Page 139 of Wilde and Deadly

“Please,” Liam rasped. “If you stay and we die, it’ll break Mom’s heart. And Dad… I don’t think he’ll survive it. Then she’ll lose all of us.”

A muscle in Bridger’s cheek jumped. His throat bobbed in a hard swallow, his hands flexing at his sides like he was fighting an internal war. Then, finally, his shoulders dropped, and he nodded, once, stiff and reluctant. “Fine.”

His hand came down on Liam’s shoulder, solid, firm, the kind of grip that meant more than words. More than a goodbye. A promise.

Then he turned and walked away.

Rowan saw his face as he passed. His expression was a mask of stone, but his eyes… God, his eyes. They held a raw, desperate pain that made her chest ache. She wanted to say something, offer some kind of comfort, but the words stuck in her throat. There was nothing to say that could ease this moment.

Bridger disappeared into the darkness, his footsteps fading into silence.

A distant rumble echoed through the tunnel, and Rowan’s muscles tensed. Her eyes narrowed at the ceiling, tracking the source of the sound as dust rained down on them.

A train, passing somewhere close.

She relaxed, but only marginally. “How are we doing on time?”

“Uh,” Sabin said and audibly gulped. “West, it’s tickin’ again. Thirty seconds.”

“Go,” Liam whispered. “Leave me.”

Rowan glanced back, her heart in her throat. “No. We’re all walking out of here.”

“Yes, we are. Hang on…” Weston’s fingers moved faster, methodically clipping wires, then moving to the next.

Time slowed to a crawl.

Sabin crossed himself.

Liam closed his eyes.

Rowan held her breath, gripping her rifle tighter, her muscles coiled.

Tessa was frozen—not watching the bomb but watching Weston. Not her patient. Not the danger. Just her little brother.

Weston didn’t look at her. Didn’t do anything but work, his hands steady as ever.

“Tess,” Sabin muttered, side-eyeing her. “Don’t pass out on us.”

She blinked and sucked in a startled breath like she’d forgotten how to breathe. Her fingers curled into a white-knuckled fist on Liam’s shoulder, like she was trying to keep herself from reaching out and yanking Weston away from the bomb.

Rowan felt it, too. The helpless ache of knowing someone you love was doing something impossibly dangerous, and all you could do was stand there and watch.

Like Davey.

The thought struck sharp and sudden, burrowing deep.

He was out there right now, running toward danger because that’s what he did. That’s what they did.

Had he made it to Brody yet? Had he caught up? Was he fighting? Bleeding?

Her chest tightened.

Because if she could feel this—this helpless, desperate ache watching Weston work—then what the hell was Davey feeling right now?

Wherever he was, whatever he was facing, he’d be thinking of her.

And she hated knowing that, just like she couldn’t help Weston now, she couldn’t help Davey either.

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