Page 7

seven

Davey was bone-tired as he parked his car in his reserved space in front of the stately brownstone on the Upper West Side. His parents had bought the place when WSW moved its headquarters to New York City from Washington, D.C., eventually turning the huge house into apartments for him and his brothers. He had the first two floors, Elliot had the next two, and Dom the two above that. The seventh floor and rooftop terrace were common spaces they all shared. Usually, he liked having his brothers close by, but tonight, he was glad to see neither Elliot’s BMW nor Dom’s Camaro in their spaces, even though he’d left work long after they had.

For once, the house would be quiet, and he needed that.

The day had been brutal, his body aching from the chase, his leg reminding him with every damn step that he wasn’t invincible. He turned off the car and sat there for a moment, listening to the engine of the vintage Ford Mustang tick as it cooled. His brothers made fun of him for drivingsuch an ancient vehicle.

“It’s older than Dad!” Dom liked to remind him every time the car acted up.

But Davey had always loved all things vintage. Maps, watches, cars, weapons. Mom always said he was an old soul, born about a century too late. Maybe she was right. There was just something about old things—the craftsmanship, the history, the stories buried in their bones—that felt more solid, more real than anything new.

He loved the way the old car growled when he hit the gas and enjoyed the smooth leather of the steering wheel beneath his hands. He was half-tempted to drive out of the city and find a deserted road where he could really open her up, let the power of the engine drown out his thoughts. But his leg was throbbing now, and the idea of a hot shower and a half-decent night’s sleep won out.

A soft whine from the passenger seat pulled him from his thoughts. Luka’s golden eyes stared at him, his tail wagging slowly, thumping against the door.

“You and me both, buddy,” Davey muttered, scratching behind the dog’s ears. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”

He climbed out of the car, Luka bounding ahead toward the entrance. Davey grabbed his bag, his mind already shifting to tomorrow’s plan. He had to figure out another way to find Rowan now that she’d destroyed the tracker. He couldn’t let this slip turn into a full-blown failure. It’d just give Cade more ammunition against him.

Luka’s sharp bark sliced through his thoughts. Not a playful bark. A warning.

Davey’s head snapped up, his entire body going still, instincts kicking in hard and fast. His fingers skimmed the grip of his gun, ready to draw. Luka never barked like that unless something was wrong.

The dog stood rigid at the edge of the building’s landscaping, pawing frantically at the bushes. His ears were flat, tail stiff—every sign of distress Davey had learned to recognize over years of training and fieldwork.

Something was there.

Someone.

A shot of adrenaline burned through his veins as he stepped closer. “Luka, heel.”

Luka didn’t listen. Instead, he let out a low whine and shoved his nose deeper into the greenery.

Davey’s pulse quickened. Luka was disciplined and sharp as hell—he only ignored commands when the situation was critical. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

Then he saw her.

Rowan.

The breath punched out of his lungs.

She lay crumpled among the bushes, her dark hair tangled with leaves, her jacket soaked with blood. The moonlight cast her face in shades of gray, her skin too pale, lips parted in shallow, uneven breaths.

Luka nudged her arm, whimpering low in his throat, pressing closer like he could keep her here just by sheer force of will.

Davey forced himself to move. He dropped to his knees beside her, fingers searching for a pulse, for a sign that she wasn’t slipping away from him.

There.

Weak, but steady.

Relief slammed into him, violent and overwhelming, stealing his breath. His vision tunneled for half a second, body caught between the sharp edge of panic and the crushing weight of that relief. His pulse hammered so hard it felt like each heartbeat rattled his ribs. His whole damn chest ached like he’d taken a hit straight to the sternum, like something inside him had been wound too tight and just snapped loose all at once.

Jesus.

His throat closed up. He exhaled hard through his nose, a sound that was half-growl, half-shudder, and forced himself to breathe. To move.

She wasn’t gone.

Not yet.

But she could have been.

Would have been if Luka hadn’t found her.

Davey swallowed hard, his gaze flicking to the dog. Luka stood guard, his body tense, ears flat, eyes locked on Rowan. Still watching her. Still protecting her.

He reached out, running a quick hand over his dog’s head in silent thanks.

Luka had saved her.

Now, it was up to Davey to keep her alive.

His focus snapped back to Rowan, to the knife still embedded in her side, to the too-shallow breaths barely moving her chest.

“Rowan.” His voice was sharp, cutting through the night. No softness, no hesitation. He needed her awake. Needed her fighting.

He gave her shoulder a firm shake. “Rowan, can you hear me?”

Her eyelids fluttered, barely. A faint moan slipped past her lips, pained and distant, but her body barely stirred.

Not good.

“Fuck.” His throat was tight, his brain calculating, assessing. Knife wound. Blood loss. Exposure. If she’d passed out outside, in this condition, she hadn’t been in control of how long she was bleeding out.

He needed to get her inside. Now.

But the knife—if he moved her wrong, if it nicked something vital…

He was already pulling out his phone before his thoughts fully caught up. One-handed, practiced, automatic. His fingers flew over the screen as he dialed.

The call connected on the second ring.

“Tess, I need you at my apartment. Now.”

“What’s going on?” his cousin asked, instantly alert.

“It’s Rowan. She’s hurt—bad. Looks like she got into a fight. Bring your med kit.”

“I’m on my way,” Tessa said without hesitation.

He hung up, tucking the phone away and turning his attention back to Rowan. Her skin was clammy, her breathing shallow. Shock was setting in.

