Page 152 of Wilde and Deadly

And, suddenly, Rowan knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was the man behind everything.

His gaze settled on her. A heartbeat passed. Then, those eyes shifted to the brute, and there was the briefest flicker of disgust. “Enough.”

One word, nothing more.

But it was absolute.

The brute straightened and hauled her back to her feet, his grip bruising her arm. “I was questioning her.”

Revenant One shut the door and again took up an alert, military-rigid stance beside it, hands folded in front of him, eyes forward.

“I didn’t tell you to question her, Raines.” The man stepped closer, his movements fluid and precise. He was older than Raines, perhaps in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that might have been handsome if not for the utter lack of warmth in his eyes. They were the color of flint. “I believe I made myself clear that Ms. Bristow is not to be harmed.”

Raines’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “Yes, sir. My apologies.”

“Leave us,” he commanded, his voice smooth and cold as polished marble.

Raines hesitated for a fraction of a second, his fingers digging into Rowan’s bicep. But then he released her with a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

As Raines exited the room, Revenant One stepped forward and efficiently cut the zip ties binding her wrists. She rubbed at the angry red marks, eyeing both men warily.

“That will be all, One,” the man said without looking at his subordinate.

Revenant One inclined his head and departed without a word.

The door clicked shut, leaving Rowan alone with the man who had so effortlessly brought Raines to heel. She held her aching wrists close to her body, her muscles coiled tight, ready to fight or run at the first opening.

But the man simply moved to the bar, poured two glasses of amber liquid, and turned to offer one to Rowan.

“Drink,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

“I’ll pass.”

The man’s lips curved into a cold smile. “It’s not poisoned, Ms. Bristow. If I truly wanted you dead for your disobedience, I’d have sent Revenant One months ago.” He held out the glass again. “It’ll help the headache.”

Her headwasthundering, and she hated that he knew that. She took the glass, if only to have something to throw at his head. The whiskey burned as it slid down her throat, warming her from the inside out.

He took a sip from his own glass, then set it on the bar. “I apologize for Malcolm’s... enthusiasm. He can be overzealous at times.” He gestured to one of the plush leather armchairs. “Please, sit.”

She didn’t move. “Who are you?”

“Alexander Stirling.” He walked over to the wall of windows, gazing out over the glittering city. It had started snowing, and the flakes swirled against the glass, obscuring the skyline. “I lead the Praetorian Group.”

Stirling.

It was a name whispered in dark corners, the boogeyman of the intelligence world, the puppet master pulling strings from the shadows. He was rarely ever seen, but he’d crawled out of whatever luxurious cave he’d holed up in to… what?

Kill her?

Kill Davey?

She clenched her hand around her glass, fighting the urge to lunge at him. “What do you want?”

Stirling turned from the window but didn’t answer right away. He simply studied her like a man appraising a chess game. Then he smiled like he’d already figured out checkmate.

“Oh, Ms. Bristow,” he said, voice smooth as the whiskey in his glass. “I want everything.”

thirty-eight

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