Scones and Secrets:
A Brewing Storm in the Safehouse
When the Major shows up at the safehouse, a storm brews between the alphas, everyone seems to harbour a secret, and Pam saves the day with scones.
Sean and Malik had finished bolting the new Sage Oracle Jet into place well after midnight, tipsy on adrenaline and flat-pack instructions.
Next morning, Dar was about to run the machine on its maiden voyage—beans in, porta filter locked—when a brisk knock sounded at the door. It was too polite for Rhys, too restrained for Pam.
She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and crossed the kitchen before Twigs could stage a counteroffensive on the new appliance.
When she swung the door open, Callum Stroud stood on the porch. Tall and composed in field-casual black, he wore no insignia and no bravado. He tucked his hands into his vest pockets, squaring his shoulders against the morning chill.
His deep blue eyes flicked across her face, then past her into the room, cataloguing details with clinical efficiency. The scar on his cheek caught the light as he offered a small, almost imperceptible nod—maybe a smile, maybe professional courtesy.
“Ms. Montgomery. Good morning,” he spoke, low, precise. “Major Callum Stroud. Task Force liaison. I didn’t intend to surprise you—just thought I’d check in after the other day.”
He stayed planted on the welcome mat, weight balanced.
Dar blinked, hand on the doorframe. “Right. The liaison. You’re earlier than anyone warned me.”
She stepped back, admitting him. Her stockinged feet curled against the cool wood. Her faded jeans and white tank top suddenly felt underdressed, so she grabbed a blue sweater from the foyer as the coffee machine hissed from the other room.
“Coffee’s almost ready. Want some, or is this a pop-in for…paperwork?”
Callum’s gaze followed the sweater pull, then back to her eyes—no judgment, just observation. He dipped his chin. “Coffee would be nice.”
He crossed the threshold only when she moved aside. The room smelled of fresh pine and citrus cleaner. His eyes swept the layout: couch aligned for sightlines, windows with decent cover, no obvious entry points. Twigs watched him warily from the stairs like a skeptical commanding officer.
“Didn’t mean to ambush you. Veyr prefers it that way.” His tone was unapologetic. “She asked me to look over your comms setup.”
Her stomach sank. Really? “My office. Of course. You’d better come in before Twigs files a complaint.”
The cat trotted down to the foyer, chirping in perfect agreement, tail high as she sauntered past Stroud’s boots. Dar led him through the dining room, past a stack of empty flat-pack furniture boxes—to her office just off the kitchen.
The door stood ajar, morning light slicing across her desk. “Fair warning: it’s less command centre and more chaos theory in practice.”
Callum paused at the doorway, scanning the compact comms setup with the detachment of a surgeon. He stepped inside, ran a finger along the desk’s edge.
“You’ve done well. Minimal reflection points, no exterior Wi-Fi bleed, biometric lock untampered. You didn’t need my help.”
His gaze snagged on something tucked beside the monitor—a worn leather notebook, edges softened by years of handling: Moleskine. Professional. The kind analysts carried into briefings. He’d seen dozens like it in Langley, MI6, CSIS. Callum didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. It sat open to a page dense with handwritten notes—not the chaotic scrawl of someone rushing through lectures, but precise, methodical annotations. Margin notes in two colours. Cross-references. The kind of discipline that didn’t come from a semester abroad or a corporate training program. It came from years of building frameworks, testing hypotheses, living inside data until patterns emerged like constellations.
Beside it, half-hidden beneath a stack of printed reports, was a laminated ID badge on a lanyard. He could just make out part of the logo: Department of … Her photo was younger—sharper angles, less guarded eyes—but unmistakably her.
He straightened, filing the information away with the same efficiency he’d used to assess her comms setup.
Dar Montgomery hadn’t just worked in intelligence—she architected the tools others used to do it.
And now she was here. With a cat and a life in limbo for the past five years.
What the hell did you see, Montgomery?
Dar folded her arms. “Then why send you?”
He looked up, with the ghost of a grin flitting across his face. “Insurance. Veyr likes to confirm that the people she trusts are still… trustable. And I wanted to see how you were settling in.”
