Page 6

six

It started raining.

Because, of course, it did.

Rowan darted around a corner, her breath sharp, heart thundering in her chest as her boots splashed through a puddle. The crowded streets of New York City swirled with noise and movement, but all she could focus on was the gnawing feeling that Davey was right behind her.

She checked over her shoulder, half sure she’d see him charging through the crowd.

But there was nothing.

Just a sea of strangers, oblivious to her panic.

Davey wasn’t chasing her. Not yet. But it wouldn’t take long for him to catch up—not if he still had that damn tracker on her.

She slowed to a walk and scanned the street, her gaze landing on a valet stand in front of an upscale restaurant. A sleek black sedan idled as the young valet stood by the open driver’s side door, chatting with one of his coworkers.

Perfect.

She slid into the passenger side and scooted over into the driver’s seat.

The valet didn’t notice something was amiss until she pulled the door shut from under his hand. His shocked face appeared at the window.

“Hey! You can’t?—”

She didn’t wait for him to finish. The tires screeched on the wet pavement as she peeled away from the curb, weaving between cars and sending up a cacophony of angry honks.

She needed distance.

The farther, the better.

The city blurred around her as she sped toward the West Side Highway. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the steering wheel, her gaze darting between the road and the rearview mirror. No sign of pursuit yet, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

The river came into view, a dark ribbon cutting through the city, reflecting the glow of the skyline. She pulled the car into an empty stretch of parking lot along the riverbank, her breathing still uneven as she killed the engine. She sat there for a long moment, still gripping the wheel until the tremble in her hands subsided.

The tracker.

That nagging feeling wasn’t just paranoia. Davey had put a tracker on her, and if she didn’t find it now, he’d catch up to her before she had a chance to disappear again.

She tugged at the zipper of her jacket, peeling it off and tossing it into the backseat. Next came her boots, her shirt, and her jeans. She stripped down to her bra and underwear, methodically running her hands over every inch of fabric.

Nothing.

“Dammit,” she muttered, tossing her jeans onto the passenger seat.

She moved to her body next, skimming her hands along her arms, legs, torso… and then between her legs because Davey’s hand had been there just hours ago.

And there it was.

A tiny patch clung to her skin at the crease of her inner thigh.

She remembered his hand sliding down the front of her pants, stroking her through the thin fabric of her panties, driving her insane with need. At the time, she’d been too consumed by the heat of his touch to realize his true intention.

“Son of a bitch,” she hissed and peeled the tracker off, the adhesive tugging at her skin. She held it up, the device nearly invisible between her fingers. Of course, Davey would have the audacity to put it there in the most intimate of places.

She stared at the tracker for a long moment, fury, shame, and something dangerously close to hurt roiling inside her.

Jesus, why was she hurt?

Trust had never existed between them and the rest…

Well, she just had to lock down the rest of her messy emotions. She couldn’t afford to feel anything when it came to Davey Wilde.

She crushed the device between her fingers like a bug, then rolled down the window and flung the tracker as far as she could into the murky waters of the Hudson.

Good riddance.

She shouldn’t have let her guard down. Davey was too smart and too focused, and she… dammit, she was slipping. Letting all those messy emotions make her sloppy.

No more.

She dumped the clothes she’d been wearing out the window—she wasn’t going to trust anything she’d worn around Davey—and grabbed a fresh set from her backpack. She dressed fast, her mind already on her next moves. She had to get out of the city. But she also still wanted to know whatever intel Benji had dug up for her. She’d have to reach out to him again and convince him another meeting was in his best interest. Which meant she’d have to up the price.

The thought made her groan. She wasn’t low on funds, but she also couldn’t keep this up indefinitely. Eventually, she’d have to take another job. If anyone would offer her one.

A worry for another time.

Right now, her focus had to be on keeping her family safe and Davey alive.

Just as she pulled on her favorite leather jacket—thank God she hadn’t been wearing that earlier; she’d have been pissed to lose it—the sound of tires screeching shattered the quiet.

