Chapter 18
The exchange between Watchdog and Bás replayed in her mind long after they’d left the vehicle bay.
She’s yours. Your responsibility.
Clara had expected Watchdog to flinch under the weight of it, to deny it. But instead, he had met Bás’s stare without wavering, his voice low, steady. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The words sat heavy in her chest now as the van rattled along narrow lanes, hedgerows brushing the sides. She couldn’t make sense of it, why he’d defended her so fiercely, why his refusal to put that hood over her head had felt like…something more than principle.
Her fingers curled into her borrowed coat. The warmth of his hand on her wrist still lingered, phantom and unsettling.
When the van pulled up outside the pub, she forgot her confusion for a moment.
The building was everything a country pub should be: stone walls, low beams, crooked windows glowing with golden light.
Smoke curled from the chimney, the smell of woodsmoke and roasted meat drifting on the cold night air.
A painted sign swung above the door, its lettering faded with age, hops and ivy woven around the post.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around her instantly.
The ceiling was low, oak beams heavy and dark with centuries of use.
A fire roared in the hearth, flames crackling, casting a flicker of orange light across polished brass taps behind the bar.
The air smelled of ale, wood polish, and something rich, stew maybe, or a roast.
The place was crowded but cosy. Locals leaned on the bar, pints in hand, laughing over the hum of conversation.
A group of older men sat near the fire, their flat caps tipped back as they argued about rugby.
A woman in a thick cardigan carried plates piled high with food, moving between tables with a practised grace.
Clara’s lips curved despite herself. It was so ordinary. So wonderfully, beautifully ordinary.
The team spilled in like they owned the place, greetings were called out by name from behind the bar. “Evening, Lotus!” “Reaper, same as usual?” “Good to see you, Hurricane. How’s the missus?”
Clara blinked. They weren’t strangers here. They were part of the fabric.
She stuck close to Watchdog, nerves prickling as the room seemed to tilt toward her, curious eyes following. He moved easily through it, calm and unreadable, his bulk clearing space as if people instinctively gave it to him.
When they reached the bar, he placed a hand lightly on her hip, nudging her forward.
The touch was brief, almost impersonal, a simple gesture to shift her into place. But her body reacted anyway, heat blooming under his palm, her breath catching.
She shouldn’t like it. She shouldn’t like how steady it felt, how natural, as though she belonged there in front of him, shielded by his presence.
But she did.
The barman, broad, ruddy-faced, with forearms like tree trunks, smiled at her. “Haven’t seen you before, love. What’ll it be?”
She hesitated, glancing back at Watchdog. He gave the faintest nod, his eyes steady on hers, and it was enough.
“A Bulmer’s Original, please,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
The barman winked. “Good choice. Best in Herefordshire.”
She felt Watchdog’s hand linger a beat longer at her hip before he withdrew, his warmth fading, leaving her with a shiver she couldn’t quite blame on the cold.
The barman slid her cider across the worn wooden bar, froth catching in the dim light. Watchdog paid without hesitation, his big hand closing over the note like it was nothing. She murmured a thank-you, but he only nodded, as though it wasn’t worth mentioning.
The others had already claimed a long wooden table near the fire. The oak top was scarred with years of carvings, initials, dates, and the odd heart with an arrow through it. It was too small for the group, really, but somehow, they made it work, chairs squeezed tight, shoulders brushing.
Clara found herself settled between Watchdog and Valentina. His presence was solid at her side, like a wall that shifted with her movements, adjusting subtly so she never felt crowded but always felt shielded.
Menus were passed around, but most of them barely glanced at them.
“Pie, pint, done,” Reaper declared, tapping his order down without even reading.
“Surprise me,” Lotus said, winking at the barmaid who rolled her eyes but grinned anyway.
“Fish and chips,” Titan rumbled, decisive, Maya rolling her eyes fondly beside him.
“Of course you’d go for the biggest portion,” Damon teased, and Titan only shrugged, unbothered.
Valentina leaned close to Clara, her accent lilting, warm. “Order the stew. Trust me, it’s heavenly.”
Clara smiled, grateful for the kindness. “Then stew it is.”
When the food was ordered, the table dissolved into easy chatter. Stories flowed, missions retold with dramatic exaggeration, inside jokes that had the whole table laughing.
Clara watched, fascinated. This wasn’t the stiff, performative laughter of her parents’ dinner parties.
This was real, loud, and unguarded. Lotus teased Damon about his obsession with Formula One until he kissed her quietly.
Duchess shot Gideon a sexy look that made him choke on his beer, his ears flaming as everyone howled.
Bishop leaned close to Charlie, her hand always resting on his body in some way, her smile never far from him.
And in all of it, the banter flew thick and fast.
“Remember when Titan tried to fix the coffee machine?” Damon said.
“It wasn’t broken,” Lotus snorted. “He just didn’t know how to work it.”
“I knew how to work it,” Titan grumbled. “The thing was older than me.”
“Everything’s older than you,” Duchess said, deadpan.
Even Watchdog chuckled, a low sound that made Clara’s stomach flip.
He caught her looking and shrugged, a faint flush at his neck as though surprised at himself.
The food arrived, steaming bowls and plates piled high, and pints were refreshed. Conversation picked up again, loud and overlapping. Clara ate, letting the warmth of the stew and the cider loosen the knot in her chest.
At some point, Valentina nudged her gently. “You’ll come to Sunday lunch, yes?”
Clara blinked. “Sunday lunch?”
“It’s tradition,” Bishop explained around a mouthful of pie. “One family meal a week, whoever’s free. We take turns hosting. Sometimes it’s fancy, sometimes it’s takeaway. Doesn’t matter. What matters is…”
“Wine,” Lotus cut in.