And I thought this was official business, Dar noted silently. “She could’ve just called.”
Callum’s shoulders lifted a fraction—half a shrug, half an admission. His eyes stayed on hers, steady. “She did.” He nodded at the sleek black comms tablet on her desk. “Through that. But I figured you might want a face instead of a voicemail.”
Dar arched an eyebrow. “Does everyone in this program know when I’m being summoned?”
“Only the ones assigned to protect you.” His gaze drifted to the window, then back. “Veyr keeps the circle tight. But yeah—when that thing lights up, someone’s watching. Doesn’t mean you’re monitored—just accounted for. It’s not personal; it’s protocol.”
The words landed like a stone.
Dar turned back toward the kitchen and motioned him forward. “I’ve been protecting myself since long before Veyr’s protocols. But I get it. You’re here, you’ve confirmed.” Better you than her. “Coffee machine is probably ready.”
She made two mugs of black coffee and set his on the counter. “So. You’ve done your sweep, delivered your face—what’s the real reason you’re here at zero-nine-oh-six on a Monday?”
Callum picked up the mug, testing its weight. “Zero-nine-oh-six is late for me. I’ve already run six klicks, filed two sit-reps, and watched a kid nearly face-plant off a scooter.” He sipped. “Hot. Good beans. Actual reason? Just to meet you. Make sure you were alright. Veyr didn’t send me for that.” He looked directly at her without wavering. “I came on my own.”
It was silent for a minute, except for the espresso machine’s occasional gurgle.
Dar leaned on the counter, mug cradled in both hands, watching steam soften his features and thought, There’s more to this man than what I’ve been told.
“You could’ve just said so.” Tilting her head, gaze narrowed sufficiently to let him feel the edge. “No need to dress it up in perimeter checks and comms audits.”
He didn’t shy away, held her gaze steady, like he was reading windage on a scope. “Old habits.” He leaned a hip against the counter. “I don’t walk into a room without knowing how to get out. Doesn’t matter whose house it is. Next time I’ll knock: ‘Morning, Dar, just here to see if you’re still standing.’ If you want me to.”
Next time? If I…
Before Dar could answer, the front door slammed—Logan’s trademark.
“Montgomery!” Ward called from the entry hall, boots announcing their advancement. “Heard you were handing out caffeine. Brought reinforcement.”
Dar stepped aside just as Rhys caught sight of Stroud.
Calder remained in the doorway, voice neutral. “Major.” While his eyes assessed the distance between Stroud and Dar, his face hid his irritation at Callum’s presence. “Morning, Dar. Thought I’d verify the intel before Logan here starts a one-man caffeine shortage.”
Logan’s gaze swept the kitchen—Stroud’s relaxed posture against the counter, the mug in his hand, the way Dar stood just a fraction closer than professional courtesy required. He caught Calder’s eye for half a second. An understanding passed between them, wordless and immediate: We don’t know him well enough yet.
“Coffee’s still hot,” Dar offered, moving toward the machine, but Logan noticed how Stroud tracked her movement, subtle but deliberate. “Major Stroud was just checking my office for… comm security.”
Calder stepped fully into the kitchen, claiming space. “Appreciate the security sweep, Major. Though I’m curious—” He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make it pointed. “—what prompted it. Veyr didn’t mention sending anyone.” Rhys paused once more. ” She talks to me too. “And?”
Callum met Calder’s gaze head-on, voice level. “Secure. No leaks, no dead spots. Methodical.” He angled his body slightly, just enough to keep both Calder and Logan in his peripheral without turning his back on either. “Running a tighter setup than some FOBs I’ve seen.” He paused, adding faintly with amusement, “And better coffee.” Callum’s expression didn’t shift, but something in his eyes sharpened. “She didn’t send me.”
“Right. Personal initiative. Admirable.” Logan’s words landed with just enough weight to make it ambiguous—compliment or challenge, take your pick.
Dar glanced between them, reading the currents. Three operators, each measuring threat radius and intent. She’d seen this before—the careful dance of men who’d learned to trust slowly and question everything.
But this felt different. More personal.
