Chapter 25
The safehouse ticked too loud. Radiator, pipes, floorboards, every sound catalogued whether he wanted it or not.
Too clean, too staged, like it had been dressed to look lived-in but hadn’t yet earned it.
It felt hollow, the way he felt most of the time, yet that feeling had eased a little lately.
A kernel of something unfurling in his gut and filling the empty space in his chest. It made him uncomfortable to think about.
He tracked Clara instead. She hadn’t moved from Lena’s side since they brought her in.
Sat too close, hands wrapped tight around her friend’s like she could anchor them both if she held on hard enough.
He recognised the look, hypervigilance, the refusal to stand down until you’d confirmed every variable was controlled. He lived like that every day.
Watchdog noticed Lotus crouch in front of Lena, her voice low, calm. “We’ve got someone securing your girlfriend. She’s safe and you’ll see her soon.”
Lena blinked at her, then turned wide eyes to Clara. A silent is that true?
Clara nodded without hesitation. “You can trust them.” No wobble in her tone this time. Just certainty.
Watchdog’s chest pulled tight at that. Not at Lena’s relief, though he clocked the shift in her pulse, the way her shoulders dropped, but at Clara’s conviction.
She believed it. Believed him. That was a variable he hadn’t accounted for, and it short-circuited something in his head.
She trusted him, but he had let her down today.
He should have clocked every variable, and he hadn’t, and it had almost cost her, her life and that of her friend.
Lotus straightened, brushing Lena’s shoulder before flicking her gaze to Clara. “She needs food and rest. I’ll sit with her.”
Clara leaned down, whispered something too soft for him to catch, then pressed her forehead to Lena’s.
Watchdog looked away, giving them the moment.
He didn’t need to hear it to understand.
Reassurance protocols worked the same whether you were blood, friend, or unit.
You held on until the other person steadied.
Only when Clara finally drew back, only when Lotus gave him the tiniest nod, message received: I’ve got her, did he step forward.
“Do you want to freshen up?” His voice came out lower, rougher than intended. “There’s a shower upstairs and a bag of clothes that should have something that fits.”
Her eyes flicked back to Lena, checking, always checking, then to him. “Yes… Thank you.”
He led her up, counting the creaks in the stairs out of habit. Three loud ones, second and fourth steps the worst. The bedroom was basic, white sheets, a chair with the duffel, en-suite off to the side. He gestured. “Clothes. Should be something that works.”
He went to leave, protocol, space, distance, but fingers caught his arm. Small, warm, insistent.
Her lip trembled. “Wait.”
Her hand on his arm stopped him like a snare cable. Small fingers, fine bones, but the grip locked him in place. He could have pulled away. He didn’t, he didn’t want to.
He looked down, catalogued what he saw, the slight tremor in her lips, moisture brimming in her eyes, her shoulders pulling tight again after the brief release downstairs. The adrenaline was gone. The crash was here.
“Clara…” he started, intending to give her space, distance.
But her breath shuddered out, and instead she stepped closer, pressing her forehead briefly to his chest. “Please don’t leave me.”
He froze, heart hammering, as her words ripped him to shreds.
He could feel her warmth seeping through his shirt, smell her shampoo, something soft, floral, not synthetic.
Gentle like she was, understated and full of quiet strength.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words leaving before he’d authorised them.
His hand hovered before settling carefully on her back.
“I should’ve—. Oliver shouldn’t have got that close. I missed something. I put you at risk.”
Her head jerked up, surprise flashing across her tear-bright eyes. “No. You saved me. You saved Lena.”
“You don’t understand,” he cut her off, pressing his lips together, jaw locking tight.
His brain replayed the sequence: van in position, overwatch compromised, sniper nest not cleared.
All his fault. His chest clenched so hard it felt like an iron band around his ribs. “It was sloppy. I was sloppy. I don’t…”
“Jonas.”
His name on her lips hit harder than any bullet.
Her hands slid up his arms, anchoring him.
“You weren’t sloppy. You were brilliant.
You kept me alive. You kept Lena alive. And if you think for a second I’m going to let you take the blame for Oliver’s madness,” her voice cracked, but she steadied it, “then you’re not half as clever as you think you are. ”
Something cracked in him. He wasn’t sure what. He was used to the team speaking up for him, caring for him, but this was different. This felt like healing.
He wanted to catalogue her words, parse them, weigh the probabilities, but all he could do was feel her, warm and solid and fierce against him. His hand pressed harder against her back, rubbing slow circles like muscle memory, like he’d been built to soothe her even as she soothed him.
