Page 70 of Wilde and Deadly

His jaw flexed. His restraint washanging by a thread. “You planning on making that difficult?”

Her grin widened. “Depends. Do you plan on being difficult?”

“Always.”

Her eyes flickered with something dark and electric, something hefeltin his goddamn spine.

He needed distance. Space.Somethingto get his head on straight before he forgot how tonottouch her.

Instead, he stepped in closer, crowding into her space. His fingers ghosted along the fabric at her waist, and his pulse hammered at howfucking softit was.

How softshewas.

He lowered his head just enough that his breath brushed the shell of her ear. “You do this on purpose?”

Her own breath hitched—so quick, sosubtle, but he caught it.

“Do what?”

His lips nearly grazed her skin. “Make it impossible to think about anything but peeling this off you?”

She swallowed, her pulse jumping against his jaw. “I don’t know, Davey.” Her voice was light, teasing, but threaded with something unsteady. “Sounds like ayouproblem.”

His grip flexed on her waist before he wrenched himself back.

Because if he didn’t, there wouldn’t be a gala to get to.

His eyes dragged over her one more time, like he was committing her to memory.

Then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Get your clutch, Bristow.”

She smirked, a slow, taunting thing as she turned toward the counter. The slit in her dress parted, offering one last devastating glimpse of thigh.

Davey ground his teeth.

It was going to be along fucking night.

seventeen

As Rowan draggedher sister toward the bathroom, Atlas Frost watched them go with the same expression a grandmaster might give a pawn—already predicting every move, already seeing the checkmate.

Davey had spent years dealing with men like Frost. The kind who never raised their voices, never lost their tempers, never needed to make threats outright—because their mere presence was enough. Men who always had an angle. Men who made you feel like you were already two moves behind.

But Davey had spent years learning how to read the board, too.

He knew how to spot the tells, hear the unsaid, watch the way power shifted beneath the surface.

He knew how to play Frost’s game.

Frost took a sip of his champagne, his smirk barely hidden behind the glass. “Well, that was dramatic.”

A calculated opening move. A test.

Frost wanted a reaction. Wanted him to bristle, to bite. Wanted to test the strength of his position, to see where Davey’s pieces were placed.

So Davey did the opposite of what Frost wanted, letting an indulgent smile creep onto his face. “Everything with Rowan is.”

Frost’s smirk froze—just for a fraction of a second. A moment of recalibration, like a player realizing his opponent was a better player than he’d expected.

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