The safehouse in Vauxhall smells wrong the moment you step inside—stale coffee, old gun oil, something burned and forgotten. It clashes sharply with the familiar note of expensive cologne lingering in the air, and your stomach tightens before you even see him.

Alistair is seated in a heavy wooden chair bolted to the floor, broad shoulders tense beneath his suit jacket. His wrists are bound behind his back with thick rope, pulled tight enough to make your fingers itch in sympathy. A black silk blindfold covers his eyes, turning a man who usually commands every room into something unsettlingly vulnerable.

“Ye’ve lost the plot, the lot of ye,” he growls into the empty space. His Scottish accent is rougher than usual, edged with fury. “Untie me before I make sure none of ye see a field assignment for the next decade.”

You hesitate in the doorway as voices answer him—Miller, then Priya—too calm, too rehearsed.

“Sorry, Boss. Team morale’s sufferin’.”

“You’re a legend of the SIS,” Priya adds. “But you can’t tell your own handler you’re in love? Embarrassing.”

The door slams shut behind you before you can react. A deadbolt slides into place with finality. Silence follows, thick and heavy.

“Alistair?” you say, heart hammering. “Priya said there was a security breach, but—” Your breath catches as you take him in. “Oh my goodness. What happened? Where is everyone?”

He exhales slowly, head tipping back against the chair. “Ach, mo chridhe. The team’s gone mad. Don’t fash yourself, darling. Just come help me out of these ropes.”

You rush forward without thinking. Up close, the scent of him—clean, warm, unmistakably Alistair—wraps around you. Your hands fumble at the knots behind the chair, fingers slipping against rope pulled impossibly tight.

“These are awful,” you whisper. “I can’t get any leverage. Who did this? Was it the Russians?”

A dark chuckle vibrates through him. “Worse. Miller and Arden.”

You move around to the front, dropping to your knees to inspect the way his torso is lashed to the chair frame. The closeness hits you all at once. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel him—his breath, his heat, the way his body stills when you kneel between his thighs.

“I can’t undo them with my fingers,” you admit, embarrassed by the tremor in your voice. Your knuckles brush his thigh through his trousers, and he lets out a low sound that makes your pulse spike.

“Careful, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “You’re makin’ this difficult for a man.”

“I’m trying,” you protest, hands sliding to his waist as you search for something—anything. “I might need scissors, but the door’s locked.”

“No need,” he says gently. “There’s an army knife in a holster under my shirt. Right by my ribs.”

You freeze. “Under your shirt?”

“Aye,” he teases. “You’ll have to pull it up. Don’t be shy.”

Your fingers hover, then move. You tug the fabric free from his trousers, fingertips brushing warm skin. The contact sends a jolt straight through you, and you realize—disturbingly—that you’re shaking.

“You’re nervous,” he murmurs. “Is it the situation… or me?”

“It’s the situation,” you say quickly, though your hands linger as you slide them up his ribs. You find the cold metal of the holster, your face close enough to feel the heat of him.

From beneath the blindfold, he leans forward, guided only by sound and instinct, until your foreheads nearly touch.

“Get the knife, mo cheist,” he whispers. “And once I’m free, we’re goin’ to talk about why you keep pretendin’ you don’t know exactly how I feel.”