“Good. And the chair you’re sitting in, what’s it made of?”
His breath shuddered out. “Leather.”
“That’s right. Now tell me one fact. Any fact at all.”
He latched on instantly, the reflex ingrained. “The wingspan of a peregrine falcon can reach one point two metres.” His voice was hoarse but steadying.
“Perfect.” Peyton nodded once, her tone softening again. “Stay with me. You’re here, not there. And you’re safe.”
The images receded, the ghosts of the cell pulling back like a tide. The hum of the compound’s air system seeped back in, grounding him. His heart still pounded, but the walls no longer closed in.
He dragged a shaking hand over his face. “Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologise for,” Peyton said gently. “That’s your body remembering. Not your failure.”
Jonas looked up, feeling exhaustion weigh like lead on his shoulders. “I’m just like them.”
Peyton reached out, laying her hand over his arm in comfort. “You did it to protect her,” Peyton corrected. “There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
“Yes.” Peyton leaned forward slightly. “Because you didn’t take her to hurt her. You didn’t take her to control her. You took her to keep her safe. And that’s very different, Watchdog.”
His throat worked. The room felt too close, the air pressing on his skin. “It doesn’t feel different.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” Peyton said softly. “You live with the memory of South Africa pressing into every corner of your mind. To you, every decision is life or death, win or lose, succeed or fail. There’s no middle ground. But protecting Clara wasn’t about winning or losing. It was about care. And that’s why it feels so strange.”
The knot in his chest loosened, just a fraction. Enough to let him breathe.
When the session finally ended, he left feeling unsteady, his limbs heavy as though he’d run miles, his mind jittery and raw. But beneath the exhaustion, there was a sliver of relief, like releasing pressure from a sealed valve.
The corridors of the compound were quiet, the hum of electricity steady in the walls. His boots echoed softly against the floor as he walked, each step pulling him back to familiar ground. His mind darted restlessly, back to the case, to money trails and Oliver Grant, to the faces of the men who had once held him captive. But always, his thoughts circled back to her.
Clara.
Had she eaten more? Had she touched the books he’d sent? He’d chosen carefully from his own shelves, volumes on medieval history, illuminated manuscripts, the kind of texts he thought might keep her mind engaged. Would she have noticedthe notes in the margins, the scrawled facts he couldn’t stop himself from recording?
The questions drove him straight to her door.
He paused, pressing his palm against the wood for a heartbeat before pushing it open.
Clara sat curled in the chair by the desk, one of the history books open in her lap. Her hair spilled loose over her shoulders, catching the lamplight, her eyes fixed on the page until the sound of the door made her look up.
She blinked, startled, then straightened. “You again.”
The faintest corner of his mouth curved. “Disappointed?”
“Surprised,” she said. Her fingers tightened around the book. “But not disappointed.”
He stepped into the room, his side twinging faintly, but the ache was dulled by something else entirely when her gaze caught his. “I wanted to see how you were. And whether you liked the books.”
Her lips curved, a small, reluctant smile that tugged at something in his chest. “They’re good choices. Though I suspect they aren’t from the library.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “They’re mine. I thought you’d prefer them to the standard issue.”
She traced the edge of the page with one finger. “You thought right.”
The silence between them hummed, warm and taut. He cleared his throat, gesturing toward the door. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