No. No way.

Her pulse spiked. He couldn’t have caught up already.

Rowan’s head snapped up, instincts screaming danger. The air felt different now—thick, electric, the way it did right before a storm hit. Headlights bore down on her, too fast, too direct. A black SUV, its engine snarling like a predator closing in.

Not Davey.

And that SUV wasn’t going to stop.

She leaped aside a half second before metal crashed into metal. The impact was deafening. The sedan jolted violently, skidding across the pavement with a tortured screech of steel. If she’d hesitated for even half a second?—

Shit.

She hit the asphalt hard, rolling to absorb the impact, but pain lanced through her shoulder. No time to dwell on it. Adrenaline drowned out the sting as she sprang to her feet. Her eyes flicked to the SUV. The doors swung open in near-perfect sync. Two men, dressed in black, masked. No hesitation in their movements. No wasted energy.

Mercenaries. Trained. Armed. And here for her.

Fan-fucking-tastic. Exactly how she wanted to spend her evening after getting shot at.

Her fingers twitched, aching for a weapon. Anything. But she’d have to make do with the one advantage she still had—momentum.

The first man lunged. Fast. A blade flashed in the dim streetlight, aiming straight for her ribs.

Rowan pivoted, twisting away from the strike. A fraction too slow—she felt the whisper of steel against her jacket, a near miss. She grabbed his wrist, twisting hard. The sharp, wet pop of bone snapping under pressure sent a sick thrill down her spine. The knife clattered to the pavement.

“Bitch!” he snarled and swung at her with his other hand—angry, sloppy, desperate.

She ducked it easily. Drove her elbow into his solar plexus, her entire body weight behind it. He folded with a choked wheeze.

The knife.

She dropped low, snatching it up in one fluid motion. Because what was a good street fight without a little upgrade?

The second attacker was already on her. Bigger. Faster. No hesitation. His fist connected with her jaw before she could block. Pain detonated behind her eyes, white-hot and blinding. Her skull snapped sideways, and her vision went dark for half a second—long enough to know she was in trouble.

No.

Focus.

She staggered but refused to go down. Instinct kept her moving. She tightened her grip on the knife, the hilt slick in her sweaty palm.

Blood pooled in her mouth. She spat it out, the sharp tang of copper coating her tongue, and tracked the bastard in front of her.

Her gaze locked onto the bastard in front of her. Big, broad, and overconfident. He easily outweighed her by a hundred pounds, but size wasn’t everything.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he taunted, circling her like a predator. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Sweetheart? Cute.

She rolled her shoulders, resetting her stance. Every inch of her body ached, but pain meant she was still alive.

She didn’t waste breath on a reply. Instead, she feinted left. His weight shifted. Got you.

She ducked right, pivoting on the balls of her feet, and slashed upward. The blade sliced clean across his forearm. Not deep enough to cripple him, but enough to piss him off.

He let out a sharp hiss, jerking back. “You’ll pay for that,” he growled, his voice dropping into something meaner. His good hand went for his waistband.

Shit.

Rowan’s stomach dropped as the gun came into view.

She was good, but she wasn’t that good.

Behind her, the first guy groaned, struggling to his feet, his broken wrist cradled against his chest. “Just shoot the bitch!” he snarled.

Time slowed.

The gunman’s finger tightened on the trigger.

Move.

Rowan dropped, rolling hard, feeling the rush of air as the bullet passed just inches from her skull. The crack of the gunshot ricocheted off the nearby buildings, so loud it made her ears ring. Someone had to have heard that.

She came up behind the sedan, shoving her back against the cool metal, sucking in a breath. Another shot pinged off the car, sending sparks flying.

“You can’t hide forever!”

No, but she could make him regret thinking she would.

Her grip on the knife tightened. She took a steadying breath and threw it, aiming for the center mass. She didn’t wait to see if it hit.

Instead, she vaulted over the hood of the car, launching herself at him.

