“Ready?” I asked.
Oliver dipped his chin, wincing at the motion. “Thank you for this. I know it’s…”
“You need somewhere to recover. I have the space.”
We walked through the corridors together: Oliver under his own power but slower than normal, Ophelia close enough to help if necessary, and me leading the way.
Oliver paused at the hospital exit, squinting against the daylight.
“Light sensitivity,” Ophelia murmured as he leaned on her.
I stepped to his other side on instinct, and together, we guided him to the car. His weight was heavy on myshoulder, sending protective, possessive desire flooding through my system.
I helped him into the rear passenger seat, and Ophelia climbed in beside him.
It tookfour hours to get to Greymarch. Oliver dozed within minutes, his body still weak from the battle it had waged to ward off infection. Ophelia sat beside him with her hand resting near his on the leather upholstery.
Every mile I traveled brought them closer to the world I had kept separate from everything else, and the walls of my constructed life cracked.
Did they sense, as I did, that everything was about to change? Or worse, that I was about to destroy them both?
2
OPHELIA
Oliver’s head rested on my shoulder as the Range Rover wound through the Scottish Highlands. His breathing had steadied out twenty minutes ago in a way it had not been during the first week after the attack. My hand stayed on his wrist, monitoring his pulse out of habit. Two weeks of sitting by his bedside had made me hypervigilant. I registered every change in his respiration and every shift in his color.
The head injury he’d sustained in the attack had nearly killed him. The worst was behind us now, but the memory of those terrifying first days lingered.
He’d survived. He was here. That should have been enough.
The doctors had insisted he have around-the-clock care, then return to Glasgow for clearance to resume normal activities. While the timeline should have relieved me, that I was headed to a place where I’d be responsiblefor making sure Oliver’s recovery progressed as it should filled me with trepidation.
I’d spent six months fighting my attraction to him, pretending I didn’t want him. How could I continue to do so with renewed forced proximity? Then again, wouldn’t it be harder when he was cleared for work and we returned to Vauxhall Cross? Who knew how often I’d see him then.
I glanced at Archon as he drove. His dark hair was shorter than during the Labyrinth investigation, close-cropped in a way that emphasized the strong column of his neck. His posture had changed too. His shoulders were set and his jaw firm. Nothing about him was relaxed now, not like the understated operative who delivered intelligence and managed logistics without drawing notice.
He’d been a steady presence during Oliver’s hospitalization. Twice during the worst of it, he’d driven four hours from where he lived to sit beside me in Oliver’s room. We’d spent hours, waiting for test results, for any sign of improvement. Archon had brought me coffee without asking, sat close enough that our shoulders touched, and while he’d said little, he stayed.
I was grateful enough that I hadn’t questioned why he’d make that drive. Grateful enough that I’d let my guard down in ways I shouldn’t have with a colleague.
He navigated the roads without checking the GPS once, taking turns before the signs appeared and slowing for curves before they came into view. What else had I missed about him during the surveillance op?
The landscape shifted as we traveled north. Rolling farmland gave way to rougher terrain, and green fields were replaced by brown moorland that stretched to the horizon.
He slowed when we arrived at a set of iron gates mounted on ancient stone pillars. As he drove the Range Rover through, the name carved into the weathered surface became visible—Greymarch.
The castle rose from the ground like it had grown from the land itself. The pale stone tones and leaden-sky backdrop were so similar to it, the building seemed to merge with the clouds. The battlements on the twin towers spoke of a time when this place had needed to repel invaders. This wasn’t an estate meant to impress visitors with its grandeur. This was a fortress.
Another structure rose beyond it, across a stretch of wild land, and my heart stuttered.Dunravin—the estate where I’d spent thirty-six hours on surveillance with Archon. Every window, approach, and blind spot in its security was mapped in my memory. The guest cottage, a small stone building tucked near the tree line where we’d set up our monitoring equipment, was visible from here.
“Where are we?” I asked as the vehicle slowed on the gravel drive.
“Greymarch. My family’s estate.”
“You never indicated…” I began, unsure what to say that wouldn’t come across as an accusation.
His hands tightened on the wheel. “I did not.”
