Scones. Secrets. Storms.
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.
Hereford – Safehouse
Sean and Malik had finished bolting the new Sage Oracle Jet into place well after midnight, tipsy on adrenaline and flat-pack instructions.
Callum Stroud had been awake since zero-three-thirty, running six klicks through Hereford’s pre-dawn streets until his head went quiet enough to function—the usual morning rhythm of a man who’d learned that stillness invited ghosts.
By zero-nine-oh-six, he was standing on Dar Montgomery’s porch, hands tucked into his vest pockets, squaring his shoulders against the morning chill.
He’d told himself this was reconnaissance. Veyr wanted eyes on Montgomery’s comms setup, confirmation that the woman they’d pulled into their task force wouldn’t go soft or sloppy. Standard liaison work.
The lie sat heavy in his gut.
He’d come because he wanted to. Because the file Veyr had given him—sparse, clinical, professional—hadn’t answered the questions that mattered. Because he needed to see for himself.
Stupid. Unprofessional. Exactly the kind of personal investment that gets people killed.
He knocked anyway. Brisk, restrained.
The door swung open.
Dar Montgomery stood in the frame—faded jeans, white tank top, stockinged feet curled against the cool wood. A strand of dark blonde hair fell across her eyes, and she brushed it back with fingers that moved with unconscious precision. Behind her, the safehouse smelled of fresh pine and citrus cleaner. A cat—brown, tabby, skeptical—watched him from the stairs.
Callum’s eyes flicked across her face. No visible stress markers. Good colour. Alert but not defensive.
The scar on his cheek caught the morning light as he offered a small nod—maybe a smile, maybe professional courtesy.
“Ms. Montgomery. Good morning.” His voice came out 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.” Liar. You intended exactly this. Unannounced. Before Calder or Ward could intercept.
She blinked, hand on the doorframe. “Right. The liaison. You’re earlier than anyone warned me.”
Because no one knew I was coming.
She stepped back, admitting him. He watched her grab a blue sweater from the foyer, pulling it on with the self-consciousness of someone suddenly aware of being underdressed. The gesture was human, unguarded—a reminder that she wasn’t just an asset to protect. She was a person trying to rebuild her life.
From the other room, an espresso machine hissed.
“Coffee’s almost ready. Want some, or is this a pop-in for…paperwork?”
Callum dipped his chin. “Coffee would be nice.”
He crossed the threshold, his boots silent on the hardwood. The cat trotted down to the foyer, chirping. Her tail stood high as she sauntered past his boots.
“Didn’t mean to ambush you,” he said, tone unapologetic. “Veyr prefers it that way.” A pause. “I came to look over your comms setup.”
Dar’s expression shifted—something between resignation and irritation. “My office. Of course. You’d better come in before Twigs files a complaint.”
She led him through the dining room and kitchen, past a stack of empty flat-pack furniture boxes.
They reached a back hallway, and Dar paused at an open door. Morning light sliced across a well-organised desk inside.
“Fair warning: it’s less command centre and more chaos theory in practice.”
Callum stepped into the doorway. Condensed comms system. Tablet. Multiple monitors positioned to avoid window glare. Biometric lock on the door frame, LED steady green.
He moved inside, his eyes tracing the clean lines of the configuration. He ran a finger along the desk’s edge, confirming his assessment. “You’ve done well,” he said, his voice low. “A tighter setup than I expected.” She didn’t need my help.
His gaze caught on a worn Moleskine notebook beside her monitor. The pages were filled with methodical, cross-referenced notes in two colours of ink—blue for primary data, red for connections and analysis. He’d seen notebooks like that before in Langley and Vauxhall Cross, carried by analysts who didn’t just report on data but lived inside it.
A half-hidden ID badge confirmed his suspicion: Ministry of…
The photo was of a younger Dar, but the intensity was the same. Sharp eyes. Focused. The kind of person who built architectures, not just occupied them.
He looked at a photo frame half-hidden behind the monitor. Dar and a young girl, a selfie, smiling at the camera. The file had noted a daughter. Zoe. Five years gone. From a life with departmental credentials and a smiling child to this. A safehouse, a cat and a life in limbo. What the hell happened to you, Montgomery?
