Rafe's voice drops to a rough whisper. “Not anymore.”
He shoves me toward the street-facing windows. The window lock resists, decades of paint sealing it shut, until Rafe's knuckles whiten and it finally surrenders with a brittle snap. He jams the sash upward with his shoulder, hinges squealing in protest, and early-morning air knifes across my flushed skin, carrying the scent of rain-slick asphalt and distant sirens.
Before I can decide whether the electric current racing through my veins is terror or exhilaration, his calloused hands clamp around my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my hipbones.
My lips part on his name. “Rafe.” But before I can protest, his voice cuts through, low and commanding.
“Hop out for me, baby.” And he shoves me out with enough force to send diamonds shifting underneath my breasts.
I tumble onto the fire escape, the rusted metal grating freezing under my scraped palms. Three stories below, puddles reflect yellow streetlights like scattered gold coins. A dizzy rush of adrenaline spirals through me—fear tangled with a sick excitement, the kind of thrill that hits bone-deep and leaves you shaking for hours after.
I spin back toward the window, hand shooting out instinctively, my midnight blue fingernail polish dark against the night air.
“Come on!” I shout, my heartbeat a constant drum in my ear.
He's framed in the window, silhouetted against the dim light of the ransacked office. His wild grin cuts across his face like a knife slash, all white teeth and savage joy, like this is the best goddamn night of his life. His eyes are bright obsidian in the darkness, blown wide with adrenaline and something darker, hungrier—the look of a man who lives for the edge.
“I'm coming,” he growls, voice roughened glee.
He braces a hand on the frame, knuckles bleached white with pressure. Before he can throw his leg over the windowsill, a violent crack splits the air—too sharp to be wood, too fast to be anything but a gunshot.
The sound reverberates through my chest cavity like a second heartbeat.
Rafe jerks forward with a sharp grunt, momentum pitching him hard against the frame. His face contorts, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his stubbled cheek. A dark stain blooms across his left shoulder, spreading like spilled ink against the black fabric.
“Oh fuck.”
My body lurches toward the window before the rational part of my brain even catches up. My hands grip the frame, and I’m screaming his name as if volume alone is enough to pull him through bloody and whole.
He moves. God, he moves fast, even hurt. The backpack swings out first, then his right leg, but his left arm dangles limp, hand clenching and unclenching around nothing. The next shot obliterates the glass above him, shards raining down like sleet across his shoulders and the fire escape. I duck instinctively, pressing myself flat against the metal against the grating, knees and ribs rattling as metal shudders beneath me.
“Move, baby!” Rafe barks, voice gone harsh and guttural, but not weak.
I scramble sideways, blood roaring in my ears as I press my back flat against the brick wall next to the window. Rafe spills onto the fire escape in the next breath, grunting as he slings his backpack full of gear on.
“Are you hurt?”
Blood soaks through his sleeve, but Rafe's jaw is granite.
“I'm fine. Asshole got a lucky shot.” His right hand snaps out, fingers circling my wrist like iron, and he yanks me in front of him with enough force to make my teeth click. “We gotta get to the bottom before he gets to the window.”
We clatter down the rusted fire escape, my boots slipping on metal slick with drizzle. Each step reverberates through the structure, announcing our escape to anyone listening. The jewelry between my breasts jabs with every movement, cold and accusatory.
Fear coils around my lungs like barbed wire, and I suddenly wrench around to face him on the next landing.
“We have to go back.Lolais in there.”
I try to dart around him, then shove against his chest when that fails, but his fingers remain locked around my wrist like a steel manacle. He walks me backward until rough brick scrapes between my shoulder blades, catching strands of my hair. His face looms inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his wild eyes, count the beads of sweatalong his hairline, smell the metallic tang of blood mixing with his cologne. “She's fine,” he growls, voice scraping low and dangerous. “Gage would've gotten her out.”
“You don’tknowthat,” I stress, pressing against his hold on me.
He steps into me, pinning my body to the brick with his, one hand trapped between us, his blood-soaked sleeve smearing warmth against me. The rough edges of the bricks scrape against my shoulder blades through my hoodie as his weight crushes me against the wall. “Stop talking,” he hisses, his breath hot and ragged against my lips, smelling faintly of whiskey and adrenaline.
Rage ignites inside of me, a match struck against sandpaper, spreading liquid fire through my veins until my skin feels too tight to contain it. My chest expands with fury, lungs filling like I'm about to plunge beneath storm-churned waves. I push onto my toes, my spine straightening as I gain those precious inches. My lips part, teeth bared, jaw aching with the force of words clawing their way up my throat.
“Get the fuck out of my way, Rafe,” I snarl, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “You guys might leave each other behind, but I?—”
He swallows my words with his lips, claiming my mouth with desperate violence. For a moment, I don’t move, stunned still, my fury frozen in my throat. But then his tongue sweeps into my mouth, hot and demanding, and I feel the rough scrape of his stubble against my chin, smell the metallic tang of his blood mingling with rain-soaked concrete and sweat-slick skin.
