Her brows lifted. “What kind of something?”
“You’ll see.”
She studied him for a moment, weighing trust against caution. Then, with a sigh, she closed the book and set it aside. “All right.”
He stepped back to give her space, letting her move first. The faint scent of old paper and citrus shampoo lingered in the air as she brushed past him, and his pulse picked up in a way he hadn’t expected.
The walk to his tech room was short, the corridors quiet except for the hum of power through the walls. The team were all off searching, hunting, gathering information, leaving the compound quiet. When he opened the door, the glow of screens washed over them, painting the room in soft blues and greens. Rows of monitors covered the far wall, keyboards and servers humming faintly.
Clara froze just inside the threshold, her eyes widening. “Good Lord,” she breathed. “What is this? It looks like NASA or something.”
He moved to the centre console, his hands brushing over the familiar keys. “This,” he said quietly, “is where I work. Where I see everything. Where I keep us safe.”
Her gaze flicked to him, then back to the screens, wonder and unease mingling in her expression. “And now me too?”
He met her eyes, steady. “Especially you.”
Chapter 13
The tech roompulsed with light, screens painting the walls in shifting blues and greens, their glow soft against the darkness. The air was warm with the hum of machines, the faint ozone tang of electronics. Watchdog’s hands hovered over the keys, the familiar rhythm grounding him even as Clara stood just inside the threshold, rigid as though afraid to step further.
He kept his voice even. “Come closer.”
She hesitated, then crossed the floor in slow, measured steps. Her eyes darted from monitor to monitor, taking in the scrolling lines of code, the webs of connections, the still frames frozen from surveillance feeds.
Her breath left her in a small rush. “This looks like something out of a film.”
“It’s not fiction,” he said quietly. “This is how I see the world. The threads no one else looks for. The things people miss.”
She turned to him, her arms folding across her chest. “And this is supposed to convince me of what, exactly?”
He tapped a key. Oliver Grant’s face filled one screen, a formal photograph taken from an MI5 press release. Next to it, a cascade of images appeared, blurred shots of meetings intucked-away cafés, men with hard eyes and military postures. Transactions logged, account numbers, trails that twisted across the globe.
“Tell me what you see,” Watchdog said.
Her chin lifted. “I see my fiancé doing his job. Meeting contacts. You’ve taken things out of context.”
“Context,” he echoed softly. He clicked again, pulling up a series of text exchanges, messages between Oliver and one of the men tied to Hansen’s network. The language was veiled but unmistakable, numbers and shipments disguised as casual notes. “Read.”
Her face paled as her eyes flicked over the screen. “This could be anything. You’re twisting it.”
“Am I?” He didn’t raise his voice, didn’t press. He simply slid another feed into view, Oliver leaving a private club, shaking hands with a man Clara would recognise instantly. One of the men from the van outside her flat.
He could see she recognised the man, saw it in the way her hand tightened on the edge of the console.
“No,” she whispered. “That’s…that’s not possible.”
Watchdog turned to face her fully, keeping his voice low, almost gentle. “When you think of him, what do you feel?”
Her eyes flashed. “That’s not fair.”
“Answer me.”
She swallowed, her throat tight. “I feel…safe. Or I used to.” Her voice cracked. “But I thought I knew him.”
“You knew the version he wanted you to see.”
He watched her hands curl into fists, nails biting her palms. She shook her head, stepping back. “You expect me to just believe this? On your word? After you dragged me from my home?”
