Spotlights overhead emitted low, warm light. The sterile tang of antiseptic. He wasn’t in the township anymore. Not in the dark cell where Hansen had laughed and broken him piece by piece.
“Easy,” a woman’s voice murmured. Aoife. Bein’s wife. Calm, capable, her accent soft as her hands pressed against his side. “Nothing vital was hit. You lost blood, aye, but you’ll mend. Fluids, rest, and no more heroics for a while.”
He tried to push himself up, pain slicing down his side from where the blade had plunged into him.
Strong hands pinned his shoulders, forcing him back down. “Lie still and let Aoife stitch you up.” Bás stood over him, arms folding tight across his chest, the look on his face a storm ofanger and worry, both tangled and unreadable. “What you also need,” Bás growled, “is a good slap around the fucking head to knock some goddammed sense into you. What the hell was this stunt, Watchdog? Going rogue? Dragging a civilian into a fight? You could’ve got yourself killed.”
Again.
Unspoken, but it was there in the silence, causing the guilt to spiral inside him.
The words snapped sharp in the air, but Watchdog barely registered them. His lips moved before he could stop himself. “Clara. Where is she?”
Aoife’s stitching hand stilled for just a second. Her gaze flicked to Bás, the briefest exchange before she pressed a pad more firmly to his side. “She’s fine,” Aoife said. “Lotus has her.”
It wasn’t enough. His chest rose too fast, his mind clawing for control that wasn’t there. “Fine? Where? Did they hurt her? She, she wasn’t supposed to be…”
“Jesus, Watchdog,” Bás snapped, stepping closer, his shadow falling hard over the bed. “You’re bleeding all over the place, and you’re worried about a woman you barely know?”
He flinched, the words landing too close to the truth, but he felt like he did know her. His body trembled, his pulse spiking as panic clawed at him. This was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to happen. Too much. Out of control. He dragged in a breath, tried to steady himself the only way he knew how.
“The wingspan of a Eurasian eagle-owl can reach one hundred and eighty-eight centimetres,” he whispered hoarsely, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Their flight is almost silent due to specialised feathers that dampen turbulence.”
He saw Aoife glance up at Bás again, brows knitting in his peripheral vision. He closed his eyes, clinging to the numbers, the facts, the order. “Hydrogen is the lightest element. Atomicnumber one. Density of point zero eight kilograms per cubic meter.”
The panic eased slightly with each word, his mind slotting facts into neat rows, rebuilding a wall against the chaos.
A soft hand touched his temple. “Enough, Watchdog.”
Valentina. Ever since his kidnapping, he and Valentina had shared a closeness, a silent, unspoken bond of shared experience. She had been the one to find him, to lead him from hell and he would never forget that.
Watchdog opened his eyes. She stood at the side of the bed, her other hand brushing against Bás’s arm. He turned his head toward her automatically, his hard features softening under her gaze. She gave him the quiet, steady smile that had tamed storms before.
“Give him space,” she murmured.
Bás’s jaw worked, his fists tight at his sides. He stared down at Watchdog, anger still sharp in his eyes, but love ran under it, fierce and helpless. With a low curse, he pushed back from the bed. “For you, grá mo chroí,” he muttered, his voice roughened as he bent to press his lips briefly to hers. “But he owes us all an explanation.”
Aoife washed her hands and followed him out. Watchdog listened to the sound of their footsteps receding, guilt pressing heavy against his ribs.
The room quieted. Val took Aoife’s place, her fingers deft as she worked to finish the stitching. Her movements were steady, sure, unhurried. The smell of antiseptic and clean linen surrounded him, anchored him.
Two shapes padded in, Monty and Scout, her shepherds, their ears pricked, eyes sharp but gentle. They came to the bed without hesitation, pressing close, leaning their weight against the frame as though they knew he needed it.
Watchdog’s hand trembled as he reached down. Warm fur brushed his palm, the steady weight of Monty’s head settling into his touch.
The knot in his chest eased. His breath slowed, the storm inside softening.
Val met his eyes, her voice low. “You’re safe. Let yourself rest.”
For the first time since the night began, he let his body sink back into the mattress, fingers tangled in thick fur, the weight of Val’s presence easing the edges of the world.
Val’s stitches were neat, small loops that tugged the edges of his skin together with quiet precision. He watched her hands move, the way she worked without hurry, her face calm and patient, the weight of Monty’s head still grounding him before his eyes closed to block out the light of the room, and the first vision in his mind weren’t the painful memories of South Africa, like he thought they would be, but something or someone else entirely.
It was Clara.
When Val tied off the last thread, she set the needle aside and touched his arm lightly. “Let’s get you upright.”
He let her guide him, her strength surprising for her frame. The motion tugged at his side but not enough to matter. She propped him up against the headboard, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a steaming mug and a small plate balanced carefully in her hands.
