Page 149 of Wilde and Deadly

She’d hit something.

Not just a nerve. A fault line.

Slowly, she wet her lips. “Oh. Did I find a crack in your armor?”

For a second—a fraction of a second—a spark of life flickered behind those dead eyes. His fingers flexed and then curled into a fist.

And just like that, the spark went out.

Rowan got the sinking feeling she had just seen something he wasn’t supposed to show. Something he wasn’t supposed to have. A glitch in his programing.

Or maybe… something fighting to break free?

The vehicle rolled to a smooth stop.

The doors unlocked with a soft click and opened. Two more masked operatives stood there, weapons in hand.

The cold bastard stepped out first. He didn’t offer a word or a glance in her direction. Just exited and waited.

The message was clear:Move or be moved.

Grinding her teeth, Rowan swung her legs out and stepped onto the pavement. The cold winter air bit at her overheated skin, a welcome contrast to the bruises blooming beneath her clothes.

Valets, dressed in sleek black uniforms, stood discreetly at their posts, eyes forward, trained to ignore anything that wasn’t their business. The driveway gleamed under the glow of soft, recessed lighting, casting long shadows that stretched toward her like reaching hands.

She held her head high, matching her captors’ pace, refusing to let them drag her like cargo.

The lobby was a cathedral of wealth and power.

Gilded chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling, giving the plush velvet seating and elegant sculptures a warm golden glow. Conversations murmured beneath the clink of crystal glasses. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the kind of arrogance that came with absolute control and disgusting wealth.

Nobody paid them any attention.

Nobody but Atlas Frost.

He was at the lobby bar, swirling a glass of something dark and expensive. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp. Watching. Calculating.

Their eyes met.

Emotion flickered across Frost’s face—guilt, regret, hesitation. His tawny skin went pale, his blue eyes widening slightly before narrowing again, locking down whatever war was raging beneath the surface. He pushed away from the bar, and his lips parted as if he might actually say something, but then he caught himself.

Instead, almost imperceptibly, he mouthed, “Sorry.”

Rowan’s stomach twisted.

Just as quickly as the emotion appeared, it was gone, buried beneath a carefully constructed mask of indifference. He settled casually back into his seat and focused on a woman dripping in diamonds, smiling indulgently at whatever she said.

Bastard.

He knew exactly what was happening. He could stop it.

But he wouldn’t.

Because doing so would cost him something—power, alliances, control—and she wasn’t worth tipping the balance. She was just another expendable pawn on the board, another problem too inconvenient to solve.

A hand landed on her shoulder, guiding her forward. Not the icy bastard with the ink-black eyes this time, but someone else. Still, the touch made her skin crawl and Black Eyes was so close on her ass, she felt like he should at least buy her dinner first.

Her mind raced, cataloging every exit, every potential weapon, every face that turned their way.

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