Her breath was warm against his chest. She tipped her face up, eyes swollen, lashes spiked with tears, and whispered, “I must look a state.”
He cupped her jaw before he even knew he was moving. His thumb brushed her damp cheek, her skin impossibly soft under his calloused fingertip. “You’re fucking beautiful.”
Her breath stuttered. He felt it against his lips, felt the sharp hitch of her lungs, the faint tremor that wasn’t fear.
And then she leaned up, hesitant, tentative. Respectful, like she remembered how he’d bolted last time.
But all he saw was her. No dark rooms, no restraints, no ghosts. Just Clara.
The woman who believed him capable when he didn’t believe it himself.
His control snapped.
He kissed her hard, crushing his mouth to hers. The taste of salt, tears, sweat, her. She gasped, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He pushed her back against the door, his palms gripping her waist, greedy, needing her shape under his hands.
Her lips parted under his, her tongue brushing his in a desperate clash that made his knees weak. He groaned, a sound ripped straight from his chest.
“Jonas,” she breathed against his mouth.
“Clara.” His reply was ragged, broken. He pressed his forehead to hers, trying to drag in air. “Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”
“I don’t want you to stop.”
The words detonated inside him.
His hands slid lower, fumbling with the zip on her jeans before his rough palms caught bare skin.
His lips took hers in a slow, drugging kiss, his tongue sweeping across her lips as he shoved her jeans and knickers down in one swift, clumsy pull.
She gasped, back hitting the cool wood, and he dropped to his knees before her like a man praying.
Her thighs trembled as his breath fanned against her, his fingers parting her slick folds. He swore under his breath. “Christ, you’re wet for me already.”
Her head fell back, her hands clutching his shoulders for balance. “Please…”
Two fingers slid inside her, curling deliberately, finding the spot that made her choke on a cry.
He set a rhythm, precise, relentless. His thumb circled her clit, the same precision he used on a keyboard, only this was flesh and heat and her.
She was moaning his name now, a mantra he’d never thought he’d deserve.
He sealed his mouth over her clit, sucking, tongue teasing, and she shattered, body bucking, thighs clamping around his head as he held her through it.
Her pussy squeezing his fingers, the thought of her clenching around his cock in the same way, making him leak pre-cum into his boxers like a fucking rookie.
Her cry was wild, unguarded. Beautiful.
When she slumped, boneless against the door, he rose, gathering her in his arms, his lips swollen, his face damp with her. He kissed her again, slow this time, reverent, his palms cupping the sweet, soft curves of her arse.
“Jonas,” she whispered, her voice thick with wonder and hunger.
He pressed his forehead to hers, swallowing hard. “You undo me.”
Her release still trembled through her body when he kissed her again. Not the desperate clash from moments before, but slow, tender, his lips moving against hers like he was memorising the shape of her mouth. Reverent, deliberate.
She sighed into him, her hands slipping from his shoulders to rest lightly against his chest. He felt the faint rise and fall of her breaths, uneven but easing.
He pulled back just enough to look at her properly, her flushed cheeks, her swollen lips, her lashes damp and clumped.
Beautiful, even undone. Especially undone.
But beneath it, he saw the exhaustion setting in, the faint glaze in her eyes, the way her body sagged as though adrenaline had kept her upright until now and finally let her go.
Guilt gnawed at him. He needed to debrief, to report, to find out what the hell Oliver thought he was playing at and where the next threat was coming from. But leaving her like this? Not when her world had been torn apart today.
“Clara,” he murmured, brushing his knuckles along her jaw. “You need sleep.”
Her mouth pulled into a faint, tired smile. “You’ll still be here?”
The question scraped something raw inside him. “Yeah. I’ll be here.” He swallowed, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I’ll bring you some food in a bit. Something light.”
Her eyes softened, that shy smile tugging wider as if he’d just offered her the moon instead of a sandwich. “All right.”
He kissed her forehead gently, lingering just long enough to breathe her in, before easing back.
She tugged her jeans up, still shaky, and moved toward the bed.
He turned to the door, but not without one last look at her curling beneath the duvet, hair spilling across the pillow, watching him with sleepy eyes that still held trust he wasn’t sure he deserved.
As he stepped into the hall, the weight of duty settled back on his shoulders. He had a team to face, a threat to unravel. But his chest still ached with the warmth of her smile, and for the first time in years, he didn’t just want to protect someone, he wanted to stay.