Page 37

thirty-seven

Pain arrowed through Rowan’s skull, dragging her from the dark. It pulsed behind her eyes, a relentless, throbbing beat. Her body was slow to follow, limbs weighted and uncooperative.

There was a sound. A faint whirr, the soft vibration of an electric motor beneath her. The thrum of wheels on pavement. Moving. A vehicle.

Where was she going?

Where was?—

The tunnel. The shadows. Weston bleeding. Sabin down.

Panic ignited, spreading through her limbs like fire.

Oh, God. Davey.

Was he alive? Had he been hurt? Or… worse?

No. No, she couldn’t think like that. If anyone could fight his way through hell, it was Davey Wilde.

Her pulse kicked against her ribs, her breath coming short and sharp as she tried to remember more.

Chaos. Gunfire. The sickening crack of fists against flesh.

And the shadow with the cold, ink-black eyes….

She forced her eyes open.

And there he was.

The one who had held her back while Sabin was beaten into the ground. The one who had hurt Weston.

He sat across from her, his flat, dark gaze watching through the holes of the black balaclava he still wore.

Her muscles screamed in protest as she fought to sit up. Thick restraints dug into her wrists. Zip ties. She twisted, testing them, but they held firm. She turned her head, swallowing against the nausea rising in her throat, and saw the looming silhouette of a building through the window.

The Echelon.

Atlas Frost’s luxury hotel. A sanctuary for the world’s most powerful, where billion-dollar deals were sealed over whiskey. And now, it seemed, where captives were delivered like gifts.

She needed to get out of here.

Across from her, the icy bastard sat motionless, his dark gaze fixed straight ahead. Lights on, nobody home. It was weird. Unnervingly weird.

If she hadn’t seen his buddies bleed out back in the tunnel, she might’ve wondered if they were all machines.

But maybe he was distracted. Maybe?—

She sucked in a breath and threw her weight toward the door in a last-ditch effort to escape.

She didn’t have any real hope of it working. But she had to try.

Before she even registered his movement, he was already there, blocking her. One brutal hand wrapped around her throat.

Not squeezing.

Just there.

Just a reminder that she was his prey.

She froze.

He didn’t even glance at her. Didn’t react like he’d stopped an escape attempt. He just… adjusted to the situation. Like she was nothing more than a variable in an equation.

God. Maybe he really was a machine.

Her pulse fluttered under his fingertips as she glared at him, breathing hard.

“If I kick you, do you reboot?”

Nothing. No flicker of irritation, no hint of anger. He simply released her, shoved her back in the seat, and turned his head toward the window as the SUV slowed.

Her throat burned where his fingers had pressed. She wanted to lunge at him again. Wanted to fight, to make him feel something.

“Seriously, I’ve seen mannequins with more personality.”

Still nothing.

She huffed out a laugh, shifting against her restraints, testing the zip ties again—not that it would do her any good.

“What are you, some kind of experiment?”

His fingers twitched, and he finally looked straight at her.

A cold ripple skated down her spine.

She’d hit something.

Not just a nerve. A fault line.

Slowly, she wet her lips. “Oh. Did I find a crack in your armor?”

For a second—a fraction of a second—a spark of life flickered behind those dead eyes. His fingers flexed and then curled into a fist.

And just like that, the spark went out.

Rowan got the sinking feeling she had just seen something he wasn’t supposed to show. Something he wasn’t supposed to have. A glitch in his programing.

Or maybe… something fighting to break free?

The vehicle rolled to a smooth stop.

The doors unlocked with a soft click and opened. Two more masked operatives stood there, weapons in hand.

The cold bastard stepped out first. He didn’t offer a word or a glance in her direction. Just exited and waited.

The message was clear: Move or be moved.

Grinding her teeth, Rowan swung her legs out and stepped onto the pavement. The cold winter air bit at her overheated skin, a welcome contrast to the bruises blooming beneath her clothes.

Valets, dressed in sleek black uniforms, stood discreetly at their posts, eyes forward, trained to ignore anything that wasn’t their business. The driveway gleamed under the glow of soft, recessed lighting, casting long shadows that stretched toward her like reaching hands.

She held her head high, matching her captors’ pace, refusing to let them drag her like cargo.

The lobby was a cathedral of wealth and power.

Gilded chandeliers dripped from the high ceiling, giving the plush velvet seating and elegant sculptures a warm golden glow. Conversations murmured beneath the clink of crystal glasses. The air was thick with expensive perfume and the kind of arrogance that came with absolute control and disgusting wealth.

Nobody paid them any attention.

Nobody but Atlas Frost.

He was at the lobby bar, swirling a glass of something dark and expensive. His posture was relaxed, but his gaze was sharp. Watching. Calculating.

Their eyes met.

Emotion flickered across Frost’s face—guilt, regret, hesitation. His tawny skin went pale, his blue eyes widening slightly before narrowing again, locking down whatever war was raging beneath the surface. He pushed away from the bar, and his lips parted as if he might actually say something, but then he caught himself.

Instead, almost imperceptibly, he mouthed, “Sorry.”

Rowan’s stomach twisted.

