Oliver’s book sat on the nightstand, its spine cracked at page one hundred forty-six. I remembered him readingit, propped against the headboard while Ophelia dozed on his shoulder, his free hand absently stroking her hair. My hand on his thigh. The three of us breathing together in the space that had become ours for far too short a time. He hadn’t thought to grab it when Callen arrived—none of us had been thinking clearly.
Through the open bathroom door, Ophelia’s hair tie lay coiled on the counter, dark strands still caught in the elastic. And her robe hung on the back of the door. Small things, forgotten in the rush to leave.
I couldn’t sleep here tonight. Couldn’t lie on sheets we’d shared and reach across the mattress to find only cold space where warm bodies should be.
They’d left pieces of themselves scattered around. Small things that would haunt me for months. But that I’d keep. Every time I entered this room, I would remember what it had held. What had been destroyed because of me. What I’d known would be, yet I risked it anyway.
Another vow broken. Never bring anyone to Greymarch. I’d held that line for years, only scening at the club, never allowing anyone in my private spaces.
Then two people arrived, and I shattered every boundary I’d built. If I’d kept my vow—if I’d never brought them here—those photos wouldn’t exist.
I walked out and closed the door behind me. Not sure when I might enter again. If ever. Millie could transfer my things to another room. To another part of the castle. She wouldn’t mind. In fact, she’d prefer it.
I’d spentthe hours since the helicopter departed turning the question over and over. Who would want Oliver and Ophelia gone—specifically them, specifically from my life? Who would want to wound me in the most precise way possible?
That I couldn’t figure it out meant I was overlooking a crucial detail.
Callen arrivedat zero nine hundred.
I heard him before I saw him—the soft scrape of the hidden door behind the library bookcase, the creak of one of the tunnel passages that connected Greymarch to the network of Jacobite escape routes running beneath the Highlands. The hidden entryways had been built three centuries ago, when my ancestors needed ways to travel undetected. If only I could escape the nightmare of what sat before me now.
Callen emerged from behind the shelving unit. There were shadows under his eyes and tension in his shoulders that spoke of too little sleep.
“You look like hell,” he said in greeting.
“Thank you for the observation.”
He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a whiskey without asking. That was his right. Callen was my best friend in the world, closer than a brother. The last few hours had proven that more than any other time in my life. Except once. I shoved those memories down before they could surface.
“Rafe rang from Glasgow.” He turned to face me, glass in hand. “Said they were wrecked when he left.”
“They’re alive and safe. That’s what matters.”
“Is it?” He took a long swallow of whiskey. “Because from where I’m standing, you nuked a relationship that was actually making you human again.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Kier. What in the bloody hell happened?”
I crossed to the desk and unlocked the bottom drawer. The manila envelope sat where I’d left it, thick with its poisonous contents. I reached for it, then dropped it in front of him.
“This.”
Callen set down his glass and reached for it. His face shifted as he sorted through the contents—going still when he came to the exterior shots, his jaw tightening as he recognized the angles. Then his expression went flat at the club photos.
“These were taken over the last couple of days.” His voice was controlled. That of an operative assessing a threat. “But whoever sent these has been watching you far longer.”
“Yes.”
“The shots from outside were taken from the tree line.” He held up one of the photos, studying it with narrowed eyes. “Long lens. Six hundred millimeters, maybe better. High-end surveillance gear.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Maybe. If they bought or rented locally.” He set that photo aside and picked up another. “This one’s from outside the dining room. Clear line of sight through the windows. They knew your routines. Knew when you’d be in that room, where you’d sit.”
Someone had seen us sharing meals, falling into a connection that felt like hope. They’d captured those moments and turned them into weapons.
Callen picked up the note and read it more than once, his expression hardening with each pass.
