Page 19

nineteen

The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound in the room.

It should have been reassuring. Proof that Elliot was alive. Breathing. Recovering.

But to Davey, it was a taunt.

A reminder that for the past eight hours, his little brother had been teetering on the goddamn edge.

Davey sat in the stiff hospital chair beside Elliot’s bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped together so he wouldn’t be tempted to punch something. Or someone. His jaw ached from how tightly he’d been clenching it, and his temples throbbed with the weight of too many sleepless hours.

Elliot looked small in that bed, pale against the white sheets, an IV taped to his arm, monitors tracking his vitals like he was still one wrong move from flatlining.

Davey had seen him injured before. Had seen him walk away from wreckage, bloodied but still smirking. Had watched him take a bullet in the shoulder and crack a joke about ruining a perfectly good shirt.

But this?

This was different.

Poison.

Someone had poisoned his brother.

Someone had gotten that close, slipped something inside their walls, inside their goddamn safe house, and nearly killed him.

If he’d eaten any more than a bite of that pizza…

Fuck.

A muscle in Davey’s jaw ticked. His fingers curled into fists.

Whoever had done this was already dead.

They just didn’t know it yet.

The door behind him creaked open, but he didn’t look up. Soft footsteps approached, and a strong hand settled on his shoulder. “Davey,” his father’s voice was steady, low. “Come eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered. He wasn’t leaving Elliot’s side for anything until his brother opened his eyes.

“That’s not the point,” Jude said.

His mother sighed as she stepped up beside him. “You can’t help him if you collapse from exhaustion.”

Davey exhaled sharply but knew better than to argue with his mom. She was a former prosecutor, and won any argument he’d try to start.

Still, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

“Five more minutes,” he said instead.

Libby’s hand was gentle when she smoothed his hair back, the touch so achingly familiar that for a moment, he was seventeen again, sitting on the floor of a hospital waiting room while doctors worked on his father after a mission had gone sideways.

Jesus, they’d always lived like this, hadn’t they? One disaster to the next, one hospital visit after another.

And he was so fucking tired.

“Elliot’s stable,” his mom murmured. “The doctor said?—”

“I know what the doctor said,” he cut in, harsher than he meant. “I just—” He swallowed the rest of the words.

He just needed to see Elliot wake up. The steady rise and fall of his chest wasn’t enough. He needed to see those eyes open, hear that smartass voice crack another joke.

Libby exchanged a look with Jude, then pulled up a chair beside him. “I remember the first time you held him,” she said, voice soft. “You were four, and you were so serious about it, like you understood right then that he was yours to protect.”

Davey squeezed his eyes shut. “I should have done a better job.”

“David Greer Elliot Wilde.” His mother rarely used his full name, but when she did, it hit like a hammer. “You did not do this to him.”

“No, but it happened on my watch.”

Jude crouched in front of him, steel in his blue eyes. “Then do what you do best. Get up. Get even. But don’t sit here beating yourself up for something you couldn’t have seen coming.”

Davey let out a breath, tension coiled so tight in his chest it ached.

“Just eat something,” Dom said from the doorway, his usual easygoing demeanor absent. “Then go hunt down the bastard who did this.”

Davey huffed. “Thought you were supposed to be the nice one.”

“I am,” Dom said. “But I draw the line at someone poisoning my brother.”

Before Davey could respond, a soft groan from the bed cut through the room.

He shot to his feet, heart slamming against his ribs as the heart monitor spiked.

Elliot shifted, his brow furrowing. His eyes fluttered open, bleary and unfocused, before landing on Davey.

For a long second, he just blinked.

Then his lips parted, his voice rough as hell. “Shit. Am I dead?”

Libby made a choked sound—a half-laugh, half-sob—as she pressed a trembling hand over her mouth. The relief in her eyes was stark, glassy with unshed tears.

Jude exhaled sharply, tension draining from his body so fast he had to grip the back of Davey’s chair to steady himself. His fingers flexed against the worn fabric, knuckles white, but his voice, when it came, was even. Firm. “Not yet.”

Dom let out a breath and scrubbed both hands over his face. “Jesus, El.” His voice was thin, unsteady. “Had to make an entrance, huh?”

