Chapter 20
Clara closed her door and leaned against it, her heart pounding like she’d run a mile.
Her lips still tingled. Swollen. Kiss-bruised. She touched them with her fingertips and shivered at the phantom feeling of him that lingered.
It wasn’t supposed to happen. She’d only meant to thank him, just a kiss, brief and soft, gratitude for everything he’d done. But the second their mouths met, something wild had broken free between them.
Her body still hummed with it.
She pushed away from the door, pacing the small apartment. The lamplight warmed the beige walls, casting shadows that seemed to echo her unrest.
Oliver’s face rose in her mind, polished, charming, his smile always practised. His kisses had been gentle too, but…hollow. As though he were playing a part, never really there with her.
This had been different. Watchdog, Jonas, though no one seemed to call him that, kissed like he was breaking apart. Like he couldn’t hold back if he tried. Raw. Fierce. Consuming. Like she was all he needed to survive the tumult of desire lashing through him.
She wrapped her arms around herself, fighting a shiver that wasn’t from the cold.
It wasn’t just the kiss. It was the way he’d touched her, his hands spanning her waist, holding her as though she was something precious and breakable. It was the groan that had torn from his chest when she tugged his hair. The way he’d wanted her, undeniably, fiercely.
And then he’d stopped.
Her cheeks burned at the memory, confusion and longing tangling in her gut.
He’d pulled away, almost as if he’d been in pain.
She couldn’t fathom why; couldn’t untangle the mix of shame and desire she’d seen in his eyes.
But a part of her wondered if it was tied to the scene she’d witnessed in the gym, and her heart broke for him.
The thought of a man who could kiss like that being in so much pain was wrong on every level.
She poured herself a glass of water, but her hand trembled as she drank. The cool liquid did nothing to quench the heat low in her belly, the ache between her thighs. She closed her eyes, pressing the rim of the glass to her forehead.
This was madness. She was engaged. She was meant to be loyal. Meant to be saving her parents’ home, their legacy.
And yet, when Oliver touched her, she felt nothing.
When Watchdog kissed her, her whole body lit up.
She crawled into bed, pulling the quilt tight around her, but sleep wouldn’t come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him, his broad shoulders blocking the door, the rough rasp of stubble against her lips, the heat of his body pressed to hers.
Her thighs pressed together instinctively, heat blooming again. She groaned softly, shoving her face into the pillow, trying to will the thoughts away.
But they came back, relentless.
Jonas wasn’t safe. He wasn’t the man she was supposed to want.
And yet she did.
More than she had ever wanted anything.
Clara woke heavy, as though the night had pressed itself into her bones. She had slept in snatches, each dream looping back to the same place, his mouth on hers, the rasp of stubble against her lips, the raw need in the way he’d held her. And then the sudden absence when he had pulled away.
Her sheets were twisted, damp with heat from her restless body. She sat up slowly, pushing hair from her face, her chest tight with exhaustion. Her lips still tingled, traitorous reminders of something she couldn’t seem to stop replaying.
The bathroom tiles were cold beneath her bare feet.
She braced her hands against the sink for a long moment before turning the shower on.
Steam rose quickly, the hiss filling the small room.
She stepped under the spray, the heat striking her scalp, streaming down her shoulders, chasing away the last dregs of sleep.
For a moment, she let herself imagine his broad frame pressed against her in the steam, the way his hands had gripped her waist like she was something precious. Her thighs clenched instinctively, and shame burned through her. She scrubbed quickly, as though she could wash the thought away.
Breakfast was plain toast that cooled too quickly, and tea brewed dark and strong. She ate at the small table by the desk, chewing mechanically, not tasting it. Her mind was already running ahead, circling Lena, circling him. Always circling him.
A knock startled her, loud against the quiet.
Her heart lurched. Some wild part of her hoped,
But it was Duchess.
Tall, composed, her dark hair scraped back, jacket crisp even this early. Her presence seemed to fill the doorway, calm but unyielding.
