He moves toward the roof’s edge. My body locks, feet rooting to gravel like I’ve been bolted down.
“Fire escape. Only way down.”
I shake my head violently, backing away.
He turns, impatience flickering across his features. “You climbed up?—”
I point at the bodies. Then at myself. Make a throat-cutting gesture. Then point at the fire escape and shake my head harder, whole body trembling.
“Heights.” Understanding crosses his features, softening them fractionally. “But you climbed anyway. To survive.”
I nod, wrapping my arms around myself. My ribs protest—sharp pain lancing through my chest with each breath.
“Can you do it again?”
No. God, no.
Footsteps in the stairwell. Voices. More coming.
I force myself to nod.
He swings onto the fire escape—no hesitation, no fear, moving like the rusted metal is solid ground. I snatch both my phone and the USB from one of the dead men and follow on legs made of jelly, hands welding to the railings. The metal groans, shakes, threatens to tear free from the brick. The rust isrough under my palms, flaking away, leaving orange residue on bloodied skin.
“Eyes on me.” An order, not a suggestion. “Don’t look down.”
I lock onto his face. Strong jaw, dark eyes that don’t waver. An anchor in the spinning world.
“One level. Then the next.”
We descend into a nightmare. Each step is calculated terror. My hands won’t release the railings. He has to pry them loose at each platform, his fingers warm against my frozen ones. Patient. Methodical. Like he has all the time in the world, even though we’re both going to die.
“Two more floors.”
Glass explodes above us. Gunfire erupts, suppressors spitting their mechanical coughs.
Without warning, he grabs me, throws me over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. His shoulder drives into my stomach, reigniting the pain from earlier. One arm locks around my legs, holding me secure as he descends fast—taking steps three at a time.
There is no romance in it. Just efficiency. Mass and velocity and the quickest way to clear the kill zone.
The world inverts. Blood rushes to my head. His body is solid beneath me, muscles shifting with each movement. I smell gunpowder and sweat, leather and something clean like cedar. My hands clutch at his back, feeling a tactical vest, weapons, and controlled power.
We hit the alley hard. He sets me on my feet but keeps one arm around my waist when my knees buckle. His grip is firm, supporting without hurting my bruised ribs.
A motorcycle waits—black, anonymous.
“Get on.”
I stare at it, then at him.
“Now.” The word is an order, clipped and absolute.
I climb on behind him. My arms wrap around his waist on instinct. He’s solid, real, radiating heat through his jacket. I can feel his abs through the leather—hard planes of muscle, body honed for violence.
“Hold tight.”
The engine roars. We launch forward. Alley walls blur past. My ribs protest with each bump, each jarring impact. Wind tears at my torn clothes, stinging every cut. But his body shields most of it—a solid wall between me and everything trying to kill me.
We hit the street. He leans into a turn. I lean with him—instinct, survival, trust I didn’t choose. My arms tighten around his waist, feeling each breath he takes, each shift of muscle as he controls the machine.
