Page 17

seventeen

As Rowan dragged her 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.

Then, smoothly—almost too smoothly—he let out a low chuckle. “Yes, I imagine so.” He took another sip of his champagne, his movements measured now, more deliberate. “She’s fascinating, isn’t she? The way she moves, the way she thinks… It’s no wonder someone like you took an interest.”

Davey let the words sit for a second, weighing them like a potential sacrifice.

That “someone like him” was not complimentary.

It was a calculated maneuver. A probe. Another attempt to test the board.

He let his smile sharpen at the edges. “Flattering, the way you’re so invested in my personal life.”

Polite. Crisp. Empty of anything real, forcing Frost to decide whether to press or pivot.

Frost pivoted. His gaze flicked toward the bathroom doors before settling back on Davey. A new move. A shift in strategy.

“I must admit, I didn’t expect to find both Bristow sisters here tonight.”

A lie. A feint.

He’d expected Rowan to be here. That was probably why he’d invited Rue. Davey had seen the flicker of satisfaction, the way Frost’s smirk deepened when he spotted her in the crowd.

At that moment, he’d seen the whole board laid out before him.

A perfect path to checkmate.

But then he’d spotted Davey.

And the game changed.

That was why Frost kept pressing for a reaction. He was trying to map out the new terrain, trying to see what Davey’s presence meant for his strategy.

But Davey refused to give him anything. “Didn’t expect to find Rue on your arm, either.”

Frost let out a small, satisfied hum, as if a pawn had moved right where he wanted it. “Did that surprise you?”

Davey exhaled slowly. This game was exhausting—he much preferred men like Sabin or Dom, who spoke exactly what was on their mind. But rushing the next move would give Frost the advantage. Play it clean, careful. “Just didn’t think she’s your speed.”

Frost’s next move was immediate. A knight sliding into position.

“I’ve always had a taste for fast things—cars, deals, women.” He sipped his drink, watching over the rim, waiting to see if the play had forced a mistake. “And I have an eye for potential. Your Miss Bristow? She’s full of it.”

And, fuck if that move didn’t land. Just a little.

A crack in the defense.

Disgust curled through Davey’s gut, and for the first time, his mask of polite indifference slipped. He hated the way Frost said, “ Your Miss Bristow .” Hated the slick, possessiveness of his voice, the way he spoke about Rue like she was something to be traded.

Like she was an asset. A commodity. A well-placed pawn on the board.

Davey forced his expression back into neutrality, but his jaw was still clenched, and his next words came out too tight. “Is that what this is? A patronage?”

Frost sighed as if genuinely regretful. “You wound me, Wilde. You act as if I’m something sinister, when, really, all I do is provide opportunities for people with potential.”

“Yeah, you’re a real humanitarian.”

A waiter approached, moving with easy grace, the silver tray of fresh champagne balanced effortlessly in one hand.

Sabin.

He must have sensed the tension.

He barely spared Frost a glance as he held out the tray, but Davey caught the question in his eyes. Need me to step in?

Davey gave the barest shake of his head. It’s fine. I got this.

Sabin gave the tray a slight tilt, offering the champagne with his usual lazy charm. “Drink, gentlemen?”

Damn, he was good. There was no hint of his Cajun drawl in his voice. He sounded like a born-and-bred New Yorker.

Frost exchanged his empty glass for a fresh one without so much as a glance at Sabin.

That was his weakness.

He looked through people he deemed below him.

Davey also took a glass—even though he didn’t plan to drink any of it—and the moment Frost’s attention locked back on him, Sabin slipped away, melting back into the crowd.

Frost swirled his champagne, smirking. “How are you enjoying the evening? This isn’t your usual scene, but I must say you wear a tux well. Though I imagine you still prefer combat boots to Italian leather.”

Another fucking move. Still trying to get that rise.

Davey didn’t bite. “I don’t hate it,” he said mildly, scanning the room.

Was Rowan still in the bathroom?

She’d been in there too long. Or maybe it just felt that way. His gut told him to check, to move, to do something?—

But he forced himself to stay still. Forced himself to hold the line, and returned his attention to Frost. “Good drinks, decent music. Shame about the company.”

Frost laughed, and it was the first genuine thing he’d done all night. “I like you, David. We could be good friends, you know.”

He took a sip of champagne—not because he wanted it, but because it forced a pause, forced Frost to wait. Then, smoothly, he set the glass down. “Given the circumstances, probably not.”

Frost raised an eyebrow. “And what circumstances would those be?”

Enough.

Davey turned to face him fully, his voice flat. “Someone put a contract out on my head. I followed the money straight to you.”

For the first time, Frost’s expression faltered. It was quick. So quick that if Davey hadn’t been watching for it, he might’ve missed it.

But he had been watching.

And that one flicker, that tiny misstep, told him everything.

Frost recovered fast. He took a slow sip of champagne, the very picture of amused indifference. “Now, see, that’s interesting. Because if I wanted you dead, Wilde, you wouldn’t be here enjoying these good drinks, decent music, and questionable company.” Then, with casual precision, he turned, surveying the glittering guests.

