He frowned faintly. “Him?”
“Oliver.” She almost choked on his name. “He was there. He was shooting at you. At me. Why?”
The question hung between them, trembling with urgency. His gaze softened for just a moment, as though he wanted to tell her everything. Then he leaned back, resting his forearms on his thighs, his hands clasped. “I don’t know yet,” he said carefully. “But I will.”
Clara’s breath shuddered out, frustration and fear tangling inside her. She looked away, her eyes falling on the slice of lemon drizzle cake. The scent of sugar and citrus rose faintly, achingly familiar, a tether to a world that suddenly felt very far away.
She picked up her fork and cut a small piece. It was light, sweet, exactly as it should be. She let it rest on her tongue, her throat tightening with the taste of home.
When she looked up, he was still watching her. Not like a captor, not like a guard. Like a man trying to reassure himself she was real, that she was here.
“I don’t understand you,” she whispered.
His mouth twitched, as if with words he wouldn’t give voice to. He straightened and inclined his head. “You don’t have to. Not yet. Just eat.”
The instruction should have rankled, but something in his tone, quiet, careful, tinged with an almost old-fashioned courtesy, stole the edge from her anger. She took another bite, slower this time, her eyes never leaving his.
And when his gaze finally flicked away, his shoulders rising and falling with a quiet breath, Clara was startled by the oddest sensation of all.
Relief.
The soup was warm, the bread soft, the lemon drizzle bright with sugar and citrus. She ate more than she had intended, each bite steadying her nerves even as her mind spun faster.
He had said little else, just sat there with the quiet watchfulness of a man who seemed more sentinel than human. The weight of his gaze pressed against her as if he were measuring every breath, every twitch of her hand, committing them to memory.
When at last she pushed the tray aside, the silence between them thickened again. He rose from the sofa slowly, careful not to startle her, and moved towards the door.
Something inside her jolted. Before she thought better of it, her hand shot out and brushed his arm.
The contact was brief but searing. Electricity snapped through her fingertips, a sharp spark that startled her enough to snatch her hand back as though she had touched a live wire.
His eyes dropped to hers instantly, dark and searching.
“What will happen to me now?” she asked, her voice lower than she intended.
“You’ll be safe here,” he replied. His words were quiet, but the certainty in them pressed against her chest like a weight. “Until the threat is dealt with.”
Her throat tightened. “Safe? People will be looking for me. I have a job I need to get back to.”
“I’ve taken care of that.
Frustration flared, hot and swift. “That’s not an answer. You cannot simply erase me.”
For a moment, he was silent, then his gaze softened almost imperceptibly. She thought she saw a flicker of regret, quickly buried.
“The museum thinks you’re on annual leave.”
That was all well and good, but she could not just sit here. “Let me help,” she said suddenly, surprising herself as much ashim. “If I can help you figure out what this is, if I can help you end it, then perhaps I can go home sooner.”
He tilted his head slightly, studying her, as though weighing both her words and her worth. The silence stretched long enough for her pulse to trip in her throat. Then, at last, he gave a single, slow nod.
Relief swelled inside her. She rose, intent on seizing that momentum, moving past him into whatever waited outside that door.
But his arm lifted, barring her way. “Not now.”
She froze, startled.
“You should rest,” he continued, his tone firm but not unkind. “I’ll have some books brought to you.”