“Gentlemen,” she said, voice cutting through the tension like a blade through silk. “If we’re going to have a pissing contest, take it outside. I just cleaned these floors.”
Logan’s mouth twitched. Calder’s shoulders dropped half an inch. Stroud’s eyes crinkled at the corners—not quite a smile, but close.
“Fair enough,” Callum said quietly. He pushed off the counter and set the mug in the sink. When he turned back, he addressed Calder directly. “I came because I wanted to. Not because I was ordered. If that’s a problem, say so now.”
The kitchen went still. Even the hum of the espresso machine seemed to fade.
Calder studied him for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, he nodded. “No problem. Long as we’re clear on priorities.”
“Crystal.” Callum’s voice was steady, but Dar caught the slight tension in his jaw. He knew what Calder meant: She comes first. Always.
Logan shifted his weight, arms crossing. “Good. Then we’re all on the same page.” He glanced at Dar, something protective flickering in his expression before he masked it. “Though next time, Major, maybe give us a heads-up before you start running security protocols. Keeps things… tidy.”
It wasn’t a request. It was a boundary drawn in sand but unmistakable.
Callum held Logan’s gaze, then Calder’s. “Noted.”
Dar felt the shift—the unspoken agreement settling into place. They’d circled each other, tested the perimeter, and found an uneasy equilibrium. Not trust, not yet. But acknowledgment. A temporary truce built on shared purpose, even if the details remained unspoken.
She’d remember this moment later, when the lines blurred and loyalties were tested. When she’d need to know who stood where, and why.
Logan stepped past Calder, boots heavy on the hardwood, sunglasses still in place as he moved to Dar’s left, positioning himself between her and Stroud without making it obvious.
Like a sudden burst of gunfire, Pam’s voice cut through the silent tension in the room. She entered, carrying a bakery box, the smell of cardamom knots clinging to her jumper, but she paused in the kitchen doorway, taking in the wall of broad shoulders and the crackle in the air. Oh! The new guy. Well… hello handsome!
“Christ on a cracker, did somebody spike the coffee with testosterone?” She stepped around Calder, nudged Logan’s elbow with the box. “Sunglasses off, Ward—unless you’ve gone vampire since yesterday.” After setting it on the side counter, she opened the package. “Fresh knots, cranberry scones, pecan babka. Dar, love, kettle on? These boys look like they need feeding more than measuring.”
Callum’s shoulders eased. He had stepped sideways to give Pam space to set the box down, and caught the warm drift of cardamom—sharp, familiar, like a market stall in Kandahar he hadn’t thought about in years.
“Morning, ma’am.” His voice was quiet, with a hint of amusement. “Didn’t realize the safehouse came with catering.” He took a knot, broke it in half, and offered the larger piece to Logan standing next to him.
Pam watched him split the knot with automatic courtesy—an old soldier’s habit—and something in her chest gave a little tug. She caught Dar’s eye: You alright, love? “Catering’s extra,” warm but with that whip-crack edge. “But I’ll waive the fee if you crack a smile before the scones cool.” She slipped past Logan, fingers brushing his wrist just long enough to feel the pulse jump. Still wound tight. Crikey, these men.
“Dar, what the hell is this?” as she spotted the new espresso machine.
The three men exchanged glances. Logan’s voice dropped, his lips barely moving as he leaned closer to Stroud. “Welcome to the madhouse, Major.”
Callum felt the rank ‘Major’ land like a hammer blow—he wasn’t here in any official capacity, and every repetition was a reminder of how thin the ice had become under his boots. He wiped a crumb from his thumb and nodded. “Pleasure, ma’am. Heard the scones are regulation-issue.” For a heartbeat, his lips formed an actual smile. “Consider that the fee paid.”
He felt Dar’s eyes on him; resisted the reflex to check Calder’s reaction. He rested against the doorframe, cleared space for the women, eyes scanning the room. Too many bodies, too many lines of loyalty crossing like tripwires.
The sweet knot sat heavy in his gut—he hadn’t eaten since the previous night’s run.