Dar folded her arms, watching him. “Then why send you?”
Callum looked up, and for a moment—just a heartbeat—he let the ghost of a grin flicker 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.”
Truth. Partial truth. The kind that doesn’t reveal the whole picture.
“She could’ve just called.”
His shoulders lifted a fraction—half a shrug, half an admission. “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.” And I wanted to see you. To know you were alright.
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.”
He watched her process the words, saw the way her jaw tightened slightly. She didn’t like being accounted for. Didn’t like the reminder that her life was no longer entirely her own. Can’t blame her.
She turned back toward the kitchen, motioning him forward. “I’ve been protecting myself since long before Veyr’s protocols. But I get it. You’re here, you’ve confirmed.” A pause. “Coffee machine is probably ready.”
Callum followed her back to the kitchen.
Dar 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 barely after nine on a Monday?”
Callum picked up the mug, testing its weight. Ceramic, thick-walled. Good heat retention. “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. Someone knew their coffee. “Actual reason? Just to meet you. Veyr didn’t send me for that.” He looked directly at her without wavering. “I came on my own.”
There it is. The truth. Unvarnished.
The espresso machine gurgled into the silence. Dar leaned on the counter, watching him. The sunlight streaming in through the window blurred his view of her expression just enough that he couldn’t be sure what she was thinking. For a moment he felt exposed—like she was reading him the way he’d been reading her. Assessing tells. Assessing intent. She’s good at this.
“You could’ve just said so.” Her gaze narrowed, letting 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. “Old habits. I don’t walk into a room without knowing how to get out.” He leaned a hip against the counter, allowing himself to relax fractionally. “Next time I’ll knock: ‘Morning, Dar, just here to see if you’re still standing.’ If you want me to.”
Fuck, Stroud, since when did you start asking permission?
The front door slammed. Callum’s hand twitched toward his hip before he caught himself.
“Montgomery!” Logan Ward’s voice carried from the entry hall. “Heard you were handing out caffeine.”
Callum straightened. Two sets of footsteps—both heavy, both confident.
Rhys Calder appeared first, his eyes finding Callum immediately. The recognition was instant, mutual, and cold. They’d worked together before—briefly, tensely.
“Major.” Calder’s voice was neutral, but his gaze flicked to Dar with something unreadable before returning to Callum. “Morning, Dar. Thought I’d check in.”
Check in. Right.
Logan stepped into view—tall, broad-shouldered, sunglasses indoors. His gaze swept the kitchen: Callum’s relaxed posture, the mug in his hand, Dar standing close. He pushed past Calder and to Dar’s side with the easy familiarity of family.
“Coffee’s still hot,” Dar offered, moving toward the machine.
“Major Stroud was just checking my office for comm security,” she added.
Calder moved fully into the kitchen. “Appreciate the sweep, Major. Veyr didn’t mention any scheduled comms audit.” He let the statement hang in the air, an unspoken question.
Callum met his gaze. “It wasn’t scheduled. Her setup is secure. Tighter than some FOBs I’ve seen.” He didn’t elaborate.
Something shifted in Calder’s expression—a flicker of old tension, the ghost of a boundary once drawn and never quite erased. He glanced at Dar, then away.
History there. Interesting.
“Personal initiative,” Logan said, his tone flat. “Next time, Major, give us a heads-up. Keeps things tidy.”
It wasn’t a request.
Callum held his gaze. “Noted.” Their house, their rules. Reasonable.
A voice cut through the tension—bright, warm, unbothered.
“Christ on a cracker, who died?”
Pam entered carrying a bakery box, the smell of cardamom clinging to her jumper. She paused, taking in the scene with perceptive amusement.
She stepped around Calder, nudging Logan’s elbow. “Sunglasses off, Ward—unless you’ve gone vampire since yesterday.” She set the box on the counter. “Fresh knots, cranberry scones. Dar, love, kettle on? “I come bearing supplies for the…” Her eyes swept the wall of operators. “…meeting.”