“Dessert,” Maya added.
“Family,” Valentina finished firmly, her smile soft.
Clara swallowed past the lump in her throat. She managed a small nod. “I’d like that.”
Watchdog shifted beside her, and when she glanced at him, his eyes were on her.
She wondered for a second if she’d overstepped.
She barely knew these people, and yet she felt more comfortable with them after two days than she did with her own family.
Watchdog blinked slowly, his eyes on her holding a warmth, a lightness that hadn’t been there before.
There was something in them she couldn’t name, something that warmed her as much as the fire did.
The banter rolled on, louder now, fuelled by food and ale.
Reaper slapped the table, making everyone jump. “Remember when Titan tried to teach me to drive a stick?”
Titan groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Don’t start.”
Lotus cackled. “Oh, start. Please start.”
Reaper leaned forward, eyes alight. “He said, ‘ease it into first, mate, nice and gentle.’ So, I did. And the bloody van bunny-hopped down the entire lane like a drunk kangaroo. Nearly threw us both through the windscreen.”
“It wasn’t the van’s fault,” Titan muttered. “You’ve got no coordination.”
“I’ve got plenty of coordination,” Reaper shot back. “Just not for machinery older than me.”
“Shouldn’t you be at some banquet with your wife or something, instead of annoying me?” Titan groused.
Reaper smirked. “Lucía is helping her father with some international relations stuff.”
Clara felt confused and then, like a lightbulb, it clicked. She knew Reaper looked familiar, but it wasn’t until he said the name Lucía that she pieced it together. “Oh my God, you’re him. You’re married to Princess Lucía of Spain.”
Reaper smiled wide and nodded. “I am. She’s my better half in every way.”
“Oh, wow. I can’t believe this.”
Watchdog chuckled beside her. “I guess we forget how much of a big deal she is because to us she’s just our friend.”
Clara turned to him, grabbing his arm in excitement. “You’ve met her, too?”
Jonas laughed and she felt her heart kick over in her chest at the sound. “We all have. Lucía is a regular here. She’s even worked the desk at the Mountain Rescue with Reaper a time or two, but nobody ever recognises her, which is a good thing.”
Bishop nodded. “Told you, plain sight.”
“Mountain Rescue Centre?” Clara asked in confusion.
Jonas was rubbing his thumb over her knuckles now, where her hand still sat on his muscular forearm. It was distracting in the best way. “Yeah, that’s our cover for being here at the mountain, and it disguises our coming and going from beneath.”
“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.”
Clara was looking at him now, her gaze seemingly frozen to the curve of his lips, the sparkle in his eyes. He was happy and it looked good on him.
“You’re staring.”
“You look happy.”
Jonas cocked his head as if giving what she had said some real thought, and she liked that about him. That he didn’t give flippant responses meant she could believe what he told her, and that was important to her.
“I am happy. Being around you makes me happy, Clara.”
If he had told her she had won the lottery or that she could have access to the rarest text in the world, she wasn’t sure it would have made her smile more. “Same.”
His hand rested on her back for a moment, and the world ceased to exist for those few moments until it was broken by the raucous laughter around her.
Gideon chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll never forget Duchess’s face. She looked like she was calculating which hedge to roll into.”
“I was,” Duchess said dryly, sipping her wine. “The left one was softer.”
The table roared.
Valentina chimed in then, grinning. “What about when Lotus got mistaken for a cabaret dancer in Madrid?”
Lotus’s eyes went wide. “Excuse me?”
“Oh, come on,” Damon said, smirking. “You were in that sequinned dress, feathers in your hair.”
“I was undercover!” Lotus threw her napkin at him. “And if you recall, my distraction worked.”
“Worked a little too well,” Bás rumbled, his voice dry. “We nearly lost you to the stage manager.”
The laughter came harder this time, Clara nearly choking on her cider.
“Right,” Lotus said, grinning despite herself. “We’re not talking about Damon nearly fainting at the sight of blood in Paris?”
Damon held up a finger. “That was one time. And it was a lot of blood, and you, wife, are meant to be on my side.”
Lotus poked her tongue out at him, and he lunged forward, kissing her hard and quick.
“Your own nosebleed,” Titan pointed out.
“Still counts!”
Even Watchdog chuckled again, the sound low, surprised, like it had slipped past his defences. Clara’s chest tightened at the sound, her pulse skittering. There was so much open love between these people, not just the couples, but everyone.
Gideon leaned back in his chair, his arm draped over Duchess’s. “I still say Bishop’s the winner. Locked in that wine cellar in Milan for six hours because he was too proud to call for help.”
Charlie laughed until tears slid down her cheeks. “I only found him because he texted me a picture of the corkscrew he was planning to use as a weapon.”
“I wasn’t planning,” Bishop began.
“You were absolutely planning,” Charlie interrupted, leaning over to kiss his cheek.
The whole table erupted again, warmth and noise spilling into every corner of the pub.
Clara sat in the middle of it, cider in hand, cheeks aching from smiling. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed like this, not the careful, brittle laughter of her parents’ dinners, but something unguarded, something that left her ribs aching.
She looked around the table at Valentina feeding Bás a forkful of stew, at Titan rolling his eyes at Maya but letting her steal chips from his plate, at Duchess letting Gideon rest his head against her shoulder without a flicker of embarrassment, and felt something stir deep inside her.
Belonging.
For the first time in years, maybe ever, she felt what it might be like to belong somewhere.
And every time Watchdog’s arm brushed hers, every time his low chuckle rumbled close, she wondered how much longer she could keep pretending she didn’t feel it.