Pam drummed her fingers on the box lid. She watched Stroud’s half-smile disappear faster than a souffle in a drafty kitchen, and something predatory curled behind her ribs. “Regulation-issue?” She turned and unwrapped an almond croissant. She stepped closer, caught the faint bite of gun oil and cold wool clinging to his vest. Her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth where that smile had flickered—just a whisper of contact, gone before he could flinch. “Next time, Major, try these. They make even the stoic ones purr.”
She tossed a look at Logan. “Ward—sunglasses off, or I’ll feed yours to Twigs.”
When the pad of her thumb ghosted his lip before he could rock back; the contact lit a cold spark that ran the length of his spine. Callum held the breath, let it go slow through his nose—discipline over distraction. “Almond croissants noted, ma’am,” Callum met her gaze. Though he remained neutral, his eyes followed her every move.
When Logan finally peeled off his sunglasses, folding them with exaggerated care, Callum filed that action away as a tiny victory. He leaned toward Pam, voice low enough that only the women would catch it. “If that babka’s half as lethal as the company, I might need a medevac.”
Logan watched Pam’s thumb trace Stroud’s mouth—that casual, intimate gesture she did sometimes, the one that usually made him smirk—and something cold and unfamiliar twisted behind his sternum. He’d seen her flirt before. Hell, he’d encouraged it when it served a purpose. But watching Stroud’s eyes track her every movement, that careful military stillness giving way to something almost hungry, made Logan’s jaw tighten in a way that had nothing to do with operational security.
Bloody hell. He folded his sunglasses slower than necessary, buying time to shove whatever the fuck that was back into the box where it belonged.
He didn’t get territorial over people—especially not Pam, who’d gut him with a butter knife if he tried. But the tightness in his chest didn’t ease, and when Stroud leaned closer to her with that low comment about medevacs, Logan had the sudden, irrational urge to remind the Major exactly how many ways a former MI6 operative could make someone disappear.
He didn’t. But he wanted to. And that alone was enough to unsettle him more than he cared to admit.
Sean bounded down the stairs, stopping at the kitchen archway and folding his arms, surveying the room like it was the last hole at St Andrews—every player reading everyone else’s ‘tells’.
“Christ, it’s like a UN summit in here—only with more passive-aggression and fewer canapes.”
His eyes went to Dar first, checking the tightness around her eyes, the way she held her shoulders like she was bracing for impact. Then to Stroud: stiff as a flagpole, humour buried so deep it’d need C-4 to excavate. Logan looked ready to bite someone. Calder looked like he already had.
He sprang off the frame, strolled in like he owned the place.
“Scones, babka, and a side of geopolitical tension. Pam, you’ve outdone yourself.”
He snagged a pecan from the babka.
“How’s the new machine?”
He angled a grin toward Dar—soft around the edges, the way he used to when she’d nail a forty-foot putt.
Rhys shifted his weight, arms folded, eyes flicking from Stroud to Logan, then to Dar. “UN summit’s about right. Diplomats usually wait till after lunch to start measuring dicks.” He stepped closer to Dar, his shoulder almost brushing hers—close enough to make a point. In a low voice meant only for her, “You good?”
Dar’s fingers tightened around her mug. The room felt suddenly too small, too loud. She didn’t look at Calder when she answered, keeping her gaze on Sean as he coaxed out another perfect stream of espresso.
“I’m fine,” voice steady but with an edge. “Just didn’t expect a full house before noon. If anyone wants a proper cup, now’s the time.”
She crossed in front of Rhys and carried her mug into her office, Twigs trailing behind her as she closed the door.
Callum tracked Dar’s exit, the soft click of the office door settling in his ears like a round chambering. She’s rattled—too many alphas in the henhouse.
He sat, exhaled softly, and relieved his ankle, which he’d been feigning indifference to since yesterday’s long run. Pam reappeared with a plate of almond croissants. He bit into one, sweetness blooming. A genuine smile lingered. “Dangerous,” came out softly as he brushed a shard of almond from his scar. “Could get addicted.”
For the next half hour, chatter followed by laughter drifted into Dar’s office from the kitchen—Pam had even coaxed it out of Stroud.
