“What—?”
He crossed back to her in two steps, cupping her face gently. “Roman. Something happened. I don’t know what. Hawk wants us in four-twenty-seven like yesterday.”
Her breath caught. “That’s his room.”
She was out of bed instantly, snatching clothes off the floor, slipping into shoes.
Elvis grabbed his jacket and his sidearm, muscle memory taking over, then wrapped a hand around Delaney’s wrist and pulled her into the hallway. “You stick close to me and keep your eyes peeled. I want to feel you at my back at all times.”
They moved fast, keeping to the wall as they eased their way to the elevators. Too fast for questions, which was good because he didn’t have any answers to give.
The hotel corridor felt different at this hour, quiet in a way that didn’t feel peaceful. Doors remained closed, even though there were noises coming from behind a few of them, sounds you would expect to hear at that time of night after a night of gambling and drinking. The carpet muffled their footsteps, and when they slid out of the elevator, somewhere down the hall, voices murmured urgently.
Room 427 was already complete chaos.
Two paramedics stood just inside the doorway, gear open and spread across the floor. The marshal stood near the wall, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched like he was barely holding his rage inside. Ray Boudreaux hovered near the doorframe, phone in hand, barking quiet orders into it while scanning the hallway with sharp eyes.
Hawk stood inside the room, one hand braced against the dresser, his face carved from stone.
Delaney tore free of Elvis’s grip the moment she saw the medics.
“Roman! Roman!”
She shoved past everyone, even though the marshal tried to keep her from entering the room. The man glared at Elvis as if everything was his fault.
Elvis followed, heart pounding, the scene slamming into him all at once.
The room looked like a hurricane had passed through, with drawers yanked out and their contents dumped. The mattress was half-shoved off the frame, and the pillows shredded. A chair lay overturned near the window, one leg snapped clean off. Someone had smashed the lamp on the desk, glass glittering across the carpet like ice.
Roman sat on the edge of the bed, shirt soaked through with blood at the collar and shoulder, one eye already swelling shut. His lip was split, and a dark bruise bloomed across his cheekbone while dried blood streaked down his neck.
But he was upright, which was the main thing. He was breathing and alive, even if a little—all right, a lot—banged up.
Delaney dropped to her knees in front of him, hands hovering uselessly over his injuries. “Oh my God, Roman. Roman, look at me.”
Elvis watched her do it, felt it in his chest as he knew what she must be feeling. Not panic or rage. But something slower. Heavier. Fear. Even blame.
He had seen men bleed out in foreign deserts. Had dragged teammates through smoke and rubble. Had held pressure on wounds while rounds cracked overhead.
But watching Delaney collapse in front of Roman like that—small and shaking and trying not to fall apart…
That wrecked him in a way that nothing else had.
“I’m here,” Roman croaked. “Mostly, anyway.”
One paramedic gently nudged Delaney aside, continuing to assess him, checking vitals while another wrapped gauze around his forearm.
Elvis stood frozen in the doorway for half a second too long.
This was his fault.
The thought landed heavily, and with a brutality that sickened him. If he hadn’t asked Blaze to run the search... If he hadn’t reopened Julia Moretti to the world... If he hadn’t dragged ghosts into the present...
She didn’t cry right away. She went still, her hands trembling in the air between them, unsure where to touch her friend, like she was afraid to hurt him even more. Her shoulders curled inward like she was trying to make herself smaller, like instinct told her this was somehow her fault. But it wasn’t. It was his.
Elvis swallowed hard as he watched her. He’d seen her stand toe-to-toe with marshals and security directors over the past twenty-four hours, commanding rooms full of men twice her size with nothing but her voice and a tablet. And now here she was on her knees in a ransacked hotel room, staring at her best friend like she was bracing for him to disappear.
Something inside Elvis cracked open at the sight. He stepped forward without thinking, crouching beside her. He was about to say her real name, but stopped himself. “Del,” he whispered.
