion, there was a sliver of relief, like releasing pressure from a sealed valve.
The corridors of the compound were quiet, the hum of electricity steady in the walls.
His boots echoed softly against the floor as he walked, each step pulling him back to familiar ground.
His mind darted restlessly, back to the case, to money trails and Oliver Grant, to the faces of the men who had once held him captive.
But always, his thoughts circled back to her.
Clara.
Had she eaten more? Had she touched the books he’d sent?
He’d chosen carefully from his own shelves, volumes on medieval history, illuminated manuscripts, the kind of texts he thought might keep her mind engaged.
Would she have noticed the notes in the margins, the scrawled facts he couldn’t stop himself from recording?
The questions drove him straight to her door.
He paused, pressing his palm against the wood for a heartbeat before pushing it open.
Clara sat curled in the chair by the desk, one of the history books open in her lap. Her hair spilled loose over her shoulders, catching the lamplight, her eyes fixed on the page until the sound of the door made her look up.
She blinked, startled, then straightened. “You again.”
The faintest corner of his mouth curved. “Disappointed?”
“Surprised,” she said. Her fingers tightened around the book. “But not disappointed.”
He stepped into the room, his side twinging faintly, but the ache was dulled by something else entirely when her gaze caught his. “I wanted to see how you were. And whether you liked the books.”
Her lips curved, a small, reluctant smile that tugged at something in his chest. “They’re good choices. Though I suspect they aren’t from the library.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “They’re mine. I thought you’d prefer them to the standard issue.”
She traced the edge of the page with one finger. “You thought right.”
The silence between them hummed, warm and taut. He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the door. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Her brows lifted. “What kind of something?”
“You’ll see.”
She studied him for a moment, weighing trust against caution. Then, with a sigh, she closed the book and set it aside. “All right.”
He stepped back to give her space, letting her move first. The faint scent of old paper and citrus shampoo lingered in the air as she brushed past him, and his pulse picked up in a way he hadn’t expected.
The walk to his tech room was short, the corridors quiet except for the hum of power through the walls.
The team were all off searching, hunting, gathering information, leaving the compound quiet.
When he opened the door, the glow of screens washed over them, painting the room in soft blues and greens.
Rows of monitors covered the far wall, keyboards and servers humming faintly.
Clara froze just inside the threshold, her eyes widening. “Good Lord,” she breathed. “What is this? It looks like NASA or something.”
He moved to the centre console, his hands brushing over the familiar keys. “This,” he said quietly, “is where I work. Where I see everything. Where I keep us safe.”
Her gaze flicked to him, then back to the screens, wonder and unease mingling in her expression. “And now me too?”
He met her eyes, steady. “Especially you.”