Page 153 of Wilde and Deadly

Davey steppedout of the sleek black car that had been sent to WSW headquarters for him and eyed The Echelon’s entrance. He rolled his shoulders, exhaling slow and controlled. Unarmed. Outnumbered. Walking straight into a den of vipers.

Every instinct in his body told him to turn back.

He ignored it.

Because Rowan was in there.

The lobby was exactly what he expected—power wrapped in a velvet chokehold. There were more black-clad soldiers, like the ones from the tunnel, stationed at key points. A force meant to be invisible, but he knew exactly what they were. He didn’t recognize any of them, but one caught his eye. Broad frame, dark eyes, standing too still.

Something nagged at him, but he pushed it aside as Malcolm Raines stepped forward. From what Daphne had managed to dig up on Praetorian, he knew Raines was Alexander Stirling’s right-hand man. He also knew the guy was a twisted fuck. If Rowan had spent any time alone with the man, she might not be in good shape.

“This way,” Raines said, voice clipped, and held out an arm toward the elevators. There was a small spatter of blood on the edge of his sleeve. Fresh, but it didn’t appear to be his.

It took everything in Davey not to react. His stomach clenched, but he forced himself to keep walking, keep breathing.

She was alive.

She had to be.

Across the room, Atlas Frost lounged at the bar, but he ignored the woman all but throwing herself into his lap and instead stared at the closed elevator doors with narrow-eyed intensity. When Davey and Raines reached the elevator, he met Davey’s gaze and nodded.

A greeting or a warning? It was anyone’s guess.

The ride up was suffocating. The mirrored walls reflected Raines’s smug sneer. Bastard was enjoying this.

The doors slid open, and Raines led him to a penthouse guarded by two more of the black-clad soldiers. One of them opened the door and motioned Davey inside.

Rowan.

She was sitting in a high-backed leather chair, clenching an empty glass in her hand. Bruised, her lip bleeding, but very much alive.

Thank God.

Their gazes locked, and relief slammed into him so hard it almost knocked him off balance.

Her posture was stiff, wary—but not broken. Anger burned in her gaze, and that alone let him breathe again.

“Mr. Wilde.” The voice was calm, almost pleasant. “Thanks for joining us.”

“You didn’t give much choice, Stirling.” Davey tore his gaze away from Rowan and turned to the man standing near the windows, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, silver-streaked hair neatly combed back.

“No, I didn’t,” Stirling said smoothly. “Sit. It’s time we talked.”

Davey didn’t move. “You could’ve tried that before resorting to violence.”

“Violence hadn’t been my original plan.”

“You put a hit on me and strapped a bomb to my cousin.”

“Hm, yes. Things escalated.” Stirling crossed to the bar and refilled his own glass before pouring another and holding it out. “Let’s get to the point, shall we?”

Davey didn’t reach for the drink and instead crossed his arms. “Yeah, let’s. I want you to stop attacking me, my friends, and my family. What do you want?”

Stirling set the drink on the coffee table as he sat across from Rowan. He leaned back and sipped his drink, watching Davey with an almost clinical detachment. “Not you.” His gaze shifted to Rowan before turning dismissively away again. “And not even her. I’ll let you both walk out of here if you agree to my terms.”

Davey frowned. This wasn’t what he expected. “What terms?”

“Give me Cade Wilde.”

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