Sean fiddled with the portafilter, tamping grounds with the precision of a man lining up a difficult putt. His eyes flicked between faces—Calder’s military stillness, Logan’s coiled tension, Stroud’s calculated friendliness—cataloging reactions while appearing absorbed in the mechanics of perfect crema.
Calder remained neutral, leaning on the counter, one hand holding a mug of coffee, watching Stroud interact with the others. Becoming friendly. Too friendly. Calder took a slow sip, letting the bitter warmth settle on his tongue as he studied the way Stroud’s shoulders had loosened, the way his usual guardedness had given way to something almost relaxed. Not that Calder didn’t want the man to fit in—hell, they needed cohesion if this was going to work—but there was something unsettling about how quickly Stroud was dropping his walls. People who adapted that fast either had nothing to hide or were very good at hiding everything. Calder couldn’t quite tell which category Stroud fell into yet, and that uncertainty gnawed at him more than he cared to admit.
Across the kitchen, Logan stood with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable as he watched Pam lean in to say something that made Stroud actually crack a smile. Logan had seen Pam work her magic before—she had a gift for disarming people, for making them feel like they’d known her for years within minutes of meeting her. It was one of her strengths, but watching her deploy it on Stroud pissed him off. Not jealousy, more like concern. Stroud was an unknown quantity, someone they’d brought in out of necessity rather than trust, and here was Pam treating him like an old friend. She was good at reading people, better than most, but even the best could be fooled. Logan hoped her instincts were right about this one. He hoped they all were.
The easy conversation wound down naturally, mugs being drained and set aside. Pam glanced at her watch and announced she needed to head back to the bakery—the noon rush would start soon—and she called out a quick ‘Bye Dar-ling!’ as she passed the closed office door. Sean and Logan followed her out of the kitchen, coaxing Rhys to come upstairs and see the paint and furniture in what used to be Zoe’s room.
As Calder was setting his mug down, he watched Stroud cross the floor toward Dar’s office door. The knock was quiet, respectful—two knuckles, nothing presumptuous. But it was the pause that followed that made something tighten in Calder’s chest. Stroud waited, patient as a sniper on overwatch, and when Dar’s voice came through—muffled but clear enough—the door opened without hesitation.
Stroud slipped inside. The door closed with a soft click.
Calder’s jaw flexed. He told himself it was operational awareness—keeping tabs on the new asset, monitoring team dynamics. But that was bullshit and he knew it. What bothered him was how easy it had been. How Stroud had sought her out without asking permission from anyone else in the house. How Dar had let him in, no questions, no deflection, just that quiet invitation across the threshold.
The closed door felt like a divider had been created.
She trusts him.
The thought landed harder than it should have. Calder had spent months earning Dar’s trust, reading her silences, learning when to push and when to give her space. And here was Stroud—forty-eight hours in—already granted access to the parts of her she kept locked down.
He exhaled slowly, forcing his shoulders to relax.
This wasn’t him. He didn’t do jealousy. Didn’t let personal shit cloud tactical judgment. But standing there, staring at that closed door, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was shifting—something he hadn’t accounted for and couldn’t control.
Stroud’s relationship with Dar was deepening. And it bothered him more than it had any right to.
He turned and headed upstairs.
When the knock came, Dar almost spilled her coffee before she responded.
Callum opened the door and slipped through, closing it gently behind him. His tone was soft, bordering on tender. “You’ll get used to this.”
Lose the ghosts in the noise, she thought. “Used to what?”
With his back against the door, palms flat on the wood, eyes sweeping the room, the books stacked neatly; the cat curled on the windowsill. “The noise. The chaos. The way they act like nothing touches them.” His tone softened. “It’s how they stay sane.”
She looked at him reflectively. “And you?”
The question hung between them, and Dar watched something flicker across his face—not quite vulnerability, but close. She’d spent years reading people, cataloging their tells, their defenses. Callum Stroud was a fortress. But fortresses had foundations, and sometimes you could feel the tremor in the stone.
He moved away from the door, taking two slow paces until he reached her desk. Near enough to see the tremor in her hand, far enough not to crowd.
“I run.” The confession slipped out before he could temper it. “Zero-three-thirty, no torch, no route—just legs and lungs until the ghosts lose the scent.”
