Page 9

nine

Rowan woke gasping, her breath sharp, her pulse a frantic drumbeat against her ribs. Instinct had her scanning the room even before her brain came fully online.

A dark gray comforter, heavy over her legs. A sturdy bed, built like it wasn’t meant to move. Soft blue walls with a framed world map hanging over the headboard. The scent of cedar and leather wrapped around her, grounding her before she could remember why she shouldn’t feel grounded at all.

She knew that smell.

She knew this room.

Soft light bled through the blackout curtains, edging the two floor-to-ceiling windows. The city’s ever-present hum barely reached inside, as if this space— his space—existed in a world apart.

She swallowed hard, her gaze landing on the nightstand. A digital clock’s glowing numbers, a book with a worn spine, and a framed photo of Jude and Libby Wilde, smiling, with Elliot and Dominic beside them.

And—

Davey.

Flashes of memory slashed through the haze. Blood slick on her hands. The wheel slipping under her grip. The tilt of the world as she stumbled out, breath ragged, vision swimming.

Luka’s anxious whine.

Davey’s face—concern carved deep into his expression.

And then—nothing.

Her stomach twisted, nausea rising fast.

God, why had she come here? The whole point of running was to keep Davey safe. Yet here she was in his fucking bed.

No.

She needed to leave.

Now.

She pushed herself up, her muscles screaming in protest, her ribs tightening like a vise. She clenched her jaw against the sharp ache flaring in her side. Lifting the oversized US Navy T-shirt— his shirt—she traced the edge of the square bandage. Beneath it, stitches pulled against her skin. Not deep, or he would’ve taken her to a hospital.

She exhaled. Okay. Good.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed. The moment her bare feet hit the cool hardwood, the room tilted, and the floor lurched.

Shit.

She gripped the mattress, sucking in a slow breath, waiting for the dizziness to pass. How much blood had she lost?

Her bloodstained shirt lay in tatters over the chair in the corner.

Rowan stared at it, her stomach tightening.

Someone had cut it off her.

The thought sent a sharp ripple of unease through her. She hadn’t taken it off. She hadn’t felt it being removed.

Which meant?—

Her fingers curled into the hem of the oversized T-shirt hanging loose on her frame. A dull pulse of heat crept up her neck, not from embarrassment but from the stark reminder that she’d been out. Useless. Vulnerable.

They’d had to cut her free.

She swallowed against the bitter taste in her throat. She should’ve been able to get out of her own damn clothes. Should’ve been awake enough to at least be aware of what was happening to her.

But she hadn’t been.

And now she was here.

Her jeans were missing too. Probably trashed. Probably soaked in blood.

She sucked in a breath, exhaled slow. Didn’t matter.

What mattered was getting out.

Move.

She wasn’t staying.

Not here.

Not with him.

Her breaths came shallow and uneven, but she forced herself to focus and put one foot in front of the other. She pushed open the bedroom door and found Luka curled up in the hallway. The dog lifted his head, his golden eyes locking onto hers. His tail wagged once, hesitant, as if unsure whether to alert Davey or let her pass.

“Shh,” she murmured, crouching to stroke Luka’s ear. “I’m fine, buddy. Just need some air.”

Luka whined softly but didn’t bark. Good boy.

She straightened and continued shuffling forward. The apartment’s layout was ingrained in her memory. His bedroom door led to a mezzanine overlooking the lower floor. There was another bedroom and bathroom straight back, and she could only hope he was asleep in there as she picked her way downstairs to the living room.

The space had always felt like Davey to her: solid, dependable, and utilitarian. A place where everything had its purpose, everything was under control.

It felt safe.

She didn’t belong here. She didn’t belong in a space like this, in a life like his. Her chaos had no place in this order.

Another large, very old framed world map decorated the brick wall over the low leather couch. She’d always wanted to ask him about his fascination with vintage maps because he also had one in his bedroom. But every other time she’d been in his apartment, they were too busy doing more interesting things with their mouths to talk.

And she sure as hell wasn’t about to wake him up now to ask.

Except—he wasn’t in the second bedroom upstairs.

He was on the couch.

Asleep.

Christ.

One arm was draped over his eyes, his broad chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of deep sleep. The thin blanket barely covered his lower half, leaving way too much of him exposed.

The three intricate swirls of ink along his ribs caught her attention—a tattoo she’d always wanted to ask him about but never had. It seemed out of character for him, for a man who never made unnecessary statements, never sought attention.

But it wasn’t just the ink that had her breath hitching.

It was all of him.

The harsh edges of his muscular frame softened in sleep, golden-brown hair a tousled mess, as if he’d spent hours dragging his fingers through it. Stubble shadowed his sharp jaw, dusting his skin in rough gold, making him look less like the dangerously in-control leader she knew and more like?—

A man she wanted to curl into.

A pang of longing hit her so hard she nearly staggered. She locked her knees, forcing herself not to move toward him.

Because that’s what she wanted. What she always wanted.

To slip under that blanket, press herself against all that heat and strength, let his arm curl around her, solid and steady, unshakable as the man himself.

To breathe him in and let the world disappear.

This was exactly why she needed to leave.

She dragged in a shaky breath, tearing her gaze away, forcing herself to focus. Backpack. Clothes. Out.

She hesitated at the bottom of the steps. The front door was right there, across the foyer. Freedom.

But she couldn’t go out there in nothing but his T-shirt.

