Page 17 of The Shadow Code (Heroes of War #3)

Her chest tightened. She’d sensed something – off-kilter conversations, Jack’s reluctance to share too much. But hearing it spoken so plainly chilled her. ‘What are they after?’

He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. ‘Your father’s name was flagged, not from Whitehall. From Berlin.’

Ellie froze. ‘What do you mean?’

He leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘There’s chatter. Someone over there is asking questions about his work.’

She swallowed. ‘He’s a physicist. He’s always had government contracts.’

‘It’s not just contracts.’ His tone sharpened. ‘Your father’s not some anonymous technician. You know that, even if you don’t know the details.’

She sat back, rattled. ‘Then tell me.’

‘I can’t.’ Jack shook his head. ‘Not fully. Some of it is need-to-know, and frankly, you don’t. But I will say this. Your father’s involved in something sensitive. Military applications. And recently, a delegation went to America with certain developments, and his name was attached to the project.’

Her pulse quickened. ‘The Tizard Mission?’

He cast her a look that said: You’re clever. Connect the dots, and her breath caught. ‘You think they’re interested in him?’

He nodded slowly. ‘Anyone with access to that kind of knowledge is a potential target. The enemy’s hungry for intel, and they’ll steal whatever they can’t build themselves.’ He paused, his voice tightening. ‘And right now, your father’s name is on a list it shouldn’t be on.’

The words sat heavy in the air around them.

Ellie thought of how her father – brilliant, remote, endlessly occupied – had always been part of the war effort in some way.

She’d grown up with the silences, the locked briefcase, the nights he never came home.

But this was different. This wasn’t duty, it was danger.

She swallowed, her mouth dry. He probably wouldn’t even know if he was being watched or followed.

A cold thread of unease wound through her.

All her instincts prickled to life, the same ones that had flared when Sinclair disappeared, when the truth had turned out to be far darker than she’d imagined.

Lies always came dressed in logic. And now, the war’s theatre was pulling her in again, whether she liked it or not.

She looked up at Jack. ‘Why are you telling me this now?’

His gaze held hers. ‘Because you’re already in it. And I need someone I can trust.’

For a moment she couldn’t speak. MI5 was compromised.

Jack had admitted as much. But if she wanted the truth, she couldn’t rely on anyone else to give it to her.

He blew out a breath and ruffled his hair with his hand, shaking loose a fine cloud of plaster dust. The movement was casual, but his eyes stayed on her, steady and clear.

He trusted her. She hadn’t expected that.

And yet here they were, bruised and bone tired, the city in ruins around them …

and she was the one he’d chosen to confide in.

Ellie coughed against the dust coating her throat, blinking grit from her lashes as she pushed herself upright. The alley was still intact, but beyond it the street was barely recognisable; buildings torn open, windows blown out, bricks and debris scattered like broken ribs and teeth.

‘Come on,’ He said. ‘My place is nearby. We can get cleaned up.’

Too exhausted to argue, she followed him through the darkened streets in silence, past bombed-out buildings and the hissing glow of distant fires, firemen’s voices echoing all around. As they reached Jack’s street, the sirens began to fade, the final notes echoing like ghosts across the rooftops.

His house sat in a quiet terrace on Buckingham Place, one of the neat Georgian rows tucked behind the chaos, with a polished black door and iron railings.

The kind of house Ellie imagined had once belonged to lawyers or politicians.

He unlocked it quickly, glancing over his shoulder before ushering her inside.

The blackout curtains were already drawn.

It was pitch dark until he clicked on a brass lamp in the hallway, which cast a warm amber glow across high ceilings and dark-wood floors.

A chandelier hung above them, crystal catching the light, war-worn but still elegant.

Not what she expected from a bachelor flat. Not at all.

In the sitting room, another lamp flickered to life. Ash spilled from the grate within the marble fire surround, the faint smell of coal smoke lingering in the air.

Jack gestured to the armchair. ‘Sit. I’ll get the first-aid tin.’

Ellie sank into the emerald velvet wingback chair, the plump cushions a welcome relief for her aching limbs. He soon returned with additional supplies – a bottle of whisky and two glasses.

‘For shock and disinfection, if you’re brave.’

A faint smile touched her lips.

He poured the drinks, then twisted the top off the tin. ‘I’ll need to clean your shoulder.’