“We’re leaving shortly,” Duchess said without preamble. “We want to get on the road to London before we hit too much traffic on the motorway. The meeting is set with Lena, and Reaper and Bein are already up there surveying the meet spot.”
Clara’s pulse leapt. “Lena?”
Duchess inclined her head. “Yes. But there are risks.” Her gaze sharpened, weighing Clara. “Are you certain?”
The answer came without hesitation. “She’s my friend.” Clara straightened her spine. “If it were you, wouldn’t you do the same?”
For the first time, something softened in Duchess’s face, a flicker of warmth breaking through the steel. “I would die for my friends.”
Clara knew she meant it literally. The conviction in her voice was steady, frightening in its certainty. And it struck Clara that here, among this team, loyalty wasn’t a concept, it was their lifeblood.
The tech room was already alive when they entered. Screens glowed against the stone walls, maps and feeds shifting, drones lined up on charging docks like soldiers at rest.
Watchdog sat at the heart of it, hunched over his station, fingers flying across the keyboard with practised ease. The glow of the monitors lit his face, sharpening the line of his jaw, casting shadows beneath his eyes.
He looked up briefly when they entered. For a fraction of a second, his gaze caught hers, and something flickered there. Then he gave a curt nod.
A flush crept up his throat, colouring his pale skin. He bent back over his work quickly, as though embarrassed to have been caught.
Clara’s chest tightened. The memory of his mouth against hers roared back, but instead of warmth, she felt the sting of rejection.
He hadn’t sought her out this morning. He hadn’t said a word.
She turned her head, pretending to study the drones lined neatly on the bench, willing herself not to care.
As they headed for the door, Duchess leaned close, her voice pitched for Clara’s ears alone. “Be patient. If any man on earth is worth it, it’s Jonas.”
Clara’s throat tightened. She didn’t answer but her heart betrayed her, fluttering in her chest like a caged bird.
The vehicle bay was colder than the corridors, the air smelling of oil, rubber, and stone. Engines rumbled, headlights slicing through the half-light. It was hard to believe all of this sat beneath the beauty of these Welsh Mountains.
The dogs, Monty and Scout, she’d heard her call them, padded at Valentina’s side, nails clicking on the concrete, their bodies taut with energy, alert and eager.
One brushed against Clara’s leg, and she flinched before steadying, startled by the solid strength beneath that sleek coat.
Even the dogs here carried an air of quiet power.
Two vans idled, their doors open. Bás climbed into one, Duchess sliding in beside him. Valentina followed with the dogs, murmuring commands that had them leaping up with practised ease.
Clara’s van was already waiting, Bishop at the wheel, Lotus climbing in after her.
“Sorry, I needed a wee. Damn kids ruin your bladder.”
Clara felt her eyebrows rise in surprise at the normal comment and almost smiled. Watchdog was already inside, buckled in, his presence filling the space even in silence.
She slid onto the seat opposite him, the vibration of the engine humming up through her boots, nerves rattling her stomach.
“Isn’t this…overkill?” she asked before she could stop herself, her voice half-nervous, half-hopeful. She gestured at the convoy, the drones, the sheer scale of it all. “Two vans, drones, all of you, just to meet my friend?”
Watchdog’s eyes lifted. For a heartbeat, she thought she caught the faintest trace of humour. But it vanished as quickly as it came.
“These men are evil personified,” he said quietly, the words flat with conviction. “I’m not taking a chance they’ll get to you. Not when I personally know what they’re capable of.”
The way he said it, low, steady, absolute, made her stomach clench.
It wasn’t a theory. It wasn’t second-hand. It was knowledge.
The truth hit her all at once, so sharp it stole her breath.
He had been hurt by these men.
Her eyes burned, her throat aching as she turned to the window, the landscape blurring as they sped past. She wanted to ask. She wanted to reach across and take his hand, to let him know she understood. But she couldn’t, not yet.
Instead, she sat in silence, the hum of the engine loud in her ears, the weight of what she now knew pressing into her chest until it hurt to breathe.
And still, beneath the fear, the longing remained.