She peeked over the banister toward the back of the apartment. His kitchen was all dark wood and industrial steel, striking an impossible balance between harshly masculine and warmly inviting.

And right there, on the kitchen island?—

Her backpack.

Her clothes, her weapons, her emergency cash. Everything she needed.

She just had to make it across the room without waking Davey.

Rowan took a deep breath and started moving, each step careful, measured. The hardwood floor creaked beneath her feet.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she whipped her head toward the couch. Davey stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, but he didn’t wake.

She let out the breath she’d been holding in a slow, controlled exhale and continued forward. She was halfway to the kitchen when a low woof behind her stopped her in her tracks.

Luka.

He’d followed her downstairs and now stood between her and the front door, ears pricked forward, his intelligent eyes locked on her with quiet intensity.

“Shh, Luka,” she whispered, lifting a hand. “It’s okay. I’m just?—”

“Going somewhere?” Davey’s sleep-roughened voice cut through the silence like a knife.

Fuck.

When he sat up, the blanket pooled around his hips, leaving far too much golden skin and hard muscle on display. He dragged his hands over his face and yawned, stretching, the shift of his abs pulling her gaze like a magnet.

Unfair. The man had no right to look that good while exhausted.

“I was just… getting some water,” she lied. Weakly. Pathetically. He was going to see right through it.

His eyes narrowed. “Try again.”

Her first instinct was to fight back, to push him away before he got too close. She lifted her chin. “So what if I was sneaking out?”

Davey exhaled through his nose, but she couldn’t tell if he was out of frustration or amusement. Probably both.

“You really think walking out of here half-dressed, with a stitched-up hole in your side, is a good idea?” His voice was rough with sleep, but his eyes were sharp now, cutting straight through her. “That smart survival instinct of yours take the day off?”

She bristled. Damn him. He knew exactly how to needle her, how to get under her skin in ways no one else ever could. “I’m not being reckless. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

His expression hardened. “Keep me safe? Ro, you are the one who showed up at my door bleeding and unconscious.”

She flinched.

Unconscious.

She hated that word. Hated the helplessness of it.

Davey pushed himself up from the couch, wincing slightly as he put weight on his bad leg.

Her eyes betrayed her before she could stop them, tracking the hard planes of his stomach down to where his sweatpants sat dangerously low on his hips. The cut of muscle, the defined V?—

She forced her gaze back to his face before she did something stupid. Like drool.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere,” he said, his voice rough with something she didn’t want to name. Something she wasn’t ready for. “Christ, Ro, you were half-dead two nights ago. You really think I’ll just let you disappear again?”

Two days. She’d lost two whole fucking days.

Her chest went tight.

“I don’t need your permission,” she snapped. “I’m not your responsibility, Davey.”

He took a step closer. Too close.

Her body locked up, her instincts screaming move, but she couldn’t. Not when he was looking at her like that—like she was something breakable, something worth keeping.

“You made it my responsibility when you came to me.” He took another step toward her, crowding her. “You trusted me enough to come here when you were hurt and vulnerable.”

Vulnerable.

She hated that word even more than unconscious.

“I made a mistake,” she forced out, hating the way her voice wavered, hating that he heard it too.

He didn’t respond, but a muscle in his jaw ticked. He was grinding his teeth.

“I shouldn’t have come here,” she added. “I put you at risk.”

“What kind of trouble are you in?” he asked finally. “Who’s after you?”

She shook her head. “The less you know, the safer you’ll be.”

His expression darkened. His next breath came slow, measured—controlled only because he was forcing it to be.

“Don’t do that,” he said, voice rough. “Don’t stand there with a hole in your side and tell me to stay out of it.”

“Well, I am. This isn’t your fight. You don’t need to be involved.”

“I was involved the moment they hurt you.”

A sharp twist of emotion punched through her.

No.

She wouldn’t let this touch him. Wouldn’t let her wrecking-ball life crash into his. “I can handle it on my own.”

He barked out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, you were handling it real well when you were bleeding all over the sidewalk out front.”

Her breath caught at a sudden sliver of memory—his hands on her, pressing against the wound, the fear in his eyes before the darkness swallowed her whole.

She hated that he’d seen her like that. Hated that she’d let herself get that weak.

“That won’t happen again,” she said, willing her voice to stay steady. “I’ll be more careful.”

Davey’s eyes flashed. “More careful? You nearly died , Rowan. If you hadn’t made it here…” He trailed off, dragging a hand through his hair, making it stand up in an endearing cowlick. His throat worked as he swallowed. “Just… stay. Let me help you.”

The earnestness in his voice made her chest ache. For a moment—a single, splintering second—she wanted to say yes. Wanted to sink into his warmth, let him wrap his arms around her, just for a little while.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Davey, but I have to go.”

She turned toward the kitchen, forcing her feet to move, forcing herself not to look back.

Just grab the backpack.

Get out.

But Davey was faster.

In two quick strides, he was between her and the island, his broad frame blocking her path.

“Move,” she growled, glaring up at him.

“No.” He crowded her until her back hit the wall, until all she could see, all she could breathe, was him. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Her patience snapped.

She shoved at his chest, but he didn’t budge.

“Dammit, Wilde! Why can’t you just let me go?”

Her voice cracked.

She hated that.

Hated that he was too damn steady, too damn stubborn, too damn him .

“Why do you even care?”