Chapter 23 Con
CON
Two weeks after the destruction of Orlov’s facility, I stood at my bedroom window, watching the Highland mist roll across the grounds of Blackmoor. Spring was showing its first signs, bringing new growth to the ancient estate, though my body still ached from the wounds I’d sustained.
The doctor had prescribed six weeks of rest, a directive I’d been fighting since the moment I regained consciousness.
Lex, however, proved more formidable than any physician.
Her stern glances and gentle insistence had kept me relatively compliant, though I’d compromised on my working from bed rather than the ops hub.
“Coffee?” Lex appeared in the doorway, balancing a tray with two steaming cups.
“God, yes.” I turned from the window, admiring how at home she looked in my—our—bedroom. She wore one of my jumpers over her trousers, the sleeves rolled up to her wrists, her dark hair pulled back in a loose knot.
She set the tray on the bedside table and pressed her palm to my forehead. “No fever. That’s good.”
“I told you I was fine.”
“The same way you told me you were ‘fine’ when you were bleeding internally?” Her tone was light, but I caught the shadow that crossed her face whenever she referenced those harrowing moments.
I cupped her cheek. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
She leaned into my touch. “You’d better not.”
The domesticity that had developed between us over the past fortnight still astonished me.
Lex had slipped into my life at Blackmoor as though she’d always belonged here—charming my staff and transforming my bedroom into a functional workspace when I insisted on reviewing intelligence reports despite her objections.
We took our cups to the sitting area by the fireplace, where I’d been reviewing the latest reports on Orlov. My muscles protested as I lowered myself on the sofa, a reminder that my recovery remained incomplete.
“You’re overdoing it,” Lex observed, curling up beside me.
“I’ve been sitting for hours. Walking to the window hardly counts as exertion.”
She raised a brow. “Those stairs to the battlements yesterday?”
“Needed fresh air.”
“And the inspection of the east wing renovations the day before?”
I grinned. “Architectural interest.”
“Stubborn man.” Her fond exasperation warmed me more than my coffee.
“You knew that when you agreed to stay.”
“I did,” she conceded. “Though I expected at least a pretense of following medical advice.”
Before I could counter, Bastion appeared in the doorway. “Lord Blackmoor, your guests have arrived.”
“Show them into the upstairs drawing room, please.”
Minutes later, we entered the room filled with the familiar voices of Tag, Ash, Sullivan, and Gus. The sight of them—my closest friends, my brothers in all but blood—brought a sense of completion to my recovery that medicine couldn’t provide.
“You’re looking less corpse-like,” Tag observed, dropping into a chair without waiting for an invitation.
“Charming as ever,” I replied.
Gus approached more cautiously, eyeing my bandaged torso visible beneath my unbuttoned shirt. “How’s the wound?”
“Healing. Doctor says another month before I’m cleared for field work.”
“Which he’s already ignoring,” Lex added, accepting a hug from Sullivan.
“Of course he is,” Sullivan said with a knowing smile. “Did you expect anything less?”
“I live in hope.” Lex’s dry tone made even Tag chuckle.
As they settled around the room, Mrs. Thorne arrived with refreshments—tea, coffee, and a selection of pastries that reminded me I’d barely touched breakfast.
“So,” Ash began once we’d been served. “I assume you want an update?”
I nodded, setting down my cup. “Someone mentioned new information on Orlov.”
Gus leaned forward. “The doctors report his cognitive functions are severely compromised. Whether from the bullet wound or some other trauma, he appears unable to communicate beyond basic responses.”
“You said ‘appears,’” Lex noted.
“It could be an act,” Tag concurred. “Though the medical evidence suggests otherwise. Brain scans show damage to his speech centers.”
“Convenient,” I muttered.
“Very,” Ash agreed. “But even if he’s faking, the consortium has gone underground. Their financial network has collapsed, and most of their facilities have been abandoned.”
“What about McLaren?” Lex’s voice remained neutral, but I caught the tension in her shoulders.
A pause stretched between us.
“Still no confirmation,” Gus said. “The damage to the facility was extensive. If she was inside during the final explosion…”
He didn’t need to finish. We all understood the implications.
Lex’s expression remained guarded. I knew she still struggled with McLaren’s betrayal, with the knowledge that her mentor had helped create the very weapon we’d risked our lives to destroy. The uncertainty about McLaren’s fate only compounded that pain.
