Chapter 14
The image seared itself into her mind. Lena’s easy smile, her carefree laugh, her hand curled loosely around a coffee cup, sitting opposite Oliver as if nothing were wrong.
Her chest seized. She staggered back from the monitor, shaking her head, words tumbling out without form. “No. No, she can’t. She doesn’t even know him. She doesn’t.”
A low voice cut through her panic. “Clara.”
Warmth surrounded her in an instant. Watchdog’s arm tugged her in, firm but not forceful, pulling her tight against him. She resisted for a heartbeat, then sagged, her body betraying her terror. His chest was a wall of heat and muscle beneath her cheek, rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
“Nothing will happen to her,” he murmured into her hair, the words low, certain, a vow rather than comfort. His arms tightened fractionally. “I won’t let it.”
The certainty in his tone sank into her bones, cutting through the rising tide of fear. Against all reason, she believed him.
Her ear pressed to his chest, she heard it, the strong, steady beat of his heart, rhythm against rhythm, grounding her. The scent of him wrapped around her: clean soap, machine oil, a faint trace of leather. It was masculine and solid, achingly safe.
Her fingers curled into his shirt before she realised it, clutching him as if she could anchor herself there. Memories flickered, his body shielding hers in the alley, his voice calm in the chaos, his arms steady even when everything else was falling apart.
Slowly, her panic ebbed, replaced by something else entirely.
When she lifted her head, his eyes were already on her. Close. Too close. His gaze swept over her face, lingering at her mouth.
The air shifted, charged, as if the whole room had narrowed to the space between them. Her breath caught.
His hand still rested against her waist, the touch innocent, steady. And yet…she felt the faint flex of his fingers, the subtle shift of muscle beneath his skin. Electricity jolted low in her belly, sharp and undeniable.
She wondered, just for a second, what it would feel like to close the gap, to taste the mouth that hovered so close to hers.
The silence hummed, heavy with longing and restraint, until she thought she might shatter under it.
Then voices drifted down the corridor, breaking the spell.
Watchdog pulled back sharply, his hands dropping as though burned. Clara blinked, her pulse hammering, the crackle of heat between them dispersing like smoke.
She straightened, forcing her breathing back under control, her mind scrambling to tuck away the reckless thought of his lips.
He turned back to the screens, his expression shuttered once more. But the echo of his heartbeat stayed in her ears, the warmth of his arms still clinging to her skin.
And Clara knew nothing, not Oliver’s betrayal, not her parents’ debt, not even the looming threat, frightened her quite as much as the way she had just wanted her captor to kiss her.
The air between them was still charged, the phantom of his touch tingling against her skin, when voices carried from the corridor.
“Watchdog, you in here?”
The door opened without waiting for an answer. A handsome man stepped through first, his tall frame filling the doorway, sharp eyes flicking from Clara to Watchdog. The woman who followed was stunning too, dark hair, beautiful tattoos on her throat and neck and a gaze that missed nothing.
Clara’s stomach flipped hot as their eyes shifted between her and Watchdog, a subtle narrowing, as if they could feel the tension that still crackled in the air. Heat rushed to her cheeks.
“Clara, this is Bishop and Duchess. Guys, this is Clara Sutton.”
“Good to meet you both.”
“Yeah, you too, Clara.” Duchess offered a small smile, while Bishop’s was bigger, more open.
Watchdog moved first, his voice clipped. “What’s up?”
Bishop’s mouth curved in a knowing smirk, but he let it slide. “We’ve been running down threads. Talked to some old friends in the Service. Oliver Grant has been busy.”
Duchess stepped closer, folding her arms. “Too busy. The chatter’s getting louder. Someone’s been funnelling funds through shell companies tied to mining contracts in South Africa. Same names keep popping up, people with known links to Hansen’s network. Men we thought were gone.”
The name hit like a weight. Clara saw Watchdog stiffen, his hand flexing against the console.
Bishop’s voice dropped, harder now. “And it’s not just smuggling or guns. Hansen’s network was into trafficking. People. Children. They were selling human lives like cattle, and Grant’s connections put him right in the middle of that.”
The words seemed to hang in the room like poison.
Clara’s breath stuttered, and she could feel the blood draining from her face.
“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “That’s not possible.
Oliver couldn’t…he wouldn’t.” The thought snagged in her throat, bile rising.
Her stomach turned violently, and she pressed a hand to her mouth, her entire body trembling.
The man she’d agreed to marry, the man her parents praised, was tied, however loosely, to monsters who traded children.
Watchdog’s jaw was rigid, the tension rolling off him. He didn’t contradict Bishop. He didn’t soften the blow.
Clara’s horror deepened, an icy weight settling in her chest. She wanted to scrub herself clean, erase every moment she’d spent in Oliver’s presence. The ring on her finger felt like a shackle she hadn’t even noticed until now.
Bishop and Duchess kept speaking, but the words blurred around the edges until Watchdog’s voice cut through, pulling her back.
“He sent this,” Watchdog said.
His tone was flat, but Clara caught the edge beneath it. He tapped the keys, and the screen flickered to reveal the image of Lena laughing across a café table from Oliver.
Clara’s chest clenched so hard it hurt.
“He sent it with a warning. Lena is leverage now.”
Duchess’s eyes softened as they turned to Clara. There was no pity in her look, only sympathy, the kind that came from experience. “I’m sorry.”
Clara’s heart squeezed. Sympathy wasn’t what she needed. She straightened, drawing her arms across her chest, her voice firm despite the tremor in her stomach. “Then we have to see her.”
The room went still.
Watchdog’s head lifted sharply, his body going taut. “No.”
“Yes.” Clara stepped closer, heat flaring in her cheeks but her resolve hardening. “She’s my best friend. She doesn’t know what she’s walked into, and I’m not leaving her at Oliver’s mercy.”
His jaw clenched. “It’s not that simple.”
“Then make it simple,” she shot back.
The challenge hung heavy in the air. Bishop arched a brow, watching with barely concealed interest. Duchess’s lips twitched, as if amused by Clara’s fire despite the tension.
Watchdog’s stare burned into her, unreadable, but beneath it she caught the flicker of something else, conflict, worry, maybe even reluctant admiration.
Clara folded her arms tighter, standing her ground. “If I’m part of the problem, then let me be part of the solution. Oliver expects me to sit pretty and do nothing. Fine. Let me turn that against him. Use me.”
The silence cracked. Bishop gave a low whistle. “I like her.”
Duchess shot him a look that was equal parts warning and amusement. “She’s right. If Grant believes she’s compliant, that could give us an edge. But it’ll need to be careful, calculated.”
Watchdog’s hand curled into a fist against the console. His instincts screamed no. But logic, cold, relentless, threaded through the heat of his pulse. She wasn’t wrong.
Finally, he exhaled. “Fine.” His voice was rough, reluctant. “We’ll look at options. But not tonight.” His gaze locked on hers, unflinching. “Do you understand what you’re asking? This isn’t a game, Clara. Once you step in, there’s no going back.”
Her stomach flipped, fear and adrenaline colliding, but she lifted her chin. “I know.”
For a heartbeat, no one spoke. Then Duchess nodded once, decisive. “Then we plan. I’ll call Bás.”