Elliot’s lips twitched—just a flicker of his usual smirk—but then he winced.

Davey picked up the cup of water the nurse left and held it to Elliot’s lips. “Easy. Small sips.”

Elliot obeyed, taking a few careful swallows before leaning back against the pillows like that little bit of movement had exhausted him. “Ugh. Feels like someone used my stomach as a basketball.”

“Because they pumped it,” Davey said, voice rough. “Maybe don’t eat poison next time, dumbass.”

Elliot’s eyes flickered to his mother, then back to Davey. The haze of confusion was clearing, replaced by a sharpness that belied his weakened state. “Right. Poison. And here I thought it was just bad pizza.”

A sharp inhale from Libby. She crossed to the bed in a rush, smoothing Elliot’s sweat-damp hair back with shaking fingers. “God, baby, you scared the hell out of us.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Elliot mumbled, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he leaned into her touch. When he opened them again, his gaze swept the room, taking in the tense faces of his family. “How long was I out?”

“Eight hours, fourteen minutes,” Davey said, his voice clipped.

Elliot’s eyebrows rose. “You weren’t keeping count of seconds, too, big brother?”

“Twenty-six seconds. Happy now?”

A flicker of understanding passed between them. Elliot’s expression softened. “I’m okay, Davey.”

“You almost weren’t.”

Jude’s jaw flexed. He didn’t speak, but the weight of his fury settled over the room like a tangible thing. Dom stood rigid beside him, his usual happy-go-lucky energy replaced with something colder, more focused.

Elliot shifted, wincing as he tried to sit up straighter. “What about Benji?

Davey hesitated. Then shook his head. “Didn’t make it. He was already gone by the time we got there, and you were blue—” His voice broke, and he couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Fuck.” Elliot exhaled sharply, scrubbing a shaky hand over his face. “Fuck!”

“Yeah,” Davey muttered, dropping back into the chair. “Fuck.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

Elliot’s jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his cheek. “Who did this?”

“We don’t know yet,” Jude said, his voice low and dangerous. “But we will.”

“And when we do,” Dom added, his usual cheerful tone replaced by something cold and sharp, “they’re going to wish they’d never been born.”

Elliot nodded, his eyes hardening. “Good. I want in on that.”

“No,” Libby said sharply. “You’re staying right here until the doctors clear you, and then you’re going home and resting.”

Elliot groaned. “Mom, I’m fine. If anyone should rest, it should be Davey.” His gaze slid toward Davey. “You look like hell.”

Davey huffed. “Yeah, well. You tried to die on me, asshole.”

Elliot’s eyes softened. “Sorry about that. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me. You pissed me off.”

Elliot gave a weak chuckle but winced. “Liar. You were terrified.”

Davey’s jaw flexed. The humor was vintage Elliot, but his voice was thin. Tired. He hated this—being weak, being stuck in a hospital bed, being the one who needed looking after.

Davey hated it more.

The memory of finding Elliot on the floor, convulsing on the floor, foam at his lips as he turned blue—it slammed into Davey like a physical blow. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms.

“Yeah,” he said roughly. “I was fucking terrified.”

Elliot’s eyes widened slightly at the raw admission. He reached out, gripping Davey’s forearm with surprising strength given his weakened state. “Hey. I’m okay. Really.”

Davey nodded tightly, not trusting himself to speak. The room felt too small suddenly, the walls closing in. He needed air. Needed to move. To do something.

“I’m gonna… go touch base with the team, come up with a plan.” Davey stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the linoleum floor. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Davey—” Elliot started, but he was already striding toward the door. He couldn’t stay in that room with his worried parents and angry brothers for a moment longer.

The new safe house wasn’t as nice as the last one—just a forgettable apartment in a forgettable building, tucked away in a part of the city where no one would ask questions. The furniture was basic, the lighting dim, and the air held the lingering scent of fresh paint, like the place had been renovated just enough to look lived in without actually being home to anyone.

But it would do.

For now.

Rowan sat on the arm of the couch, rubbing at the tension in her temples as the others moved around her, voices overlapping—low, urgent. They had regrouped, pulled what was left of the team together after Elliot had been stabilized. The poisoning had shaken all of them, but Davey?

