Page 37

No Nick.

I keep walking, my heart a low, murmured pulse in my ears. I leave that hand on the wall, eyes nearly incapacitated, as I reach the middle bedroom. Still nothing.

Keep walking.

Heartbeat in my throat now, I swallow down dryness in my mouth. As I creep toward the front of the hall, the faintest glow of pale, yellowy light leaks out into the hall, like a faded beacon to a nefarious destination.

Someone’s in the master bedroom.

My pulse quickens. I’ve found my target.

Nick’s in the owner’s suite.

My feet still on the cloudlike carpet, and that uncomfortable prickle crawls over my skin. He’s in that first behemoth of a bedroom—the room with almost no security, no alarms, no valuables, save for a sad little jewelry safe I could crack in my sleep. A bedroom. Just a bedroom. A goddamned bedroom.

The fuck is his game?

My teeth grit together hard enough to make my jaw ache. I don’t know, but I’ve come this far, I’m gonna find out. Whether or not it’s a stupid fucking idea.

My foot feels heavy as lead as I lift it. But I don’t stop. On silent feet, I stalk my prey down the hallway.

I pause outside the set of wide double doors. The first is barely propped open, just enough for me to slip my fingers through. I sneak out another few secret inches so I can gaze into the soft darkness beyond.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve arrived. This. Here. My destination. My goal. The moment we’ve been building up to for seven years. I set my eye to the crack and peer inside.

It’s pitch black, save for the buttery glow of a flashlight. Can’t see much of the room in the dark of a night without electricity, but the light scrapes out tiny details: the creamy glint of pale wood flooring; the towering curve of the four-poster bed; the faded reflection of the window painted in blackness and tongues of firework flame; the wide, gilded frame guarded by a careful camera.

And a black silhouette, stealing the light in a six-foot space with the outline of a man. In the flash of a firework, I detect the faintest glint of red hair.

Nick Saborn.

I bite back a grin. My fingers flex, aching with the need to reach for my cards or my nonexistent cap or the necklace that doesn’t belong in my pocket.

We meet again, my friend.

Nick’s flashlight beam gifts small pieces of the room, all of which looks different in the dark: the dressing table of white wood, the stool nestled beneath, the chest at the foot of the bed. A neat accent table against the wall.

Nick himself stands in front of the dark blue nightstand beside the bed.

Not the safe. Not the dressing table with the jewelry stand on top. Not even the closet, probably stuffed with expensive clothes and accessories.

The nightstand.

My fingers curve around the door to push it open further. The hell’s he doing? None of this makes any damn sense. Why the fuck would he need to cut the power to the third floor to break into a nightstand?

I peer in, just a touch further, as Nick reaches forward into the arc of his flashlight, the yellowed light setting his skin aglow. His fingers curl over the knob on the top drawer to pull it open, and his hand drops into that receptacle. Wraps around something lying within—

A footstep cracks on the stairs below. Loud, heavy. Another. I whip toward it, my heart racing as it lodges in my throat.

Shit.

I don’t need eyes on those steps—based on that tread, I got a pretty solid guess who’s making the march up here. Somehow, I know my blond boy would never be so audible, so obvious; if he was following me, nobody would be any the wiser.

Which means the oversized fool clumping up the stairs is, in fact, Silverback.

Headed toward Nick—and by extension, me.

Shit.