Page 75 of Wilde and Deadly

“Shit,” Rowan breathed, catching on. “Did he go dark?”

“Yeah,” he said, and his voice came out tight, clipped—barely his. “And Frost just gave me a pretty fucking clear warning that someone I care about is in danger.”

Because control was slipping.

His mind raced through the possibilities, each one worse than the last. Elliot, bleeding out. Elliot, taken. Elliot, already— No. No. He slammed the door on that thought before it could take shape.

Not again. He wasn’t losing another teammate on his watch. He wasn’t losing his brother.

The past clawed at the edges of his mind, ugly and familiar. The fraction of a second between normal and devastation, when the world held its breath. When he’d held his breath.

His pulse hammered against his ribs, adrenaline surging too fast, too sharp. He needed facts. He needed a target. But all he had was nothing.

Nothing except Frost’s smirk. His fucking voice. His certainty.

Davey swallowed the burn rising in his throat and forced himself to focus as they burst out of the hotel and into the crisp night air. He scanned the street for a cab and, spotting one, quickened his pace, pulling Rowan along.

“Team, rendezvous at the safehouse immediately,” he ordered into his comm. “Elliot’s gone dark. This is not a drill.”

A chorus of affirmatives crackled through the line as they reached the car. Davey yanked open the door, practically shoving Rowan inside before sliding in after her.

“Drive,” he barked at the driver. “Fast.”

eighteen

The safe housewas too quiet without his brothers and teammates filling the space.

Elliot sat at the wide dining table, fingers drumming against the surface as he scanned the monitors in front of him. If he didn’t think it’d distract too much, he’d turn on some music—something loud and fast to match the adrenaline thrumming through his veins.

But he needed to stay sharp. Needed to catch every whisper, every rustle coming through their comms.

Everything was running smoothly.

For now.

Across the room, Benji was twitching like a junkie two days into withdrawal. The guy had been fidgety since everyone else left yesterday, but tonight, it was worse. His knee bounced. His fingers tapped out an erratic rhythm on the arm of the couch. His eyes kept darting toward the door like he was expecting someone to bust in at any moment.

It wasgrating.

Thank fuck his shift was almost over. After the gala, the kid would be Dom’s problem for the next twenty-four hours.

“Hey, man,” Elliot called out, trying to keep his tone light. “You need to chill. You’re making me nervous just looking at you.”

Benji huffed. “I’m making you nervous? Dude, you’ve been staring at those screens for, like, an hour without moving. It’s weird. Like—do you even blink?”

Elliot groaned. He shouldn’t have opened the door to conversation because now Benji wasn’t going to stop.

“Swear to God, you’re just sitting there like some… I dunno, creepy robot. Or, like, one of those snipers in a movie that never talks until the last five minutes. It’s unsettling.” He shifted, wincing. “And another thing—who the hell designed these safe houses? Because this couch is a war crime. I swear, I’ve sat on cinder blocks that were softer.”

Elliot sent him a flat look. “Unless you’ve got something useful to say, shut the fuck up and let me work.”

Benji rolled his eyes and flopped back against the cushions, but his knee kept bouncing. He shot another glance at the door.

Then—a chime.

“The hell?” Elliot was on his feet instantly, gun drawn before the second chime sounded. His pulse didn’t spike—he was too well-trained for that—but his muscles tensed as he signaled for Benji to stay put as he moved to check the door cam.

No one was supposed to know this place existed.

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