That contradiction terrified her most of all.
She shut her eyes again, trying to bury it, trying to untangle the mess in her chest. But all she could feel was the warmth of his hand around hers, pale and weak though he was, anchoring her in chaos.
The helicopter banked. Her eyes flew open as her breath caught. The ground was rising toward them. Mountains rolled beneath, ridges sharp and dark, still patched with snow where the sun hadn’t yet claimed the last of winter’s grip. The air grew colder, thinner, seeping in around the edges of the cabin.
They descended onto a narrow plateau carved high into the mountainside. The rotors whipped the snowflakes and grit into a storm, stinging her cheeks as the doors slid open.
Voices shouted over the roar, names thrown into the wind like battle standards.
“Bás, get Aoife!”
“Bishop, cover the perimeter!”
“Duchess, take point!”
Clara’s head spun, the words foreign yet weighted with authority. She was surrounded by them, these strangers who moved with lethal precision, their faces grim but steady, their hands sure as they reached for Watchdog.
They lifted him out first, Reaper guiding him, another dark-haired man bracing his weight. His head lolled, lips pale, but he murmured something she couldn’t catch. They bundled himswiftly into a waiting van, voices low and urgent, the kind of urgency that said they’d done this before.
Clara’s chest constricted. Against all reason, against all logic, she felt a surge of panic at the thought of being separated from him.
Lotus was suddenly at her side, her hand warm on Clara’s arm. “He’s being looked after,” she said, her voice calm but firm, eyes sharper than the mountain wind. “Our medic, Aoife, is with him. He’s in good hands. Well, she’s a nurse, but with the amount we get shot at, she’s more of a nurse, stroke, doctor, stroke surgeon.”
Christ, who were these people?
Clara swallowed, gaze locked on the van as its doors slammed shut, her body half-leaning toward it as though pulled by something she couldn’t explain.
“Come,” Lotus urged gently, steering her toward a second vehicle. “You ride with me.”
Her feet dragged, nerves tightening her chest. She climbed inside stiffly, the van’s interior dim and cold, her heart hammering too loud in her ears.
Then a hood slipped over her head.
Clara gasped, panic spiking as darkness smothered her vision, her hands flying upward. “No, please, don’t,”
Lotus’s voice was steady, close. “It’s for your safety, and ours. You’ll be fine. Breathe, Clara.”
Clara froze. “You know my name.”
Lotus’s hand settled lightly on her wrist, steadying her frantic motion. “We know enough. You’re not a prisoner, Clara, you’re a guest. And I promise this isn’t about hurting you. It’s about keeping you safe and keeping Watchdog safe, too.”
The words struck like ice and fire both.
Lotus squeezed her wrist gently. “Trust me on one thing, if nothing else. He’s going to be all right. And you? You’ll get through this. But you need to wear the hood.”
Clara sat rigid, breath shallow beneath the shroud of fabric, but she stopped fighting, accepting her fate. Lotus’s voice followed, softer, with the faintest hint of humour. “Good. That’s better. Control your breathing. I don’t want you to pass out. I have date night with my husband tonight, and it’s been planned for weeks, so I’d rather not spend it with you because you smashed your head fainting. No offence.”
“Uh, none taken?!”
Lotus chuckled at her response and Clara felt her chest and terror ease slightly. Surely if they wanted her dead, they would have killed her by now. They’d been nothing but gentle with her, so maybe they didn’t want to hurt her. But that begged the question, what the hell did they want, and who the hell were they?
Her breath caught as the van jolted into motion, carrying her deeper into the mountain, deeper into the unknown, with only the ghost of his touch on her hand to cling to.
Chapter 9
The world tilted,sound bleeding in and out like static. The chop of helicopter blades still rang in his skull, ghosted over by sharper sounds, shouts, the snap of gunfire, the crack of fists against flesh. South Africa pressed in, sweat and blood and chains, voices in a language he didn’t understand, the sting of fists, the stink of fear.
He forced his eyes open.
