He shifted aside so she could see. Soup. Fresh bread. And a slice of lemon drizzle cake. Her favourite.
Her throat closed. “That is unsettling, but I guess that’s why they call you Watchdog,” she murmured.
His brows drew together. “What is?”
“That you know what I like.”
A flush rose across his cheekbones, startlingly human. He glanced away, clearing his throat. “I…notice things. And uh, you can call me Jonas if you like.”
Clara’s lips twitched despite herself. He was supposed to be her captor, the shadow that had pulled her from her home. Yet he was standing there awkward and embarrassed, as if she had caught him doing something indecent, and she guessed stalking her was. Yet his blush disarmed her, softened edges she wanted to keep sharp.
He turned back, his voice quieter. “Are you all right?”
The scoff escaped before she could stop it. “Do I look all right to you?”
His gaze dropped. He nodded once, accepting the sting without protest, and the flush deepened. For a moment, he looked less like the man who had broken into her flat and more like someone ordinary, even endearing.
Something flickered in her chest, sharp and unexpected.
He gestured to the tray. “You should eat.”
“I’m not particularly hungry,” she said, her voice cool.
“You’ll feel better if you do,” he replied, and though his words were gentle, there was no mistaking the quiet insistence.
She rose cautiously, as if testing both him and herself, and crossed to the desk. He stepped back immediately, retreating to the sofa and lowering himself with careful precision, leaving the space between them wide open. Respectful, as if he wanted her to feel comfortable around him.
Clara sat at the desk. She lifted the spoon, dipped it into the soup, and brought it to her lips. Warmth spread through her chest, the herbs familiar and soothing, and despite herself, she felt her stomach loosen.
She glanced up. He was watching her, not hungrily, not cruelly, but with the intent focus of a man memorising every detail.
She lowered the spoon, her heartbeat far too loud in her ears for such an ordinary act.
She forced herself to take another spoonful. The warmth spread through her chest, grounding her, even as her mind rattled with questions too sharp to contain.
“Where am I?” Her voice was steady, though her grip on the spoon was tight enough to whiten her knuckles.
He shifted slightly on the sofa, his broad frame still but his eyes fixed on her with an intensity that pressed against her skin. “Somewhere safe.”
“That isn’t an answer,” she said quietly, setting the spoon down.
“It’s the one I can give you,” he replied. His voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it, a weight that told her pressing further would yield nothing.
She leaned back in the chair, folding her arms, and studied him. He didn’t fidget, didn’t look away. He simply watched, his expression composed but shadowed.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, filled only by the faint hum of the air system. Clara’s pulse quickened, and she found herself speaking before she could stop. “Why me?”
Something flickered across his face, an instinct to answer, a reflex to protect, and then it was gone, shuttered behind the same guarded calm.
“You were in danger,” he said at last.
Her chest tightened. “From whom?”
“The same men who came to your building last night. The same men who would’ve taken you if I had not.”
The words hit her like cold water. Images rushed back, the struggle, the van outside, the sharp sound of gunfire as they lifted into the sky. And Oliver. Her fiancé. His face twisted in fury, his gun aimed at the helicopter.
She swallowed hard. “And what about him?”