Just as quickly as the emotion appeared, it was gone, buried beneath a carefully constructed mask of indifference. He settled casually back into his seat and focused on a woman dripping in diamonds, smiling indulgently at whatever she said.

Bastard.

He knew exactly what was happening. He could stop it.

But he wouldn’t.

Because doing so would cost him something—power, alliances, control—and she wasn’t worth tipping the balance. She was just another expendable pawn on the board, another problem too inconvenient to solve.

A hand landed on her shoulder, guiding her forward. Not the icy bastard with the ink-black eyes this time, but someone else. Still, the touch made her skin crawl and Black Eyes was so close on her ass, she felt like he should at least buy her dinner first.

Her mind raced, cataloging every exit, every potential weapon, every face that turned their way.

But there was no opening, no weakness to exploit. The security was too tight, and the players were too powerful. She was outnumbered and outgunned.

As they approached the elevators, Rowan’s heart rose into her throat. Once those doors closed, she’d be trapped. Cut off from any hope of rescue.

From Davey.

The thought of him sent a fresh wave of panic through her. Was he looking for her? Did he even know she was gone?

Yes and yes.

She knew those answers with absolute certainty. He knew she was gone by now, and he would tear the city apart to find her.

The elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open with a whisper. Inside, the walls were mirrored, reflecting her captors and their prize infinitely as the numbers ticked higher. She looked like hell. Bruised, dirty, blood-streaked.

How had every person in the lobby just… looked away?

The ride was smooth and silent. She watched the numbers climb and couldn’t help but feel like each passing floor brought her another second closer to death.

Time slipping. Options dwindling.

This was her last chance. If she was going to act, it had to be now.

The two men at her sides would be easy.

The one on her right stood stiff, tense. He was uncomfortable. Maybe he was the new guy, not yet jaded by the work.

The other was bulkier, but he was too comfortable. His stance was lazy. He didn’t see her as a threat.

She could take them.

Black Eyes was the problem.

She knew he was fast. She’d barely seen him move before he’d had a hand around her throat. And he was almost supernaturally strong. Down in the tunnel, she’d thrown everything she had at him, and he’d held her back like it was nothing.

But even he wasn’t immune to a bullet. If she got hold of one of the other guys’ weapons, she could take him, too.

She tensed, preparing to make her move?—

“I wouldn’t,” Black Eyes murmured, his voice low and cold. “You won’t like the consequences.”

Fuck.

She swallowed down her frustration and tried to keep her voice light. “Look at that. It does speak.”

“Only when necessary.”

She scoffed. “Go to hell, Terminator.”

Again, that spark flared in his gaze, and a twist of a smile touched his lips. She swore she heard him murmur, “Already there,” as the doors slid open on the 60th floor, revealing a corridor lined with dark wood paneling and soft, ambient lighting.

Another glitch.

Something she could exploit?

But as he shoved her out of the elevator car, that flicker of personality vanished. He was the black-eyed machine again.

He marched her to a set of huge double doors at the end of the hallway, removed his gloves, and pressed his thumb against a scanner. The doors unlocked with a muted click, and the other two men hung back as Black Eyes pushed her inside.

The penthouse was massive, filled with lush leather furniture, marble accents, and the kind of art that was more about price than appreciation. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched over the glittering city below.

Then the doors closed, sealing her in with Black Eyes, who took up a parade rest stance behind her, blocking her escape.

“You’ve caused a lot of problems for us, Rowan Bristow.”

Her gaze snapped toward the new voice. He was a brute wrapped in a tailored suit, his shoulders broad enough to block the light. His face was all sharp angles and cruel lines, a scar cutting through the stubble along his jaw.

This guy was the muscle, not the big boss in charge.

“Good,” she said. “I hope I was a royal pain in your ass.”

He chuckled, but there was no warmth in the sound. “I did hear you’re a fighter. You like to win.”

“Untie me, and I’ll show you how much.”

Cold, assessing eyes raked over her—a man appraising the durability of his new toy before deciding how hard he could break it. He tsked, obviously finding her lacking in some way. “Gabe Bristow’s prodigal daughter. Tell me, does Daddy Dearest know about your... extracurricular activities?”

She remained silent, her gaze tracking his movement.

“Revenant One, you’re dismissed,” he ordered, without taking his eyes from her.

The black-eyed bastard—Revenant One—didn’t hesitate. He was gone without a sound, the door clicking shut behind him.

Rowan’s hands curled into fists behind her back. The fucking zipties were cutting off her circulation and her fingers tingled painfully.

He stopped in front of her, towering over her smaller frame. Not for the first time in her life, she wished she’d inherited her father’s height as well as his bullheadedness.

“Not feeling chatty?” the brute said and lightly trailed his fingers over her shoulder. “That’s all right. I have ways of making you talk.”

She curled her lip in disgust. “I’ve dealt with men like you before. You’re nothing special. You don’t scare me.”

“I doubt that very much.” He leaned in close, his breath hot and moist against her ear. “You have no idea what I’m capable of. But you will learn. And by the time we’re done, you’ll beg to lose.”