“Stay with me, Ro.” His voice was low, urgent. A demand, not a request. He pulled off his jacket and laid it over her, but it felt useless against the bone-deep chill radiating off her skin. “Help’s coming.”

Luka whined again, nudging Rowan’s hand with his nose.

“Good boy,” Davey said absently, gaze scanning the area for any signs of threat. Whoever had done this could still be nearby.

But then he spotted the car parked haphazardly on the curb with the crumpled driver’s side door hanging open. He drew his gun and left her side long enough to do a quick check of the vehicle. It was still running. Her blood had pooled in the seat and streaked the steering wheel and the door.

So, whatever happened, Rowan had gotten herself here.

And, somehow, he knew this wasn’t her personal car. Most likely, she stole it.

He reached in and hit the ignition button, shutting it off. Then he shut the door and grabbed his phone again, texting Sullivan O’Connell.

Black car in front of my place, dented driver’s side, blood in the seat. NJ plates. It needs to be wiped and dumped.

The reply came back in seconds:

On it, boss.

Davey exhaled sharply, shoving his phone back into his pocket. He cast one last glance at the car before turning on his heel and striding back to Rowan.

She hadn’t moved.

His stomach twisted at how damn still she was, her face too pale, her body unnervingly limp. Luka whined softly, still pressing close to her, his nose nudging at her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Davey murmured, crouching beside her again, running his hand over her hair without thinking. “I’m worried about her, too, buddy.”

The minutes crawled by like hours until he finally heard the screech of tires.

A sleek black car skidded to a stop, and Tessa Wilde leaped out, medical bag in hand, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders in loose waves. She moved with sharp, no-nonsense efficiency, her dark eyes already assessing the situation before she even reached them. The amber glow of the streetlights softened the warm caramel of her skin, but there was nothing soft about her expression.

“Jesus Christ,” she breathed as she knelt beside them. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. Found her like this. Knife’s still in her.”

Tessa’s hands were already moving, checking Rowan’s vitals. “We need to get her inside. Can you carry her?”

Davey nodded, sliding his arms carefully under Rowan’s limp body. He lifted her as gently as he could, gritting his teeth against the twinge in his bad leg.

They made their way quickly to Davey’s apartment, Tessa clearing a space on the dining table. “Put her here,” she directed, already pulling supplies from her bag.

Davey laid Rowan down, but he couldn’t make himself let her go right away. His hand lingered on her cheek. “Don’t you dare die on me, Bristow. You hear me? You don’t get to check out like this.”

Tessa shouldered him out of the way. “I need space to work, Davey. Go make yourself useful and boil some water.”

He nodded, forcing himself to step back. As he moved to the stove, his gaze never left Rowan’s pale face. Whatever had happened, whoever had done this to her, they were going to pay. He’d make damn sure of that.

His hands shook as he filled a pot with water and set it on the burner. Shook. His hands never did that. He clenched his jaw, forcing his grip steady, but the tremor wouldn’t stop. His fingers felt numb, foreign, like they belonged to someone else.

Boil water. Like this was any other night. Like Rowan wasn’t bleeding out on his kitchen table. Domestic normalcy clashing violently with the fucking nightmare unfolding behind him.

He braced his hands on the counter, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles went white. His lungs felt too tight.

Breathe , he reminded himself. In. Out. Again.

Behind him, the soft snick of scissors slicing through fabric made his stomach drop.

“Shit,” Tessa muttered. “This is bad, Davey. The knife’s in deep.”

He turned, dreading what he’d see—but unable to look away.

Blood. So much of it.

His gut twisted violently at the sight of her torso, skin streaked red, her shirt ruined, her body unnervingly still. He had seen wounds like this before—on the battlefield, on mission recoveries—but never on her. Never on Rowan.

And that was different. That was worse.

His voice came out rough, gritted between his teeth. “Can you get it out?”

Tessa’s face was grim. “I have to. But there’s a risk of further internal damage. We really should get her to a hospital.”

No.

His breath locked in his chest, muscles coiling like a live wire. A hospital meant exposure. A hospital meant more eyes, more risk, more people knowing she was alive when someone had just tried to make damn sure she wasn’t.

His voice came out sharper than he intended. “No. No hospitals. If someone’s after her, that’s the first place they’ll look. You know that.”

When Tessa met his gaze, her expression shifted—frustration, uncertainty, maybe even pity. He hated it.

“Davey, she could die.”

His stomach bottomed out.

She could die.

Something snapped inside him, something feral and instinctive, something that wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept that possibility.

“Then you’d better make sure she doesn’t,” he growled.

Tessa’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “I’ll do my best. But I need your help. This is going to be messy.”

Davey moved on autopilot. He’d done this before—field medicine, trauma care, triage. He could patch a bullet wound in the dark, keep a dying man alive with duct tape and grit. But this was different. This was Rowan.

Her face was ashen, her breathing shallow and ragged. He placed a hand on her forehead, alarmed at how cold and clammy her skin felt.

“Stay with me, Ro,” he murmured.

She didn’t react. Didn’t even stir.

Fuck.

Tessa worked fast, clearing the blood away from the wound with steady, clinical efficiency. “Okay, I’m going to remove the knife. Be ready to apply pressure the moment it’s out.”

Luka whined softly from his spot by the table, eyes locked on Rowan’s still form. The dog knew. Knew she was bad. Knew how close this was.

“It’s okay, boy,” Davey murmured and positioned his hands where Tessa indicated. “She’s tough. She’ll pull through.”

He wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Luka or himself.