Page 141 of Wildest Dreams

A lick of danger pebbled my skin when our gazes clashed, and though I was unperturbed, I knew with unyielding clarity that Tate Blackthorn could very well kill me if I didn’t sign the contract.

“Anastasia.” He motioned the woman with his finger.

“It’s Rebecca.” The blond woman shifted beside him.

He waved a dismissive hand. “Show our guests into the plane, and run an inventory of everything that’s been damaged.”

“Yes, sir.”

She handed him the contract and the pen before ushering his companions onto the plane, conversing with them in perfect Italian.

“You know, Rhyland.” Tate buttoned his suit slowly, eyes never wavering from mine. “You should always judge a man by the quality of his enemies.”

“I don’t wish to make you an enemy,” I said calmly. His macho bullshit didn’t impress me. I just wanted to get this show on the road and be on my way to Dylan.

“Oh, you won’t. You’re not worthy of the title.” Tate handed me the contract and the pen. “Sign the papers, and you can go get the girl. No papers, no girl.”

His flight attendant’s phone started ringing in my pocket. I glanced at it. It was Dylan’s number.

I wasn’t going to have this conversation in front of this bastard.

“I’m not going to sign a contract before I read it.” Every muscle in my body burned to flee and be with her. “And I need to get to her.”

“Time is a currency you presently do not possess.” He uncapped the blue pen, handing it to me. “Oh, I forgot to mention. I sent your cab back home. The taxi behind us? It’s my driver. Your only way to Dylan—or anyone else you care about, for that matter—is signing the contract.”

Fury splattered inside me like a detonated body. The level of hatred I felt for this man scared me. Yet I knew he’d somehow avoid the consequences of his actions. He always did. He’d managed to worm his way into Ambrose’s closest circle after fucking him over in business. Tate had always had this talent for keeping the people he’d hurt around.

I grabbed the pen and scribbled on the dotted line with a savage growl.

“Now your initials on every page,” Tate lamented with boredom. “On the bottom right corner, kindly.”

“Your driver better floor it to the stadium,” I rustled behind clenched teeth, hating that I had to ask him for more favors.

“Iven is quite good at keeping me punctual,” Tate said charitably. “Oh, and my assistant will send you the bill in the mail.”

The motherfucker.

“I hate you.” I slammed the signed contract into his chest.

“I’m flattered.” A ghost of a smirk hovered over his face, never truly making an appearance.

With that, he brushed past me onto his private jet.

Dylan: Call Cal.

I stared at the message in the back seat of Tate’s seashell crème Bentley. She hadn’t picked up when I’d tried to call her back.

Why the fuck?

It was purely by chance that I remembered Row’s wife’s number. It happened to be the same as Row’s, with the last digit changed from three to seven. Cal picked up on the first call, sounding out of breath.

“Yes? Who is it?” She sounded hysterical, even more so than her usual jumbled self.

“Rhyland. Dyl asked me to call you. What’s up?” I was on my way to the stadium to try to catch Cosmos, but the rusty knot of dread twisting in my gut told me she wasn’t there anymore.

“Tucker kidnapped Gravity.”

“What?”

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