His gaze zeroed in.

Right on Sabin.

“Your men are hovering.”

Fuck.

A slow, tight coil of tension locked into Davey’s spine.

He’d been careful. Sabin had been careful. But somehow, Frost had known. Had been playing along. Letting Davey think he was steering this conversation when, in reality, he’d already mapped the board.

Davey’s pulse kicked up, but he forced himself to stay still. To stay in control. “They’re worried you’ll try to kill me.”

“With what? A cocktail fork?”

“It can be done.”

“Messy.” Frost scoffed. “Give me a little credit. Poison is much more economical in these situations.”

Instinct won. Before he could stop himself, his gaze flicked—just a fraction of a second, just a breath—to the champagne glass he’d set down on the table.

He caught himself, but it was too late.

Frost’s wicked smile widened. “Tell me, David. How much do you really trust them? How loyal are they?”

Davey wanted to hit him. Just to wipe that smug fucking smile off his face.

He’d been so goddamn sure that Frost’s weakness was his arrogance. That he looked straight past the people who weren’t important to him.

But that was the thing about grandmasters.

They always saw every piece on the board.

“See, loyalty’s such a fragile thing,” Frost mused. “So easily bought, so easily broken. And sometimes, it’s simply… misplaced.” He let that sit for a beat, then smiled like he’d just let Davey in on a private joke. “The threat, my friend, isn’t coming from me.”

Davey’s jaw clenched.

Frost swirled his champagne lazily. He was enjoying the hell out of this. “ As I said, I like you. Any contract that may or may not have come through my company?” He shrugged. “Just business.”

Casually— too fucking casually —his gaze slid back toward Sabin. “If you want to find the real threat, I’d start looking inward if I were you.”

Davey’s stomach went ice cold.

This was the real move. The real play.

Frost had been toying with him up until now. Testing him, waiting.

But this?

This was the moment he tipped the king.

The threat was coming from inside Wilde Security.

Someone in his house .

His jaw locked down hard. His breath came a little too sharp. He gritted his teeth, fought to keep his voice steady. “You really expect me to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want,” Frost said dismissively and checked his cufflinks, adjusting them with careful precision. Then, finally, he met Davey’s gaze one last time and smiled.

Checkmate.

“But not everyone you love is safe tonight.”

Every nerve in Davey’s body went tight. A spike of heat shot through his limbs, then something colder—something that sank deep, coiled tight in his ribs. Adrenaline surged, his body tensing before his brain could catch up.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached. His hands itched for a weapon that wasn’t there.

His throat felt too tight, his breath just a little too sharp.

Rowan. Rue.

His gaze snapped to the hallway and there they were—Rue stepping back into the ballroom, Rowan stalking after her, anger in every line of her body.

Davey exhaled, forcing his pulse to slow.

But his stomach hadn’t unclenched. His hands hadn’t stopped itching.

“Ah, here we go. My date’s returned.” Frost smiled again, knowing, taunting. “Enjoy the gala, David.”

He offered Rue his arm when she reached them. She shot Davey only the faintest of worried looks before accepting the offered arm.

They walked away, disappearing seamlessly into the crowd, leaving Davey standing there as a wrongness settled in his bones. Not the kind you could quantify, but the kind years of war had hardwired into him. The kind that meant the difference between walking out of a mission or getting sent home in a bag.

“Comm check,” he said under his breath.

“Sullivan, check.”

“Liam, check.”

“Yo,” Dom said, sounding bored. Knowing him, he was probably only half paying attention.

“If I go dark,” Sabin drawled, all lazy amusement, “it won’t be foul play—it’ll be foreplay. There some real pretty ladies here.”

Brody groaned. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, Sabin. You got game, and the rest of us are just background noise.”

The easy rhythm of the check-in stalled. The beat stretched too long.

Where was Elliot’s dry comeback?

“Elliot?” Dom said, suddenly alert. “Where are you?”

No answer.

Davey’s heart rate spiked. “Elliot, report.”

Nothing.

“Elliot, goddammit, respond!” His voice sharpened, drawing a few curious glances from nearby partygoers, but the silence stretched, each second feeling like an eternity as Frost’s warning curled through his thoughts like smoke.

Not everyone you love is safe tonight.

“Fuck,” he growled, scanning the room. His gaze locked on Rowan, who was fuming as she stormed after her sister.

He didn’t have time for this.

He intercepted her, grabbed her arm, and steered her toward the exit. “We’re leaving.”

“What the hell?” she hissed, trying to yank her arm free. “I have to stop Rue?—”

“We’ve got a situation.”

She must have heard the panic in his voice because she stopped struggling and fell into step beside him. “What’s going on?”

Instead of answering, he tapped his comm again, harder this time. “Elliot, respond.”

Still nothing.

A cold knot twisted in his gut.

The first few times? A miss. A distraction. A bathroom break.

But now the silence wasn’t just an absence. It was a fucking void. A dead space where Elliot should have been.

“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.”