Chapter 15
The tech room wasn’t working, wasn’t giving him what he needed.
Usually, the low hum of the servers calmed him, steady and constant, a sound he could sync his heartbeat to.
Code was safe. Code was structured and it made sense.
It didn’t change its mind; it didn’t shift under you like sand.
But tonight, the glow of the monitors only made his skin itch.
His fingers flew over the keyboard, but the words and numbers blurred, slipping through his grasp like water.
Clara kept breaking through.
The way her body had softened against his in the control room. The sound of her breath stuttering as fear gave way to something else. The flash in her eyes when she’d looked at his mouth.
It didn’t make sense. Attraction was…irrelevant.
At least it always had been. He’d categorised people by skill sets, by reliability, by loyalty.
Anything more personal was background noise he could filter out.
But now? Now it felt like a program running in the background he couldn’t shut down, consuming resources he needed elsewhere.
He shifted in his chair, tugging at his shirt as if he could shake the sensation off. It clung, though. Like ants under his skin, a crawling agitation that wouldn’t let him rest. His pulse beat too high, his muscles twitched with a need he couldn’t code away.
What unsettled him most wasn’t the attraction; it was the comfort.
When she’d clung to him, when she’d breathed with him, something inside him had steadied.
And that was more dangerous than any spark of lust. Because if he started needing that steadiness, needing her, he would unravel when she left.
He scraped a hand down his face and pushed back from the desk. The chair rolled into the wall with a thud. His legs carried him out of the room without him fully deciding to leave, the restless energy in his body too sharp, too jagged.
By the time he looked up, he was at the gym.
The thrum of a bass shook faintly in his chest as he stepped inside. Metal clanged, heavy and grounding. The smell of rubber mats, sweat, chalk. Familiar, unpretentious. A different kind of order, simple, physical, brutal.
Titan and Hurricane were on the bench, trading spots under a bar loaded to the point of absurdity.
Their laughter rolled deep, rich, echoing against the walls.
On the mats, Snow darted like lightning, holding pads for Sebastian, her blonde ponytail swinging as her husband’s sharp, measured strikes landed with crisp thuds.
The judge had come a long way since meeting Snow.
They looked up as he entered, the surprise at seeing him evident for a split second before it spread into delighted smiles, at least from Snow. He trained every day, but usually it was alone when everyone else was asleep or at home with their families.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Titan boomed, racking the bar with a grunt.
“Surprised you’re not married to your chair by now,” Hurricane added, calm and easy, a grin tugging at his mouth.
Snow’s eyes lit up like fireworks. “Yes! Finally! I was about to storm your lair and drag you here myself. Sit-ups don’t count, Watchdog.”
His lips twitched despite the weight in his chest. “I do more than sit-ups.”
“Typing doesn’t count either,” Sebastian deadpanned, though the corner of his mouth tilted.
Titan barked a laugh. “Bet his fingers could kill a man, though. Death by keyboard.”
“Or boredom,” Snow quipped. “Imagine him flirting, it’d be all facts and no finesse.”
Heat pricked the back of his neck. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love us,” Titan shot back.
He did, and maybe avoiding his team had been the wrong thing to do but being with them hurt too.
Yet the restless itch in his skin wasn’t easing with being alone, so here he was.
His muscles demanded an outlet, something harder than banter.
He stripped off his hoodie, tossing it aside, and began wrapping his hands.
“I need to spar.”
“Dude, you have stitches holding you together,” Titan reminded him.
“Hurricane can go easy on body shots. It’ll be fine.” He needed this and a few stitches wouldn’t stop him, and Hurricane seemed to get that.
“You got it, bud.”
Hurricane climbed into the ring with him, rolling his shoulders loose, his massive frame moving with surprising lightness. Watchdog tested the ropes, their tension sharp against his palms, the rubber mat soft but springy under his boots. Sweat and disinfectant hung thick in the air.
They circled, measuring distance. Watchdog’s pulse pounded in his throat, his chest, his fingertips. The noise of the gym, the bass, Titan’s muttered jokes, Snow’s quick encouragement faded to the edges. His world shrank to Hurricane’s stance, the set of his shoulders, the timing of his breath.
The first jab came lightly, testing. Hurricane’s glove smacked against his forearm with a muffled thud, reverberating up his bones. Watchdog countered with a quick shot to the ribs, controlled, precise, but satisfying. The crack against padded flesh jolted through his knuckles, bright, electric.
Adrenaline surged, hot and dizzying. His skin tingled, every nerve awake.
“Not bad, Dog,” Hurricane grunted, grin flickering.
“Faster!” Snow’s voice rang from outside the ropes. “He’s huge but slow, use it!”