‘Can you get to it?’

‘I think you’ll have to take your blouse off.’ He cleared his throat, a flush creeping up his neck. ‘I’ll get you a towel.’

Ellie’s fingers fumbled at the buttons, suddenly clumsy. When he returned, she caught the way his eyes lingered for a fraction too long before he quickly looked away, colour deepening across his cheekbones.

‘I can turn my back,’ he offered, his voice gentler now. He was already moving towards the window, giving her space.

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The air between them felt charged, electric with unspoken desire.

When she gave him permission to turn around, she saw his careful control and the way he kept his eyes rigidly fixed on her wound.

But she noticed how his hands shook slightly as he reached for the antiseptic, the deliberate way he avoided looking at anything but the cut on her arm.

He knelt beside her chair, and the moment his fingers brushed her skin, electricity zipped through her.

When the cloth touched her wound, she flinched – not from pain, but from the unexpected intimacy of it.

His touch was steady and warm, gentle in a way that made her chest tighten.

A memory broke through unbidden: Sinclair’s touch. Softer. More practised. A different kind of warmth. One that had turned to ice the moment she learned the truth.

‘You’re trembling,’ she whispered, watching his hands.

Jack paused, cloth hovering above the cut. ‘So are you.’

Their eyes met, and the confession hung between them like a challenge. She was trembling, and had been since the moment he’d pulled her close in the pub. He resumed his work, and she found herself leaning slightly into his touch without meaning to, drawn by the warmth radiating from his skin.

‘There,’ he said finally, securing the bandage. But he didn’t move away immediately. She could feel the heat of his palms still resting lightly on her shoulders, his thumbs moving in small, unconscious circles that made her breath catch.

She looked up at him, lips slightly parted and his eyes darkened, his gaze dropping to her mouth for a moment before he seemed to catch himself.

‘Here,’ he said abruptly, reaching for the blanket, movements suddenly brusque. ‘You look cold.’ But as he settled the blanket around her shoulders, his fingers lingered at the nape of her neck, with a whisper-soft touch that made her shiver for reasons that had nothing to do with cold.

***

Soon after, he took the wing chair opposite her, cradling his drink. For a long moment, neither spoke.

‘You scared me tonight,’ Jack said at last, his voice stripped of its usual steel.

‘When that beam came down … I thought I was going to lose you before I’d even—’ He broke off, running a hand through his hair.

Christ, I’m making a mess of this. But the sight of her lying there in the wreckage, blood on her temple, had shattered defences inside him that he hadn’t even known were fragile.

‘Before you’d even what?’ she asked softly.

He met her eyes and felt his carefully constructed walls crumble. In the lamplight, with her hair mussed and that stubborn tilt to her chin, even when she was injured, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And the most dangerous to every defence he’d built around his heart.

‘Before I’d told you that you’re the only person I trust anymore,’ he said quietly.

‘The only one who …’ He shook his head, frustrated with his own inability to find the right words.

‘Christ, Ellie. In this whole bloody war, with everyone lying and scheming and betraying each other, you’re the only real thing left. ’

The words hung between them, more intimate than any touch.

‘Jack—’

‘I know,’ he said quickly, before she could finish what might be a gentle rejection. ‘I know this isn’t the time, or the place or even smart, given everything that’s happening. But I needed you to know. If anything happens to me, if I don’t make it through this—’

‘Don’t.’ The sharpness in her voice surprised him. ‘Don’t you dare talk like that.’

‘Why?’ The question came out barely above a whisper, showing him to be vulnerable in a way that would have embarrassed him with anyone else. ‘Would it matter to you?’

She stared at him for a long moment, and he felt as though she could see straight through him, past the careful agent, past the practised charm, to the man underneath who couldn’t bear the thought of losing her before they’d even begun.

‘You know it would,’ she said finally.

The simple honesty of her words almost undid him and relief washed over him, followed immediately by desire, fiercer and more dangerous. He leaned forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in her eyes, close enough that it would take nothing at all to close the distance between them.

‘Then be careful,’ he said quietly. ‘I need you safe.’

He heard the catch of her breath, saw the flicker of uncertainty cross her face. For a moment he thought she might she might reach for him. But then her hands tightened around her glass, knuckles white, and he knew she was pulling back.