Davey was furious .

And he was gone .

Not in the sense that he’d left—no, he was here, somewhere in this apartment. But she knew that look he’d had when they arrived. The way his jaw had been clenched so tight it could’ve cracked. The way his shoulders had been coiled with too much tension. The way he’d barely said a word before slipping away, needing space before he detonated.

She exhaled, pushing off the couch. She scanned the apartment, searching for any sign of Davey, but he wasn’t in the main living area or either of the bedrooms. The tension in her chest tightened.

Across the room, Dominic leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression uncharacteristically serious as he listened to something Liam was saying. He caught her looking and tipped his chin toward her. “Looking for our fearless leader?”

She stopped, hesitating for a beat before nodding.

Dom sighed. “He’s stewing. Bad.”

“No shit,” she muttered. “Where is he? I’ll talk to him.”

He studied her for a second, then shook his head. “I already tried, but you know how he gets all broody and shit. And after today…” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair.

“Where is he?”

Dom arched a brow, amused. “Where do all the comic book characters go to brood?”

Rowan rolled her eyes. “Just tell me, Dom.”

His smirk was faint, but it disappeared just as fast. “Roof. He’s got that stormy, ‘I’m about to break something’ energy, so…” He winced. “Tread carefully.”

Rowan huffed a laugh. “Yeah, I don’t do careful.”

Dom’s expression softened. “I know. That’s why you’re a good match for him.” He pushed off the counter and clapped her shoulder lightly as she passed. “Good luck.”

She didn’t need luck.

She needed Davey to pull his head out of his ass.

With a quiet sigh, she made her way up the stairs, slipping through the rooftop access door.

And there he was.

Davey stood at the edge of the roof, silhouetted against the night sky, hands braced on the ledge as he stared out over the city. His broad shoulders were rigid, his stance tense like he was barely holding himself together.

He looked like a man standing at the edge of a battlefield, right before the first shot was fired.

She approached quietly, her footsteps barely audible on the concrete. She knew he'd heard her anyway—Davey's situational awareness was second to none. Still, he didn't turn, didn't acknowledge her presence.

“Didn’t take you for the brooding rooftop type, Wilde.”

Davey didn’t flinch, didn’t turn. “Not in the mood, Bristow.”

Rowan scoffed, moving to stand beside him at the ledge. “When are you ever in the mood?”

His jaw clenched, a muscle ticking. “I'm serious. I need to think.”

“And you think better when you're alone, freezing your ass off on a rooftop?” She leaned her hip against the ledge, studying his profile. The harsh lines of anger, the barely contained fury simmering beneath the surface. “Talk to me, Davey.”

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t answer.

Rowan sighed and moved beside him, leaning her forearms on the ledge. The city stretched out before them, neon lights flickering, people moving below like nothing had changed.

Like Elliot hadn’t nearly died today.

She glanced at Davey, watching the way his fingers curled into fists. “You’re blaming yourself.”

He exhaled sharply, finally turning to face her. His blue eyes were stormy, filled with a mixture of rage and fear that made her heart clench. “He is my responsibility.”

“You really think Elliot would let you put that on yourself?”

Davey let out a bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “Elliot can think whatever the hell he wants. It doesn’t change the facts.”

Rowan studied him, then nudged his shoulder with hers. “You’re right.”

That got his attention. His head turned slightly, blue eyes flicking to her in suspicion. “I am?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “It was your responsibility.”

His gaze narrowed.

She smirked. “And you handled it. You got to him in time. You saved him.”

Davey exhaled, shaking his head. “Wasn’t fast enough.”

“It was fast enough for him to still be breathing.”

That shut him up.

Rowan let the silence sit between them for a beat before nudging him again. “And just for the record? You’re an insufferable bastard when you’re stewing like this.”

Davey huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly .

“I need to figure out who did this,” he murmured.

“You will.”

He finally looked at her, something dark and determined in his eyes. “And when I do?—”

She held his stare. “We burn them down.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, he nodded.

Rowan let the moment settle before tipping her head toward the rooftop door. “Come on. Sabin’s probably already causing problems.”

Davey sighed, rolling his shoulders before pushing off the ledge. “God help us all.”