The suddenness of her attack caught him off guard. Her shoulder slammed into his ribs, knocking the gun from his grip. It hit the ground with a metallic clatter. They went down hard, his weight crushing her for half a second before she twisted, fighting for leverage.

They grappled, rolling over pavement, trading blows. His fist rammed into her ribs, and something inside her cracked. The pain was instant, sharp enough to steal her breath.

Ignore it.

She drove her knee up, fast and vicious. It landed squarely between his legs.

He let out a strangled sound, body seizing up. She didn’t give him time to recover. Snatching a fistful of his shirt, she yanked him forward and slammed his face against her knee. The cartilage in his face crumpled under the blow, and he went limp.

Panting, she scrambled back from his body, only to spot the first guy fumbling for the fallen gun.

Yeah, that was not happening.

She lunged, and her fingers closed around the grip just before his. She rolled to her feet, gun aimed at his chest. “Don’t.”

Her voice was low, dangerous. No breathless panic. Just promise.

He froze, fury and fear warring in his eyes.

“Who sent you?” she demanded.

He spat at her feet. “Fuck you.”

Wrong answer.

She stepped closer, pressing the barrel of the gun to his forehead. Her finger tightened on the trigger, just enough to make him sweat. “I won’t ask again.”

For a moment, she thought he might crack. His Adam’s apple bobbed. Then his eyes hardened. “You’re dead anyway,” he sneered. “They’ll keep coming. They won’t stop until?—”

Yeah. Enough of this.

She pulled the trigger.

His body hit the ground with a dull thud.

Rowan exhaled. One down.

A roar of rage tore through the night.

The second man was back on his feet, blood streaming down his face, the knife in his hand.

She pivoted, but not fast enough. He charged, wild with fury, and drove the blade deep into her side.

Pain.

Blinding, searing pain.

She gasped, the breath ripped from her lungs as fire bloomed in her ribs. Her legs wanted to buckle, but if she went down, she was as good as dead. She forced herself to stay upright, one hand clamped over the wound.

At least the bastard wasn’t functioning at one hundred percent, either. He stumbled, dazed from his head injury, and braced himself against the SUV.

She had seconds before he came at her again. Seconds before the pain dragged her under.

Her fingers tightened around the gun.

She raised it.

Fired twice.

The shots rang out like thunder.

The man jerked, his body spasming before it hit the pavement.

Silence.

For a long moment, all she could hear was her own ragged breathing. The distant lap of the river. The dull roar of blood in her ears.

She took a step. Wobbled. The world swayed violently.

Shit.

The world tilted sideways. Rowan threw a hand out, catching herself against the hood. She could feel the blood pooling in her boot now. Not good. She lifted her fingers from the wound. Dark red gleamed in the streetlights, soaking into her jacket.

“Fuck,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

The knife was still in her. She knew better than to pull it out, but damn, everything in her screamed to do something.

Her vision blurred as she yanked open the badly dented car door, and the interior swam in and out of focus.

“Come on,” she growled at herself. “Move.”

She slid behind the wheel, each movement a new level of agony. Her hands trembled as she slammed the start button. The engine thankfully roared to life.

The SUV, the bodies, the bloodstained pavement—they all disappeared in the rearview mirror as she peeled out, tires squealing.

She merged onto the highway, her bloody hands slipping on the wheel.

God, that was a lot of blood. Too much.

A wave of dizziness crashed over her, and the road tilted like a ship in a storm. She gritted her teeth and tightened her hands on the wheel until the leather creaked under her palms, and her knuckles went white.

Stay awake. Stay upright. Don’t pass out.

Her body screamed. Her vision pulsed at the edges.

But none of that mattered.

They’d found her. Which meant nowhere was safe. Which meant Davey wasn’t safe.

Her stomach twisted, not from pain but from the realization that settled like lead in her gut.

She had no choice.

As much as she hated to admit it, she couldn’t patch this up on her own.

She needed help.

She needed Davey .