The scarred maple desk, grad-school folders, and Zoe’s photo—a girl with Dar’s eyes smiling—caught his gaze. He swallowed. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes they keep pace.”
He hesitated, hand brushing the edge of her desk. “And…I watch.”
She hadn’t expected honesty. Not from him. Not yet.
The operators upstairs—Logan, Calder, even Sean—they wore their trauma like armor, polished and displayed. Look what we survived. Look how we laugh anyway.
But Callum… Callum was different. He didn’t perform his damage. He carried it in silence, in the precise way he moved, in the controlled cadence of his speech.
Three-thirty in the morning, she thought. No light. No plan. Just running.
That wasn’t discipline. That was desperation dressed up as routine.
Her chest tightened with recognition. She knew that particular brand of survival—the kind where you kept moving because stopping meant the past caught up. Where exhaustion was a mercy, not a weakness.
He’s not just guarding me, she realized. He’s guarding himself.
And somehow, that made him more dangerous. Not to her safety—to the careful distance she’d been maintaining. Because she understood him now, in a way she hadn’t five minutes ago. Understood the cost of his composure, the weight of his watchfulness.
Ghosts that keep pace.
God, she knew about those.
She opened her mouth—to say what, she didn’t know. I understand felt presumptuous. Thank you felt inadequate. Stay felt impossible.
But before she could form words, her tablet chimed—Veyr’s distinctive tone cutting through the quiet of her office.
The shift was immediate. Callum’s posture changed—not dramatically, but definitively. The man who’d just confessed to running from ghosts disappeared behind the operator’s mask. His eyes cleared, sharpened, locked onto her screen.
Dar was already moving, muscle memory overriding the moment. Her hand found the tablet, swiping to accept the encrypted call. Whatever had just passed between them—that fragile thread of recognition—got shelved with practiced efficiency.
Veyr’s face filled the screen, tablet in hand, that particular stillness that meant someone was about to have a very bad day. “Dar. We’ve got movement on the Kensington account. Someone’s poking at the shell companies you set up.”
Dar’s stomach dropped. “How deep?”
“Surface level. So far.” Veyr’s fingers moved off-screen, presumably across her own keyboard. “But they’re methodical. Professional. Started about forty minutes ago. They’re still active.”
“Timeline to breach?” Callum’s question was clipped, already tactical. He’d moved closer, positioning himself where he could see both the screen and the door. Always watching. Always ready.
“If they maintain this pace? Could be days. Could be hours if they get lucky.” Veyr’s eyes shifted to Callum, acknowledging him with a slight nod. “Major.”
Dar pulled up her own monitoring systems on her secondary screen, her earlier vulnerability evaporating into focus. This was her architecture, her digital fortress. And someone was testing the walls. She studied the intrusion patterns, the careful probing. “They’re not smashing and grabbing. They’re mapping. Which means—”
“They’re planning something bigger,” Callum finished.
Their eyes met as she looked up at him. The moment before Veyr’s call—the confession, the recognition—lingered like the scent of burning wood. But this was the job. This was why he was here.
“Can you trace them?” Callum asked, his focus returning to the screen.
“Working on it,” Veyr replied. “Dar, I need your assessment. Your read on their methodology.”
She leaned forward, fingers already moving across her keyboard, pulling up layers of security protocols and access logs. “Give me five minutes.”
The ghosts would have to wait.
Callum straightened, reading the shift in her—analyst mode, operational focus. He’d seen it before in briefing rooms and operations centers. The personal receded; the mission advanced.
“I’ll secure the perimeter,” he said quietly. “Check the others.”
He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the frame. Didn’t look back—knew better than to break her concentration now. But his voice carried across the threshold, low and certain: “I’m here if you need me.”
Then he was gone, his footsteps deliberate down the hall, back into the rhythm of a house learning to be operational again.
Dar sat motionless for a long moment, staring at the spot where he’d stood. Twigs leapt onto the chair, her tail curling around her wrist.
She exhaled slowly, letting her fingers find the warmth of the cat’s fur, and turned back to the screen.
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