Alex said nothing, only continued to stare expressionlessly at him, but Elijah didn't make the mistake of thinking the guy had nothing to say. There was something sharp and frighteningly perceptive behind that blue gaze.
"Okay, well, I for one don't give a shit who you were or why you're doing what you're doing," Woolf said suddenly, sounding impatient. "All I want to know is who you've got in your sights now that Fitzgerald's dead and why you needed Violet."
"As I said," a light, accented voice off to the side added, "I think you want the same thing we do."
The bodyguard.
Slowly Elijah turned. She'd shot at him in the apartment and missed, possibly deliberately. Her eyes were very green and very cool, and not at all uncertain.
"If you want the same thing I do," he said, "then why the fuck do you keep getting in my way?"
"Because you involved my goddamn sister," Woolf growled.
Elijah turned back to the other man, who'd stepped forward, his hands loose at his sides, no doubt ready to deal out more damage if he didn't get the right answer.
More pain didn't bother Elijah, but unwillingly a small thread of respect wound through him. At least Woolf knew the right questions to ask. Knew what didn't matter and what did.
"I involved your fucking sister because Ms. King here shot the man I've been trying to take down and I needed a backup plan. She was it."
"Why? What do you need her for?"
They didn't know. They didn't know about Jericho. Then again, why would they? He was a shadowy figure, his identity a closely guarded secret. No one had met him, no one knew who he really was, not even Fitzgerald. And the only reason Elijah even knew was because Fitzgerald had been wanting in on the guy's territory and needed all his men behind him.
You should tell them.
Ah, but why? This was his battle, his war. He didn't want anyone else fighting it for him, taking away the victory that was rightfully his, because shit, they'd already done it once before. Telling them now would only make them involve themselves again, and that was the last thing he wanted.
So he said nothing.
Woolf's lip curled. "Hate to break it to you, but Fitzgerald's fucking little empire is still going strong. Which means you've done sweet fuck all to take it down."
"Not quite fuck all. If you know Fitzgerald then you know about the Seven Devils. And if you know about the Seven Devils, you'll know that three of them, other than South and Fitzgerald, are dead." The Devils had been part of Fitzgerald's group of college friends, young men who'd been hungry for more money and power than they already had, and been drawn to get it illegally under Fitzgerald's influence.
"You killed them?" St. James asked sharply.
"Not personally, but I engineered their deaths." He'd worked hard at that too, to make sure they went down and yet to hide his own involvement. Fitzgerald had never guessed. "As for the other two who are still alive … it would have been only a matter of time."
"There's someone else." Rutherford spoke unexpectedly. His amber eyes hadn't moved from Elijah, not once. "You're going after someone else."
Elijah gave him back a cold smile. "Is that right?"
Rutherford's gaze intensified. "Someone who wants Violet."
Fuck.
Oh come on. Did you really think they wouldn't guess at some point?
Well, he'd hoped. They'd been so interested in other facts, they hadn't seemed interested in working anything else out. Turned out he was wrong.
He leaned back in the chair, letting his hands rest loosely on the arms of it. "Congratulations. You've worked out something very simple."
"Who?" Rutherford's voice virtually cracked with command, hard as a whip snapping. "Who wants her?"
The authority in his voice had no effect on Elijah whatsoever. He stared at Rutherford instead, turning something over in his head.
Maybe he should tell them, or at least use the information as a way of getting Violet and getting out of here.
"I'll tell you," he said slowly. "On one condition."
"Fuck no," Woolf spat. "You're not making any fucking conditions."
But Rutherford ignored the other man. "What condition?"
"Zac." Woolf's voice was a growl. "We can find this shit out ourselves, we don't need this prick. Hell, maybe he told Violet? She'll tell us."
Of course they could get a name out of Violet. But what they couldn't get was Jericho's contact details. Only he had that.
"No." It was Eva who spoke, her silver eyes glittering. "That'll take time, and I'm sick of this cagey bullshit. I want it to be over. Like now."
"You heard the woman," Rutherford murmured. "What's your condition?"
Woolf muttered something vicious, but the others ignored him.
A dumb move. Especially because they sure as shit weren't going to like that condition.
"It's not difficult. You let me go unharmed."
There was a silence.
"But that's not all. Is it?" This from St. James, his blue gaze narrowing.
Elijah allowed himself another smile. "Of course not. I want Violet too."
Violet sat on the massive black leather couch in Gabriel Woolf's Tribeca apartment with her hands clasped together, feeling a little dazed and oddly disconnected from things.
Maybe it was shock. At least, that's what Honor kept calling it. Because surely what she should be feeling was enormous relief at finally being out of Elijah's apartment. And gladness that her friend had come through and that she'd been rescued.
But she didn't. Instead, along with the weird disconnectedness she felt … worried. Unsure. Bizarrely she kept glancing around for Elijah and being disappointed that he wasn't here.
After she'd seen Gabriel deliver that knockout blow, he and Alex and the blonde bodyguard had bundled her up into a large black truck. They'd thrown an unconscious Elijah in the back and then they'd taken her here. Elijah they'd taken … somewhere else. To Zac's place apparently, according to Honor.
Violet did not find that in the least bit reassuring. And then reflected on the fuckedupedness of worrying about her captor and being concerned for his welfare.
Jesus Christ. Two days she'd been in that apartment-hardly enough time to get to know someone let alone feel what she felt for Elijah. Which meant she really was screwed up beyond all recognition.
Honor came back out of the kitchen with a mug of extremely hot, strong coffee, putting it on the low table near the couch. Then she sat down beside Violet, a concerned look on her face.
It was strange. Her friend looked just like she always did. Same smooth, black bobbed hair and delicate feline features. Same deep blue eyes. Same taste in beautifully tailored, professional-looking outfits. And Violet couldn't quite understand how her friend could be just the same, when it felt to Violet like her whole world had shattered.
Shouldn't the earth have moved? And why the hell was New York still even standing?
But of course the world and everything in it was the same. It was she who'd changed.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Honor asked after a moment. "You don't want me to call a doctor or anything?"
For a second Violet didn't understand what her friend was talking about. And then she realized. Her wrist. "No, I'm fine," she said, resisting the urge to pull down the sleeves of her top to cover the bandage.
"Not for … " Honor paused. "Anything else?"
Violet frowned at her. "What else?"
Her friend's blue eyes were very direct. "Did he hurt you, Violet?"
"No." A flash of something that felt very much like anger went through her. "No," she repeated sharply. "Of course he didn't hurt me. And if you're asking whether he raped me, then no, he didn't fucking do that either."
Honor didn't seem to take offense at her tone, only gave a nod. "Well, okay then. I had to check. I mean there's your wrist and," she gestured at Violet's shorn head, "the fact that you've had your hair all cut off. I just wanted to make sure you were okay."
Violet reached for her coffee, anger still twisting inside her and not really wanting to show it. Because her friend was only trying to help. Honor didn't know what had happened between her and Elijah, and if she did … Well, shit, she'd probably be appalled. Or maybe not. Maybe she'd be expecting something like that to happen, because God knew Violet had been hiding behind the façade of the sexual free-spirit for years.
She sipped her coffee, holding onto the mug with both hands, the hot liquid warming her.
Honor said nothing, letting the silence sit between them, though Violet knew her friend must have had a thousand questions all waiting to be asked.
Eventually, she said, "I'm fine, Honor. Really."
The other woman scanned her face as if she was checking her over. "Can I ask what happened?"