Page 82 of Double Down

The taller man takes a step and I take one back, keeping the door open. I’m not giving them the enclosed hallway, not even for a second. “She’s just drunk,” he says, more patient now, like he’s humoring me.

“No, you drugged her,” I counter. “You’re trying to hurt her.” I flick my eyes once toward the black dome camera over the door, inside the commons area. “You want to explain that to security? Or the cops we just left in the penthouse?”

That lands. It’s small—the set of his jaw, the angle of his shoulders—but I catch it. He glances over my head, and in that sliver I see them the way a camera would. They’re wearing wrong shoes for hotel staff, jeans too stiff, the tag still creasing the pocket. Matching black jackets light on the body but heavy at the waist. The logo on the chest is nothing, a sporty brand anyone could buy. The look in the eyes, though—cold, impatient, already past me to the next problem.

“Con,” I say without turning. I don’t raise my voice. “Mav.”

They’re already coming. I hear Con first—the clipped pace, the way people get out of his way without thinking about it. Maverick is a faster thunder, the floor almost vibrating under his boots.

Con’s hand lands on my shoulder with the lightest touch, enough to slide me behind him and take my spot at the threshold. The electricity in him is controlled, leashed, terrifying in its calm. Maverick takes two more steps and squares his shoulders with the taller man, a smile that isn’t a smile cutting his face in half.

“Let her go,” Con says. It’s not loud. It doesn’t have to be.

The men freeze—the kind of still that comes before a bad decision. I see them choose. The shorter one curses in Russian. They drop her like dead weight and bolt down the service corridor toward the freight elevator, shoes slapping concrete, shoulders skimming painted cinderblock.

Maverick surges, but Con snags a handful of his shirt and gives a short shake of his head. “Don’t,” he warns, eyes flicking to the camera, the open crowd, the fact that we’re a few steps away from a blind spot that could turn into a bad headline.

“I’ve got her.” I’m already folding forward to catch the housekeeper before her skull meets tile. She’s heavier than she looks, dead-limbed. I ease her down, prop her against the wall so her airway stays open. Her eyes flutter, the whites glassy. There’s a chemical sweetness on her breath that makes my throat close.

“Hey,” I say softly, tugging her cardigan up to cover her. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Stay with me.”

Con’s voice is a blade beside me, low and lethal, talking into his comm. “Lock down service on eighteen. Freight included. No one in or out without my say. Pull the last hour on every camera facing eighteen’s back hall and the laundry junction.”

Maverick drags the service door fully open so it can’t latch, then plants himself in it like a barricade. He looks at me, then the girl, and something dark flashes in his eyes. He scans the hall,a wolf scenting prey. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks Con.

“They’re on foot,” Con says, his normal calm fraying at the edges. “They won’t make the dock if security isn’t asleep.”

The girl’s fingers twitch, a tiny, panicked flutter. Her lips move. I lean close, push damp hair off her forehead.

“What?” I whisper. “Tell me.”

Her voice is a scrape. “Laundry,” she gets out. “Chute. Not…alone.”

My scalp prickles. “What? How many?”

She swallows. Her eyes roll, then focus hard on mine for half a second like she’s trying to pin me in place. “Two,” she whispers. “Already gone.”

19

Atticus

Hours.

I’ve spent hours combing CCTV, trying to figure out how the cops got around all our staff, how fucking men were drugging women and trying to take them, when Phoenix comes into my office.

“Don’t you think you should come to bed?”

I lean back in the chair, the leather creaking beneath my weight, and attempt a smile. It falls flat. “I still have a pile of work to do, kitten. And you should probably be with Maverick tonight,” I tell her. “He needs you more right now.”

Pushing her away makes me sick, but I need a few more hours to work on this, and after what he went through, he needs her care.

She steps between my legs and loops her arms around my neck. Her fingers brush the hair curling at the nape, sending shivers tracing down my spine. “I agree,” she says. “But he won’t let me anywhere near him. He’s too angry, and after everything with the cops and the scene…I need?—”

“Okay,” I say, rubbing my eyes. My girl needs aftercare, and I refuse to be the kind of dick who skips it—not after she submitted to me so beautifully. Besides, I’m getting nowhere. I’ve stared at the screen so long the letters and numbers are blurring.

I don’t think I’ll fall asleep easily, but with Phoenix beside me, I sink quickly into unconsciousness. Despite my intent to provide her with the aftercare she needs, I barely wrap my arms around her before I’m gone. I don’t know how long I’ve been sleepinghardwhen something shocks me awake.

For a second, I don’t know where I am. All I register is heat and weight: a leg thrown over my hip, a small hand on my stomach.