Page 28 of Wilde and Deadly

Would have been if Luka hadn’t found her.

Davey swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the dog. Luka stood guard, his body tense, ears flat, eyes locked on Rowan. Still watching her. Still protecting her.

He reached out, running a quick hand over his dog’s head in silent thanks.

Luka had saved her.

Now, it was up to Davey to keep her alive.

His focus snapped back to Rowan, to the knife still embedded in her side, to the too-shallow breaths barely moving her chest.

“Rowan.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the night. No softness, no hesitation. He needed her awake. Needed her fighting.

He gave her shoulder a firm shake. “Rowan, can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered, barely. A faint moan slipped past her lips, pained and distant, but her body barely stirred.

Not good.

“Fuck.” His throat was tight, his brain calculating, assessing. Knife wound. Blood loss. Exposure. If she’d passed out outside, in this condition, she hadn’t been in control of how long she was bleeding out.

He needed to get her inside. Now.

But the knife—if he moved her wrong, if it nicked something vital…

He was already pulling out his phone before his thoughts fully caught up. One-handed, practiced, automatic. His fingers flew over the screen as he dialed.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Tess, I need you at my apartment. Now.”

“What’s going on?” his cousin asked, instantly alert.

“It’s Rowan. She’s hurt—bad. Looks like she got into a fight. Bring your med kit.”

“I’m on my way,” Tessa said without hesitation.

He hung up, tucking the phone away and turning his attention back to Rowan. Her skin was clammy, her breathing shallow. Shock was setting in.

“Stay with me, Ro.” His voice was low, urgent. A demand, not a request. He pulled off his jacket and laid it over her, but it felt useless against the bone-deep chill radiating off her skin. “Help’s coming.”

Luka whined again, nudging Rowan’s hand with his nose.

“Good boy,” Davey said absently, gaze scanning the area for any signs of threat. Whoever had done this could still be nearby.

But then he spotted the car parked haphazardly on the curb with the crumpled driver’s side door hanging open. He drew his gun and left her side long enough to do a quick check of the vehicle. It was still running. Her blood had pooled in the seat and streaked the steering wheel and the door.

So, whatever happened, Rowan had gotten herself here.

And, somehow, he knew this wasn’t her personal car. Most likely, she stole it.

He reached in and hit the ignition button, shutting it off. Then he shut the door and grabbed his phone again, texting Sullivan O’Connell.

Black car in front of my place, dented driver’s side, blood in the seat. NJ plates. It needs to be wiped and dumped.

The reply came back in seconds:

On it, boss.

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