Callum felt his shoulders ease. He stepped sideways to give her space.
“Morning, ma’am. Didn’t realize the safehouse came with catering.”
He took a knot from the box when offered, broke it in half—an old soldier’s habit—and offered the larger piece to Logan.
Peace offering.
Pam watched him split the knot, and something in her expression softened.
“Catering’s extra,” she said, warm but with an edge. “But I’ll waive the fee if you crack a smile before the scones cool.”
Callum wiped a crumb from his thumb and nodded. For a heartbeat, he let his lips form an actual smile—small, genuine. “Consider the fee paid.”
A smile touched Pam’s lips before she spotted the new espresso machine. “Dar! What the bloody hell is this?”
The three men exchanged glances. Ward’s voice dropped, his lips barely moving as he leaned closer to Callum. “Welcome to the madhouse, Major.”
Major. Ward’s use of the rank was deliberate, a reminder he was an outsider here, operating on his own authority. The ice under his boots was thin, and they were all watching to see if it would hold.
He felt Dar’s eyes on him and resisted the reflex to check Calder’s reaction. Instead, he moved to the doorframe, leaning against it to clear space for the women. His eyes scanned the room, registering positions, reading body language.
Too many bodies. Too many lines of loyalty crossing like tripwires. Need to give them space.
The sweet knot reminded him he hadn’t eaten since the previous night’s run. His body was running on caffeine and adrenaline, the familiar fuel of a man who’d learned to function on less. Should’ve eaten breakfast. You’re off your game, Stroud.
Pam unwrapped an almond croissant, the paper crinkling in the quiet. She stepped closer, holding it out. “Try one of these, Major.” Her voice dropped, laced with amusement. “They’ve been known to make even the stoic ones crack a smile.”
Callum pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, breathed out slow through his nose. Discipline over distraction. He pulled back slightly, maintaining the boundary.
“Almond croissants noted, ma’am.” He looked at her, keeping his expression neutral even as his mind indexed the interaction. Testing. She’s testing to see how I react. Fair game.
She cast a look at Logan. “Ward—sunglasses off, or I’ll feed yours to Twigs.”
Callum leaned toward Pam, his voice low enough that only she and Dar would hear. “If that babka’s half as lethal as the coffee, I’m in trouble.”
There. A hint of humor. Show them you’re not just the stiff who audits their lives.
He caught Ward watching Pam’s interaction with him, saw something cold flicker across the other man’s face. Jealousy? Territorial instinct? Hard to tell.
Complicated. Definitely complicated.
Sean appeared at the kitchen archway, folding his arms and surveying the room like it was the last hole at the Deal—every player reading everyone else’s tells.
“Christ, it’s like a UN summit in here—only with more passive-aggression and fewer canapes.”
Callum watched him assess the room, saw the way his eyes went to Dar first—checking her tension, her posture. Then to himself, Ward, and finally Calder. Perceptive. He reads people.
Sean strolled in with his usual bravado. “Scones, babka, and a side of geopolitical tension. Pam, you’ve outdone yourself.” He snagged a pecan from the babka, then angled a grin toward Dar—soft around the edges, familiar. “How’s the new machine?”
Calder shifted his weight, arms folded, eyes flicking from Callum to Ward, 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?”
Callum watched Dar’s fingers tighten around her mug. Saw the way her shoulders tensed, the slight tightness around her eyes. The room had become too much—too many people, too much noise, too many competing energies in a space that was supposed to be her sanctuary. She’s overwhelmed. Needs space.
“I’m fine,” she said, 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 Calder and carried her mug into her office, Twigs trailing behind her. The door shut.
Callum tracked her exit, the soft click of the latch sounding final in the tense room. She’s rattled. And I’m one of the reasons why.
Pam reappeared with a plate of the almond croissants. He took one automatically. The pastry was light, the flavor sharp and sweet—butter, almond, sugar. The unprocessed fuel hit his system. “Dangerous,” he said, the word coming out softer than he intended. “Could get addicted to this.”
