For a moment, the commander’s mask slipped. Bás stepped forward, clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, grounding him. “I’m sorry.”
Watchdog swallowed hard. “So am I.”
Bás squeezed once, then stepped back, his voice firm again. “And one more thing.”
Watchdog arched a brow, wary.
“You speak to your therapist before you do anything else.”
He froze. “Bás.”
“No.” The word was sharp, brooking no argument. “You’re no good to her, to us, or to yourself if you don’t. You’ve been carrying too much alone, and that stops now.”
Watchdog’s jaw clenched. He hated the thought of it, opening the locked doors in his head, letting anyone in. But Bás’s stare didn’t waver.
“Understood?”
He exhaled slowly, forcing the word past his teeth. “Understood.”
Bás gave a short nod, satisfied. “Good man.”
When he left, the room felt quieter, the hum of the monitors steadying Watchdog’s pulse. His gaze drifted once more to Clara’s feed, to the sight of her sitting alone in a room that wasn’t hers.
For the first time in a long while, he felt something other than chaos. Not peace, but order. And with order, maybe, came the smallest edge of hope.
Chapter 11
When Clara openedher eyes again, she knew at once she wasn’t at home.
The room was unfamiliar but not unpleasant. The walls were painted a soft grey, bare of decoration, the furniture plain but sturdy. The bed beneath her was larger than her own, the sheets crisp and faintly scented of lavender, as though someone had thought about comfort but not about character. She sat up slowly, her body stiff, her mind thick with questions.
There were no windows. Only a vented panel high up that hummed with the sound of filtered air, steady and quiet. The overhead light glowed warm, not harsh, and it painted the room in tones that felt oddly domestic despite the strangeness of it all.
Her gaze drifted to the small sofa in the corner, the wardrobe against the far wall, the desk with nothing on it but a lamp and a notepad. A self-contained little world. A cage disguised as a guest room.
Her chest tightened.
The door handle turned.
Clara tensed, her pulse spiking, breath catching in her throat. For one wild moment, she thought about darting for thebathroom door or snatching up the bedside lamp as a weapon, but the door opened too quickly, too quietly.
And there he was.
The man from the museum. Her kidnapper.
He filled the doorway in a way that made her breath stumble. Tall, broad, his shoulders framed by the simple dark clothes he wore. His hair was damp, curling slightly where it brushed his forehead, and the light caught the angles of his face, the strong jaw shadowed by stubble.
For the first time, she had the chance to really see him. Catalogue him. His build was powerful, more muscular than she had expected from a man she knew as a name whispered in her head. His hands were large, one steady on the doorframe, the other carrying a tray. And his eyes, dark, watchful, haunted, met hers with a weight that made her insides twist.
Something in her stilled. Against every reasonable instinct, a certainty rooted itself in her chest. He would not hurt her.
That truth rang as clear as any she had ever known, and it unsettled her more than the locked room or the absence of windows.
He stepped inside carefully, closing the door behind him with the quiet click of someone who did not want to intrude. Then he crossed to the desk, setting the tray down with care.
“I brought you something,” he said. His voice was low, gravelly, but not unkind.
She blinked, still gripping the sheets tight around her. “What is it?”
