Page 41 of Own

“So far…” Her response trailed off as the man handed her a glass, presumably with alcohol, taken from a waiter who approached them and then retreated once more.

She accepted the offer, but didn’t drink.

Good girl.

When she blew out a breath, the low sigh echoed too damn close to the way she’d exhaled after she came. Those two experiences did not belong side by side in this.

“Heads up,” Lunchbox said abruptly. “North stairwell.”

“What the hell—?” Alphabet exhaled shock with each syllable.

The camera angles updated on my second screen. My stomach dropped sickeningly. For the first time all evening, the feed was almost crystal fucking clear. No static. A clean-shaven man dressed in a dark gray suit approached along the mezzanine. His measured pace was as familiar as my own.

Worse, the military cut of his dark brown hair was high and tight. It added to the harsh angles of his face. Not even the tailored suit could detract from the wide-shoulders or the barrel like chest. The man was a tank.

He’d always been.

The last time I laid eyes on him had been only a few seconds before a collapsing building buried him in what should have been his tomb.

“Not possible.” Each word broke off like ice cracking.

“Declan O’Rourke.” Voodoo sounded even quieter, colder, and I had no doubts, as furious as I was. Declan had been his “friend” before.

Ex-special forces. Former ally. Mercenary for hire. Reported dead. Killed in action.

Traitor.

He sold us out. Him and Reznik.

Only, we hadn’t known he’d been just as much a part of it as Reznik before three years ago.

And now?

The man walked out of the past, heading straight for Grace.

“Grace. Abort. Now.”

But it was already too late. O’Rourke was there.

O’Rourke glanced at the man who’d taken Grace upstairs The other dropped his chin, a nod as he withdrew. He stepped aside as though he knew his place.

As if he’d already lost the bid.

O’Rourke?

He lifted Grace’s hand, brushing a kiss to her knuckles.

“We need a better angle,” I growled, though I’d pressed mute on my comms. She didn’t need to hear this part. Not when she was the one standing right in front of that son of a bitch.

“Working on it,” Alphabet gritted out.

“Did they send you?” The silken tone barely gloved the measured violence in the traitor’s voice. “Or are you the gift I’ve been promised?”

She didn’t respond, not immediately. All I could see was the way she tilted her head. The seconds passed like hours.

“Lunchbox, get us a better goddamn angle.”

Blowing out a breath, I unmuted my link to her comm. “You breathe my name, Grace, and I’ll burn that goddamn building to the ground.”

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