He ducked under a swing, sweat stinging his eyes, his lungs dragging hard for air. His own strike landed against Hurricane’s shoulder, the impact sharp, solid, a thrill sparking down his arm.
Hurricane pressed back, heavier now, his fists thudding into Watchdog’s guard. Each hit drove him back a step, rattling ribs, arms, core. Pain bloomed in dull, heavy waves, burning and cleansing at once. This was what he needed to feel.
He leaned into it, pushed harder. Faster. His fists blurred, each connection a rush of fire. His heartbeat thundered, his body alive, raw, pulsing with need.
Then, Hurricane’s glove clipped his ribs. Too sharp. Too close.
And the gym dissolved.
The ropes vanished. The bright lights dimmed into a single bare bulb. The sweat-slick mat turned to cold, filthy concrete. Hurricane’s calm eyes blurred, replaced by Hansen’s men, faces twisted in jeers, fists raining down, boots driving into him.
His breath fractured. Panic surged.
He lashed out, wild and desperate. Fists flying with brutal force, knuckles cracking against flesh. He heard the grunt of pain, saw blood on his hands.
“Watchdog!” Hurricane barked, pulling back, raising his arms.
But Watchdog didn’t see him. Didn’t hear him. He was back in that cell, chained, beaten, fighting to live. His roar tore through the air, animal and raw.
Words pierced the haze and his gaze flickered into focus. Safe. Home.
His vision flickered, Hansen’s men fading, replaced by Titan’s broad grin strained with effort, Sebastian’s cool concentration, Hurricane’s steady patience.
Snow’s voice anchored him. “Breathe with me. In. Out. You’re here, Watchdog. With us. We’ve got you.”
His chest heaved, air clawing into his lungs. The fight drained out of him in a sudden rush. His knees buckled, hitting the mat with a dull thud.
The wraps tore free under his shaking hands. “I can’t,” His voice cracked, hoarse, raw. “I’ll never be free. I’ll always be broken.”
Silence. Heavy. But not empty.
Snow dropped to her knees, her small hand steady on his leg. “We’re all broken, Watchdog. Some of us just hide it better.”
Titan crouched on his other side, still holding one shoulder. “Speak for yourself. I’m flawless.”
Sebastian gave him a look dry enough to cut steel. “You’re loud. That’s not the same thing.”
“Your cooking’s the real trauma,” Hurricane added smoothly, his voice calm again, warm even. “You ever grill chicken again and I’m calling the Hague.”
A shaky laugh tore out of Watchdog’s chest, startling even himself. His hands still trembled, but the crushing weight in his ribs eased just a fraction.
The others sprawled with him on the mat, ribbing each other, their banter fond and biting. The sound wrapped around him like armour.
And for the first time in months, the itch under his skin quieted. Not gone, but less sharp.
Maybe tonight, he’d let a few of his demons go.
But then the laughter ebbed, the silence folding in again, heavier this time.
Snow’s smile softened. She shifted, her hand still on his knee.
“You think you’re the only one who wakes up in the night screaming?
” Her voice dropped, losing its playful edge.
“My father strapped a bomb to me, Watchdog. I can still feel the weight of it sometimes. Still hear the tick. I have nightmares every week.”
Sebastian’s jaw tightened. He reached for her hand without hesitation, his fingers locking around hers. “And I’ll never forgive myself for not getting to her before they tortured her. That guilt doesn’t fade. But I live with it. We both do. Together.”
Snow’s gaze flicked to him, her expression softening into something fierce and tender all at once. It was the look of someone who had clawed her way back from hell and found her anchor.
Hurricane cleared his throat, his deep voice rolling low.
“I nearly lost my sight to that tumour. Thought my life was over, that I wouldn’t be able to fly again, that Peyton would look at me and see a half-man.
And then she was attacked. I had to face the fact that we both carry scars.
Visible or not.” His dark eyes found Watchdog’s.
“I still see flashes. Still feel the burn. But I’m here. We’re here.”
The weight of their words pressed into him, not crushing but grounding.
He looked from one to the other: Snow’s fierce honesty, Sebastian’s guilt worn openly, Hurricane’s calm strength, and something shifted inside him. The tight coil of shame loosened just a little.
They weren’t saying it to comfort him. They were saying it because it was the truth. Because this was what family looked like.
Snow squeezed his knee once more. “Trauma isn’t failing, Watchdog. PTSD isn’t a weakness. It’s proof you survived.”
Sebastian nodded firmly. “It’s living.”
Hurricane leaned back, arms folded, voice steady. “And you don’t carry it alone. Not here.”
For the first time since South Africa, Watchdog believed it.