For a long moment, Bás studied him, the silence stretching taut. Then he gave a single short nod, stepping back.
Watchdog looked at Clara. She was watching him with wide eyes, uncertainty flickering there, but also something warmer,softer. A tentative smile touched her lips, small but enough to crack something open in his chest again.
The van rumbled as it rolled out of the mountain, onto narrow country lanes. Darkness pressed against the windows, the Black Mountains rising in shadowed silhouette. The world beyond their hidden stronghold felt vast, dangerous, and yet, beside him, Clara shifted slightly, close enough he could feel her warmth.
Tomorrow she would see Lena.
Tonight, she was his responsibility.
And though the truth of that should have weighed him down, it lodged in his chest like something steady, something unshakable. Something he wasn’t sure he wanted to let go of.
Chapter 18
The exchangebetween Watchdog and Bás replayed in her mind long after they’d left the vehicle bay.
She’s yours. Your responsibility.
Clara had expected Watchdog to flinch under the weight of it, to deny it. But instead, he had met Bás’s stare without wavering, his voice low, steady.I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The words sat heavy in her chest now as the van rattled along narrow lanes, hedgerows brushing the sides. She couldn’t make sense of it, why he’d defended her so fiercely, why his refusal to put that hood over her head had felt like…something more than principle.
Her fingers curled into her borrowed coat. The warmth of his hand on her wrist still lingered, phantom and unsettling.
When the van pulled up outside the pub, she forgot her confusion for a moment.
The building was everything a country pub should be: stone walls, low beams, crooked windows glowing with golden light. Smoke curled from the chimney, the smell of woodsmoke and roasted meat drifting on the cold night air. A painted sign swungabove the door, its lettering faded with age, hops and ivy woven around the post.
Inside, the warmth wrapped around her instantly. The ceiling was low, oak beams heavy and dark with centuries of use. A fire roared in the hearth, flames crackling, casting a flicker of orange light across polished brass taps behind the bar. The air smelled of ale, wood polish, and something rich, stew maybe, or a roast.
The place was crowded but cosy. Locals leaned on the bar, pints in hand, laughing over the hum of conversation. A group of older men sat near the fire, their flat caps tipped back as they argued about rugby. A woman in a thick cardigan carried plates piled high with food, moving between tables with a practised grace.
Clara’s lips curved despite herself. It was so ordinary. So wonderfully, beautifully ordinary.
The team spilled in like they owned the place, greetings were called out by name from behind the bar. “Evening, Lotus!” “Reaper, same as usual?” “Good to see you, Hurricane. How’s the missus?”
Clara blinked. They weren’t strangers here. They were part of the fabric.
She stuck close to Watchdog, nerves prickling as the room seemed to tilt toward her, curious eyes following. He moved easily through it, calm and unreadable, his bulk clearing space as if people instinctively gave it to him.
When they reached the bar, he placed a hand lightly on her hip, nudging her forward.
The touch was brief, almost impersonal, a simple gesture to shift her into place. But her body reacted anyway, heat blooming under his palm, her breath catching.
She shouldn’t like it. She shouldn’t like how steady it felt, how natural, as though she belonged there in front of him, shielded by his presence.
But she did.
The barman, broad, ruddy-faced, with forearms like tree trunks, smiled at her. “Haven’t seen you before, love. What’ll it be?”
She hesitated, glancing back at Watchdog. He gave the faintest nod, his eyes steady on hers, and it was enough.
“A Bulmer’s Original, please,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt.
The barman winked. “Good choice. Best in Herefordshire.”
She felt Watchdog’s hand linger a beat longer at her hip before he withdrew, his warmth fading, leaving her with a shiver she couldn’t quite blame on the cold.
The barman slid her cider across the worn wooden bar, froth catching in the dim light. Watchdog paid without hesitation, his big hand closing over the note like it was nothing. She murmured a thank-you, but he only nodded, as though it wasn’t worth mentioning.
