Page 89 of Undercover Infidel

“I never properly thanked you,” I said as we paused before the massive fireplace.

“For what?”

“For trusting me. From that first night when you showed me your family archives until now.” I gestured around us. “You’ve shared everything—your home, your work, your life.”

Con pulled me closer, his arms encircling my waist. “It was the easiest decision I’ve ever made. And the best.”

I leaned into him, savoring the solidity of his presence. “Even if it means following McLaren’s ghost?”

“Even then.” Con’s expression grew serious. “No one from your past or mine will come between what we’ve built here.”

As dusk settledover the Highland landscape, we remained in the Great Hall, planning our role in thesearch for Nightingale. The castle around us felt more alive than ever—not just with history but with purpose. My life before Blackmoor seemed distant now, as though I’d spent years preparing for a place I hadn’t known existed.

I twisted the engagement ring on my finger, marveling at how quickly it had become a part of me. “Do you think we’ll find her?”

“Nightingale?” Con considered. “Tag won’t stop until he does.”

“And McLaren?”

His fingertip traced patterns on my palm. “Some questions remain unanswered. Some people choose to stay in the shadows.”

“Like Kestrel?”

He nodded. “Those shadows serve a purpose too.”

I pressed my palm against the cool stone wall, feeling the centuries of history beneath my fingertips. Con joined me at the window, his reflection appearing beside mine in the glass. Two people transformed by danger and trust, bound by something few would ever understand.

Rain drummedagainst leaded windows in a London townhouse as twilight descended. In the wood-paneled study, a solitary figure bent over an ancient tome laid open on a mahogany desk. Fingers traced the brittle parchment, where elaborate ink drawings depicted the underground passages beneath the Scottish Highlands.

The leather-bound volume—its spine cracked with age, its pages yellowed by centuries—contained secrets few still remembered. Maps of tunnel networks that ran beneath three Highland estates: Blackmoor, Glenshadow, and Ashcroft.

The figure paused at a section where the tunnels converged, forming what appeared to be a chamber deep underground. A notation in faded ink marked the spot with a symbol that resembled an ouroboros—a serpent consuming its own tail.

The sharp trill of a mobile phone broke the silence.

The figure lifted it without checking the display. “Yes?” The voice was low, measured, revealing neither gender nor emotion.

A muffled voice responded on the other end.

“Yes, it was terribly unfortunate. But we have contingencies.” The figure turned a page,revealing more detailed drawings of the tunnel entrances. “Your concern is noted, but the timeline remains unchanged.”

Another pause as the caller continued.

“I told you the tunnels are the key.” A hint of impatience crept into the otherwise controlled tone. “They always have been. We’ll begin phase two immediately.”

With a decisive movement, the figure closed the ancient book and slid it into a concealed compartment in the desk. Standing to extinguish the single lamp, the figure moved with the fluid grace of someone accustomed to operating in shadows.

In the last sliver of light before darkness claimed the room, a distinctive ring gleamed on one finger—a platinum band set with a black stone.

The light went out, leaving only questions in the darkness.