The words landed heavy, equal parts reassurance and warning. Clara wrapped her arms tighter around herself as the van sped away from the city lights, deeper into the darkness of a countryside she didn’t recognise, with strangers whose calmness terrified her more than chaos ever could.
Chapter 8
The van jolted to a stop,headlights cutting across a field slick with rain. The smell of earth and fuel filled the air, heavy and raw. Clara’s stomach twisted as the sliding door yawned open, the night alive with a new, violent sound, thump, thump, thump, a rhythm that vibrated in her chest.
Her eyes widened. A helicopter. Its blades churned the air into a storm, sending her hair whipping around her face, the downdraft stinging her eyes.
“No,” she said, her voice sharp with panic, clutching the doorframe. “I’m not going. I’m not getting in that thing.”
Reaper turned toward her, his grin flashing white in the glow of the rotor wash. “Fiery. I can see why Watchdog likes you.”
The words struck like a slap. Clara’s gaze shot instinctively to the man slumped in the van. He was stirring now, eyelids fluttering, pale face drawn tight with pain. His side was taped and bound where Reaper had worked, the bandages darkened with blood, but his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm.
Her breath caught. He was alive.
He blinked once, twice, then found her with his eyes. For the first time she saw something that wasn’t command orcalculation in his expression. His lips curved faintly, the smallest ghost of a smile, as though her presence alone steadied him.
Clara’s body went rigid, heat rushing up her neck. Before she could move, Reaper hauled Watchdog upright with efficient strength, guiding him toward the waiting chopper. Another man was there already, broad-shouldered, headset slung around his neck, movements practised and sure.
“Hurricane,” Reaper shouted over the roar.
The newcomer nodded once and extended a hand to Clara. She hesitated, trembling, her instincts screaming to resist. But the thundering blades and the hard faces around her left no room for refusal. Her feet carried her forward as if separate from her will, drawn by the pull of inevitability, and by the man stumbling at her side, whose presence in this madness was somehow the only thing that felt real.
She climbed into the chopper. The man called Hurricane strapped her into the seat beside Watchdog, his movements brisk and efficient. Clara’s hands shook as she fumbled with the headset until Hurricane adjusted it for her, his large hands oddly gentle.
Then she felt it. Warmth.
Her gaze darted down and saw Watchdog’s hand covering hers, fingers curling with deliberate steadiness despite the tremor in his body.
Her breath stilled.
She should have pulled away. Every instinct screamed at her to recoil, to guard herself. Instead, she let it stay, telling herself it was fear, that she didn’t want to provoke him, that she was safer this way. But the truth was more complicated, knotted tight in her chest, impossible to name.
His lips curved again, barely there, but meant for her.
The rotors whined higher, lifting them into the sky. The city spread below, fractured in light and shadow, streets likeglowing veins across the darkness. Clara’s stomach dropped as the ground fell away, the wind buffeting the cabin, her hand tightening involuntarily in his.
Then movement below caught her eye.
A van screeched to a halt on the road that cut through the field, headlights flaring. Figures spilled out, men shouting, pointing, raising weapons.
Her breath seized. She recognised the shape first, the outline of his shoulders, the arrogant set of his stance. Oliver.
The crack of gunfire split the air. Bullets sparked against metal, tracers streaking upward. Clara screamed, instinct jerking her down, her free hand flying to cover her head as the helicopter banked sharply away.
The last thing she saw was Oliver, his face twisted in fury, firing again and again as the darkness swallowed him.
The helicopter’s roar settled into her bones, a relentless drum that vibrated through the seat and rattled her teeth. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, her free hand clamped over the one he had placed on hers, as though letting go would send her spinning into the night.
When she dared to open them, the city had already slipped away beneath them, shrinking into a patchwork of light and shadow. The horizon was softening. Darkness thinned, and the first fragile ribbons of dawn stretched upward, blurring the stars.
Clara swallowed hard. Morning. The days were getting longer now, winter loosening its hold, spring creeping back with stubborn insistence. A new season, and here she was, stolen against her will, her life severed neatly into before and after.
Questions swarmed her like bees.
Who were these people? What did they want with her? Why had the stranger from the museum, Watchdog, decided to take her? And Oliver. God, Oliver. Why had he been there in thatfield, gun blazing, his fury unmistakable? He had shot at them. At her.
Her chest constricted. Logic told her she should have screamed for him, should have fought to reach him, to get out of the helicopter and reach her fiancé, the man she was supposed to marry. Yet instinct had clamped her silent. Instinct had her leaning closer to the man at her side, had held her tighter to strangers she should fear.