For the next half hour, conversation drifted through the kitchen. Pam had a gift for drawing people out, and even Callum found himself relaxing fractionally—answering questions, offering the occasional dry observation that earned a laugh.
Sean fiddled with the portafilter, tamping grounds with precision. His eyes flicked between faces—Calder’s military stillness, Ward’s coiled tension, Callum’s calculated friendliness—cataloguing reactions while appearing absorbed in the mechanics of perfect crema.
From his position by the counter, Calder watched Callum interact with the others. Callum read the tension in the man’s posture, in the way his gaze kept returning to Dar’s door. It looked like uncertainty, and it felt as bitter as the coffee.
The easy conversation wound down naturally. Pam glanced at her watch and announced she needed to head back to the bakery—the noon rush would start soon. She called out a quick “Bye Dar-ling!” to the closed office door.
Sean and Ward followed her out to the front hall, calling to Calder to come upstairs and see the paint and furniture in what used to be Zoe’s room.
Callum moved toward Dar’s office. The knock was quiet, respectful. He sensed Calder’s eyes on him as he waited until Dar’s muffled voice came through, then slipped inside and closed the door behind him.
The office was smaller with the door shut, more intimate. Dar sat at her desk, Twigs curled on the windowsill, morning light slicing across the monitors. She looked tired—not physically, but emotionally.
You know that feeling. You live in it.
“You’ll get used to this,” he said, his tone soft.
She looked up at him. “Used to what?”
Callum leaned back against the door, palms flat on the wood. “The noise. The chaos. The way they act like nothing touches them.” His tone softened further. “It’s how they stay sane.”
She looked at him reflectively. “And you?”
The question hung between them. She wasn’t asking about tactics or protocols. She was asking about him.
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 my thoughts quiet enough to be useful.”
The grad-school folders and a wall-hung photo of a girl on a bicycle caught his gaze. He swallowed hard. “Sometimes it works. Sometimes they keep pace.”
He hesitated, hand brushing the edge of her desk. “And…I watch.”
He hadn’t expected to say it. Hadn’t planned to reveal the wee hour runs, the ghosts that kept pace, the way he’d learned to function on exhaustion because sleep had stopped being rest.
But Dar was looking at him with those sharp, analytical eyes, and he realised she already knew.
She understands.
Dar opened her mouth—to say what, he didn’t know. But before she could form words, her tablet chimed with Veyr’s distinctive tone.
The shift was immediate. Callum’s posture changed—not dramatically, but definitively. 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 got shelved with practised efficiency.
Veyr’s face filled the screen, her expression unreadable. “Sibyl. Your Kensington network just got a visitor. Someone’s testing the shell companies.”
Callum’s mind shifted into analytical mode. Kensington. This was the proving ground.
Dar’s voice was steady. “How deep?”
“Surface level. So far.” Veyr’s fingers moved off-screen. “But they’re methodical. Professional. Started about forty minutes ago. They’re still active.”
“Timeline to breach?” Callum’s question was clipped, already tactical.
“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. “Sabre.”
She knew I’d be here. Of course she did.
Dar pulled up her own monitoring systems on her secondary screen, her earlier vulnerability evaporating into focus. Callum watched her work—the speed, the precision, the confidence of someone who’d built these systems from the ground up.
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. The moment before Veyr’s call sat in Callum’s chest like a held breath. But the job had priority.
“Can you trace them?” he asked.
“Sibyl, I need your assessment.” Veyr cut in. “Your read on their methodology. This is what I brought you in for—show me what you see.”
There it is. Veyr’s test to see how Dar performs under pressure.
Dar leaned forward, fingers already moving across her keyboard, pulling up layers of security protocols and access logs. “Give me five minutes.”
Callum straightened, reading the shift in her—analyst mode, operational focus. The personal receded; the mission advanced.
He moved to the door without waiting for a reply, knowing better than to break her focus. He paused with his hand on the frame, his voice low but clear. “I’m here if you need me.”
Then he was gone, his footsteps already fading down the hall.
The ghosts would have to wait.