Chapter 17
He hadn’t stopped replaying the look in her eyes since she’d asked. Fierce. Determined. A little desperate. Clara wanted to see her friend. Needed to. And he’d known in that moment he’d say yes, even though every part of him screamed no.
Now he sat in the command room, screens glowing in the dim light, maps and surveillance feeds spread across the table.
Duchess stood beside him, arms crossed, her sharp eyes tracking the scrolling data.
Reaper lounged against the wall, deceptively casual, though Watchdog knew every detail of the room was already catalogued in his head.
“This is a bad idea,” Duchess said flatly.
“Most of what we do is a bad idea,” Reaper countered, smirking.
She ignored him. “You’re taking her into the open, Watchdog. Oliver’s watching for her. He’ll have people watching for you. It’s risk stacked on risk.”
“She’s not a prisoner,” Watchdog said, sharper than he meant. His jaw clenched. He forced himself to lower his voice. “I won’t cage her.”
Reaper arched a brow, amusement glinting. “You care.”
Heat crawled up the back of his neck. He bent closer to the keyboard, fingers flying across the keys. “I care about operational security.”
“Mmm.” Reaper’s grin widened. “If that’s what we’re calling it now.”
Duchess shot him a look before turning back to Watchdog. “Then what’s the plan?”
He tapped the screen, bringing up a map of central London. “Neutral ground. Café on the south bank. Public enough Oliver won’t want a scene but not so crowded we can’t control it.”
“Overwatch?” Duchess asked.
“Multiple angles. Cameras, comms, fallback routes.” He shifted, restless energy buzzing under his skin. “You and Reaper on the ground. Titan and Hurricane close by for exfil if it goes wrong.”
“And it will,” Duchess murmured.
Reaper chuckled. “That’s the spirit.”
Watchdog leaned back, scrubbing his hand down his face. His chest still itched with the same restless heat from the gym, the same unsettled pull he couldn’t shake. Clara had a way of getting under his skin, into his thoughts, looping through his system like code he couldn’t debug.
And yet the thought of denying her, of leaving her cut off from Lena, had been worse.
He closed his eyes for a moment, steadying his breathing. She trusted him. God help him, he didn’t want to break that.
“Fine,” Duchess said finally. “We’ll do it your way. But if this goes south….”
“It won’t,” he cut in, opening his eyes. His voice was steel, but the truth hummed beneath: it might. And I’ll burn for it if it does.
Reaper clapped him on the shoulder, smirk sharp. “You’re in deep, buddy. Just admit it.”
Watchdog ignored him, turning back to the screens. His fingers danced across the keys, pulling up feeds, securing lines.
Tomorrow, Clara would see Lena.
And he had no idea if it would keep her safe…or crack open something none of them were ready for.
He found her in the large, shared kitchen and living area of the bunker.
She was curled into one corner of the sofa, a book resting open on her knees, though her eyes weren’t on the page. Her mind was far away, caught somewhere between hope and dread.
When he cleared his throat, her head snapped up. The shift in her expression when she saw him, wariness melting into expectation, hit him harder than he expected.
“I’ve arranged it,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “You’ll see Lena tomorrow.”
The words seemed to hang in the air for a beat before they landed.
Her mouth parted, a sharp intake of breath breaking the silence. Then she rose, the book slipping unnoticed to the floor. Her hands clasped together as if she were holding something fragile inside herself. “Really?”
He nodded once.
The relief in her face was like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. It transformed her, softening the lines of tension he’d grown used to seeing there, igniting something bright that filled the room.
And it punched him straight in the chest.
The ache that spread there was unfamiliar and sharp, pulling at him in ways he couldn’t compute. He catalogued emotions easily: fear, anger, grief, but this? This mix of warmth and pain, this desperate need to keep her smiling like that, it unsettled him to his bones.
“Yes,” he said, his voice lower than he meant. “But it’ll be controlled. Public, monitored. You don’t move without me.”
Her nod was quick and emphatic. “Of course. Thank you. You don’t know what this means.”
He did. And God help him, he wanted to give her more of it, to keep seeing her like this, even though it was dangerous. Especially because it was dangerous.
Before he could find the words, the door opened and Lotus swept in, Damon at her side.
“We’re heading to the pub,” Lotus announced, her grin sharp and playful. “Longtown. Fancy stretching your legs?”
Damon added, “Could use a pint after the week we’ve had.”
Watchdog’s first instinct was to refuse. Crowds, noise, strangers, it was never his scene. He thrived in silence, in the glow of screens, in order. A pub was the opposite of that.
But Clara was watching him, her expression curious, a spark of longing beneath it. He saw it, her hunger for the ordinary, for laughter, for anything that wasn’t walls and secrets.
Her eyes caught his. She gave the faintest nod. “All right,” he heard himself say.
Lotus clapped her hands together. “Brilliant. Don’t scowl the whole time, Watchdog. You’ll scare the locals.”
He smirked. “Have you met the locals?”
Lotus laughed as Damon hooked her around the waist and dropped a kiss to her neck. “Yeah, fair point. They are pretty scary.”
For the first time since he could remember, watching his friends with their partners made him yearn for the same.
What would it be like to show that open love and desire for someone who felt the same way?
His gaze slid to Clara, and he wondered what it would be like to have someone like her in his life.
He dismissed it as soon as the thought landed.
Why would she ever want someone like him? Someone broken.
The underground vehicle bay smelled of oil and cold stone. Jackets zipped, boots laced, they gathered by the van. Bás waited, immovable as ever, a black hood in his hand.
Protocol. No outsider saw the route to their base.
He extended it without a word.
The sight of it turned Watchdog’s stomach. The hood meant secrecy. Control. It meant Clara was again reduced to a prisoner, stripped of dignity.
“No.” His voice was flat. Final.
Clara blinked, startled. “It’s all right,” she said quickly, glancing at Bás, “if it keeps you safe.”
“It’s not all right.” Watchdog stepped closer, his jaw tight. “She’s part of this now.”
The silence that followed was heavier than stone. Bás’s gaze locked on his, unyielding, the air between them charged.
“You want to do this?” Bás asked at last, his voice low, edged with warning.
“Yes.” No hesitation. The word came out firm, certain, though his heart hammered.
Bás stepped in, close enough that Watchdog felt the weight of his authority like gravity. “Then she’s yours. Your responsibility.”
The truth of it struck him deep. The weight, yes, but also the rightness of it. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t sought it, but the idea of being responsible for Clara didn’t feel like a burden. It felt inevitable. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said quietly.
For a long moment, Bás studied him, the silence stretching taut. Then he gave a single short nod, stepping back.
Watchdog looked at Clara. She was watching him with wide eyes, uncertainty flickering there, but also something warmer, softer. A tentative smile touched her lips, small but enough to crack something open in his chest again.
The van rumbled as it rolled out of the mountain, onto narrow country lanes.
Darkness pressed against the windows, the Black Mountains rising in shadowed silhouette.
The world beyond their hidden stronghold felt vast, dangerous, and yet, beside him, Clara shifted slightly, close enough he could feel her warmth.
Tomorrow she would see Lena.
Tonight, she was his responsibility.
And though the truth of that should have weighed him down, it lodged in his chest like something steady, something unshakable. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to let go of.