After a not so success plan—Thatcher hadn’t left your side. You’d been kidnap and tortured, but you had the information needed. Yet, none of that seemed to matter to Thatcher as the others dragged you out of the chaos.

The look in his eyes when he found you was something you would never forget. Fury—cold, calculating, and terrifying—had burned there, sharp enough to cut. You could’ve sworn you heard him threaten Alistair if you weren’t ok.

He took you back to his house without a word, guiding you in silence, his jaw tight, his movements precise. He set up a room for you, leaving fresh clothes and supplies on the bed. You told yourself it didn’t matter—this was Thatcher, after all—but you couldn’t ignore the way his eyes occasionally lingered on you, sharp and assessing, as if he were trying to hold back something darker.

When he finally turned to you in the quiet of the room, his voice was clipped and cold. “I can’t believe you thought that was a good idea,” he said, not even sparing you a glance as he rummaged through a drawer for towels and other necessities.

You say anything, shifting slightly on the bed, but the sharp pain in your abdomen made you wince. That caught his attention immediately. He spun to face you, his sharp eyes narrowing as his jaw clenched.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, his voice like steel, but the hostility from earlier was gone. He crossed the room in two strides, his gaze flickering over your injuries.

“Up,” he commanded, his tone softer but still firm. “Let me see.” You hesitated, but the intensity in his stare left no room for argument. Slowly, you lifted your shirt, revealing the deep bruises marring your skin. His eyes darkened, the faintest flicker of anger flashing across his face as he reached for the hem.

“Stay here,” he said, his voice low but firm, a dangerous edge still lingering beneath the surface.

And then he was gone, leaving you to wonder if the flicker of care in his touch was real—or just another illusion crafted by the man who haunted your every thought.