Her skin crawled, but she forced herself to remain still. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

The backhand came so fast she didn’t see it coming. Pain exploded across her cheek as she stumbled sideways, vision blurring, blood filling her mouth. He seized her by the throat and slammed her against the wall, cutting off her air. Just as darkness started to creep in at the edges of her vision, he released her. She crumpled to the floor, gasping and coughing.

He loomed over her, a twisted smile on his face. “That’s better. On your knees where you belong.”

Rage and humiliation burned through Rowan. She glared up at him, hatred blazing in her eyes. “Fuck you,” she spat, blood and saliva spraying from her lips.

His boot connected with her ribs. Pain exploded through her side as she curled in on herself, struggling to breathe.

He drew a knife from under his suit jacket and crouched down, laying the flat of the blade under her jaw, forcing her to look up at him.

“You know, I’ve always been fascinated by the human body.” His voice was deceptively soft, but his eyes glittered with cruel anticipation as he traced the knife along her collarbone, leaving a thin red line in its wake. “The way muscles and tendons work together, the intricate network of nerves...” He pressed the tip against her shoulder, just hard enough to dimple the skin and draw a pinprick of blood. “I’ve always wondered just how much you can cut off a person before they break. Physically. Mentally.” The knife danced along her collarbone, then traced her arm down to her bound hands.

She curled her fingers into tight fists, but he drove his thumb into a pressure point, forcing her fingers open. The tip of the blade pressed into the skin at the base of her index finger.

“How do you think Daddy would react if he received your trigger finger in the mail?”

Rowan’s stomach churned with revulsion and fear, but she forced herself to meet the brute’s gaze defiantly. “He’d hunt you down and tear you apart piece by piece.”

He chuckled, and he sounded genuinely amused. “Maybe thirty years ago. Now he sends the likes of Davey Wilde to do his dirty work.”

Then the door opened again.

Revenant One stepped in again, gave the room one quick, assessing scan, then moved aside and held the door open. The air itself seemed to still, tension stretching taut as if the very room was recalibrating in response to this new man’s presence. Even the brute went still like an animal that had just realized it wasn’t the apex predator in the room anymore.

This man wore power like a pristine suit, tailored just for him.

And, suddenly, Rowan knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was the man behind everything.

His gaze settled on her. A heartbeat passed. Then, those eyes shifted to the brute, and there was the briefest flicker of disgust. “Enough.”

One word, nothing more.

But it was absolute.

The brute straightened and hauled her back to her feet, his grip bruising her arm. “I was questioning her.”

Revenant One shut the door and again took up an alert, military-rigid stance beside it, hands folded in front of him, eyes forward.

“I didn’t tell you to question her, Raines.” The man stepped closer, his movements fluid and precise. He was older than Raines, perhaps in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and a face that might have been handsome if not for the utter lack of warmth in his eyes. They were the color of flint. “I believe I made myself clear that Ms. Bristow is not to be harmed.”

Raines’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. “Yes, sir. My apologies.”

“Leave us,” he commanded, his voice smooth and cold as polished marble.

Raines hesitated for a fraction of a second, his fingers digging into Rowan’s bicep. But then he released her with a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”

As Raines exited the room, Revenant One stepped forward and efficiently cut the zip ties binding her wrists. She rubbed at the angry red marks, eyeing both men warily.

“That will be all, One,” the man said without looking at his subordinate.

Revenant One inclined his head and departed without a word.

The door clicked shut, leaving Rowan alone with the man who had so effortlessly brought Raines to heel. She held her aching wrists close to her body, her muscles coiled tight, ready to fight or run at the first opening.

But the man simply moved to the bar, poured two glasses of amber liquid, and turned to offer one to Rowan.

“Drink,” he said. It wasn’t a request.

“I’ll pass.”

The man’s lips curved into a cold smile. “It’s not poisoned, Ms. Bristow. If I truly wanted you dead for your disobedience, I’d have sent Revenant One months ago.” He held out the glass again. “It’ll help the headache.”

Her head was thundering, and she hated that he knew that. She took the glass, if only to have something to throw at his head. The whiskey burned as it slid down her throat, warming her from the inside out.

He took a sip from his own glass, then set it on the bar. “I apologize for Malcolm’s... enthusiasm. He can be overzealous at times.” He gestured to one of the plush leather armchairs. “Please, sit.”

She didn’t move. “Who are you?”

“Alexander Stirling.” He walked over to the wall of windows, gazing out over the glittering city. It had started snowing, and the flakes swirled against the glass, obscuring the skyline. “I lead the Praetorian Group.”

Stirling.

It was a name whispered in dark corners, the boogeyman of the intelligence world, the puppet master pulling strings from the shadows. He was rarely ever seen, but he’d crawled out of whatever luxurious cave he’d holed up in to… what?

Kill her?

Kill Davey?

She clenched her hand around her glass, fighting the urge to lunge at him. “What do you want?”

Stirling turned from the window but didn’t answer right away. He simply studied her like a man appraising a chess game. Then he smiled like he’d already figured out checkmate.

“Oh, Ms. Bristow,” he said, voice smooth as the whiskey in his glass. “I want everything.”