“Bennett was officially declared dead,” said Gus. “Not that there was a question. However, his body was recovered from the rubble and identified through dental records.”
“What about the neural interface technology?” I asked, steering the conversation toward more pragmatic matters.
“Destroyed, as far as we can tell,” Ash replied. “The pulse weapon overloaded exactly as McLaren predicted. If any schematics survived, they haven’t surfaced.”
“We should remain vigilant,” I cautioned. “Ideas like that rarely die completely.”
“MI6 and Unit 23 have established a joint monitoring program,” Lex added. “Any research that bears even a passing resemblance to Orlov’s work will trigger alerts.”
The conversation drifted to less consequential topics—the latest gossip from Vauxhall Cross, Sullivan’s plans for renovations at Ashcroft, and Gus’s new financial tracking algorithm.
As we talked, I observed the easy camaraderie that had developed between Lex and my friends.
She belonged here, among us, in a way that felt both surprising and inevitable.
Eventually, Sullivan announced they needed to leave. “Mairi insisted on serving a special dinner tonight.”
“And Ash can’t say no,” teased Gus.
“The aunt of the Duke of Ashcroft does not intimidate me,” Ash protested unconvincingly. “I simply show her the appropriate respect.”
Their banter continued as they gathered their things, the normality of it a balm after weeks of intensity. As Gus and Tag prepared to follow them out, I caught Tag’s arm.
“Stay a moment?”
He nodded, understanding without an explanation. Lex quietly offered to walk the others out, giving us privacy. Once they’d gone, Tag returned to his chair.
“No word about Nightingale?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.
He shook his head, eyes fixed on the fireplace. “Nothing definitive. There was a possible sighting in Beirut last week, but it went cold.”
“You’ll find her.”
“Will I?” His voice carried a rawness I wasn’t accustomed to hearing. “No contact, no trails to follow. She’s either dead or doesn’t want to be found.”
“The fact we haven’t found a body gives me hope,” Gus offered quietly from the doorway, having returned without Lex, Sullivan, or Ash.
Tag’s shoulders tightened. “Or whoever took her ensured there was nothing to find.”
“We aren’t certain she was taken, Tag,” Gus said in a low tone of voice.
The three of us fell silent, each contemplating the grim possibility.
“I’m not giving up,” Tag finally said. “Not until she tells me to stop looking.”
The fierce determination in his voice revealed more than any confession could have. This wasn’t merely professional concern or friendly worry. This was devotion in its purest form.
Gus and I exchanged glances, recognizing what Tag himself might not have yet fully acknowledged. His feelings for Nightingale ran deep—deeper than any of us had realized. What he’d previously described as casual had clearly evolved into something essential.
“We’ll help however we can,” I promised. “Whatever resources you need.”
“We’ll find her,” Gus added softly. “For all our sakes, but mostly for yours.”
Tag looked up, surprise flickering across his features before settling into understanding. He hadn’t hidden his feelings as well as he thought.
“We will,” he vowed.
After they left, I remained in my chair, contemplating the changes these past months had brought.
Before Lex stormed into my castle and hacked my systems, my life had followed a predictable pattern—missions, intelligence gathering, the occasional liaison that never progressed beyond physical attraction.
I’d been content with solitude, convinced that deep connections were liabilities in our line of work.
Now, I couldn’t imagine returning to that existence. The thought of Blackmoor without Lex’s laughter echoing through its halls, without her curious exploration of its secrets, felt hollow beyond bearing.
“You look pensive,” Lex observed, returning to find me staring into the fire.
“Thinking about Tag.”
She settled beside me. “He’s taking Nightingale’s disappearance hard.”
“Harder than any of us could’ve predicted. I’m not sure he fully understood his own feelings until she vanished.”
“Sometimes, we don’t recognize what matters most until it’s threatened,” she said quietly.
I took her hand, threading our fingers together. “I recognized it the moment you left Blackmoor after our argument. I knew then I couldn’t let you go.”
Her eyes softened. “Good thing you followed me to London, then.”
“Best decision I ever made.”
The remainder of the afternoon passed in companionable work—Lex reviewing intelligence reports, me coordinating with various assets who’d been monitoring potential Labyrinth remnants. By evening, we’d established that, while vigilance remained necessary, the immediate threat had dissipated.
“Dinner in an hour,” Lex announced, closing her laptop. “Mrs. Thorne mentioned something special.”
I smiled, knowing exactly what the “something special” entailed. “Perfect.”