His teeth catch my bottom lip, the sharp sting melting into heat that floods down my spine. It's like being slammed into a wall. My anger turns molten, liquifying into something reckless and raw. I bite him, hard, tasting salt and copper. He groans and deepens the kiss, his hand fisting in my hair until it achesdeliciously. For one spiraling second the rest of the world blurs out—every footstep, every gunshot, every ache in my chest. All that’s left is the bruising crush of his mouth and the hot, dizzying pulse underneath my skin.
He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine, his breath staccato against my lips. “Look up.”
I blink, dazed. It takes effort to drag my gaze from his face and look above us. There’s a man leaning out of the window, the barrel of his gun catching moonlight as he sweeps it back and forth out of the window. His mouth moves, words lost beneath the thunder of blood in my ears.
“That mouth of yours was about to give us away. And as much as I can handle a bullet, i’m not so sure if you can,” he murmurs against my throat, his lips brushing against my pulse point.
Indignation sings in my veins like electricity through a live wire, hot and dangerous. My chest constricts with competing emotions—fury at his high-handedness, confusion over the kiss, terror about Lola—until I can barely breathe through the tangle of them. I settle on quiet seething instead, jaw clenched so tight my molars might crack.
“Asshole,” I gasp, the word a ragged slice between us, sharp enough to draw blood but too breathless to carry the venom I intended.
But he’s already laughing, breathless against my earlobe, like this is the only thing that makes sense in the world.
I tear my gaze away from his mouth and tell myself—hard—that agreeing with Rafe Calloway has never once ended well for anyone.
25
BELLAMY
“We’regonna have to run the last flight, and our friend up there is going to hear us, so be quick, yeah?”
I yank my wrist from his grip, the friction burning my skin, and flash him the flattest glare I can muster. “This isn't my first job, you know.” My voice comes out low and steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me like electricity.
He leans into me, close enough that I can count his eyelashes, the heat of his body radiating between us in some kind of challenge I refuse to acknowledge. His eyes, dark as midnight and just as dangerous, lock onto mine. “It's your first job with me.” Then he grabs my wrist again, his calloused fingers sliding down to lace with mine, rough skin against soft, his grip firm but not painful. The corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing the ghost of a dimple. “Ready, baby?”
I roll my eyes, tasting copper where I'd bitten the inside of my cheek. “Let's go.” The nickname—baby—lingers between us, making my skin prickle like static before a storm. It's probably just some ridiculous habit he has with everyone, a convenient placeholder because he can't be bothered to remember actualnames. The kind of false intimacy that means nothing to him and shouldn't mean anything to me.
We take the last flight in a blur, the rusted metal rattling like a freight train beneath our steps. My lungs burn with each ragged breath, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades despite the chill. I have no idea how much time is left on our timers, but I know Beck wouldn't let Bishop leave without us. And I can't let myself think about Lola—her face hovers at the edges of my mind like a ghost I refuse to acknowledge. Instead, I focus on the stairs. One wrong step means falling a story onto the pavement below.
Gunshots crack through the air like thunder, concrete dust exploding from the wall inches from my head. I don't turn around and I don't stop. Rafe's hand is solid and secure in mine.
We reach the last stretch: a ladder. Rafe shoulders past me with a look that brooks no argument, his boots clanging against metal as he descends. The ladder groans under his weight. When he reaches the bottom, his silhouette disappears into shadow, then reappears as he positions himself below me. My knuckles whiten as I swing onto the first rung. Halfway down, his hands materialize from the darkness, warm against my ribs even through my vest.
“I've got you,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting against my neck.
I release the rung, my stomach dropping as gravity claims me. His hands tighten at my waist, steadying me as my sneakers hit the pavement with a dull thud. The moment I'm stable, his fingers find mine again, calloused palm against mine. I yank him toward the shadows hugging the wall, pressing my shoulder blades against the cold brick. Above us, silence has replaced the shouting. My ears strain in the darkness, catching only our ragged breathing and distant traffic. The quiet prickles along myspine. Footsteps would mean he's following. Silence means he's already moving—planning something.
“We need to get to the van.” I glance toward the street. “It's on the other side of the building, and the only way around is exposed. But there are no cameras this way.”
“I’m right behind you,” he murmurs, jerking his chin toward the street.
We creep toward the mouth of the alley, where amber streetlight bleeds into shadow. I'm about to step into that dangerous glow when Rafe's hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my throat. He slams me back against the brick wall, rough edges scraping my shoulder blades once again. I’m definitely going to have bruises tomorrow. His body presses against mine, all heat and hard muscle, as his lips crash down on mine with bruising intensity.
My mouth opens on instinct, a moan punching out between our teeth. Every nerve ending goes white-hot. The taste of him—blood, sweat, something wild—floods into me, dizzying and wrong and exactly what I need. He yanks my hair, arching my throat, and kisses down the line of my jaw, biting just below my left ear. I feel his blood slick and hot against my skin, and the jewelry he stuffed down my shirt digs in with each gasp.
He pulls away, his face inches from mine. “Now run,” he says.
I almost laugh. Instead, I drag him by the wrist, and dart out into the open. The adrenaline is a living thing in my veins, fueling every step and every reckless, impulsive decision I’ve ever made. My sneakers slap against the wet asphalt. Rafe’s breath is a rasp at my ear, his stride matching mine, both of us in perfect sync even as chaos rages behind us.
The van looms ahead—a gray whale hunched at the curb.
I spot Bishop in the driver’s seat, engine idling, face half-lit by the dash. He’s yelling, waving us forward, but the words are lost in the rush of blood in my ears. I slam into the sidedoor, wrench it open, and tumble inside. Rafe tumbles in after, slamming the door shut so hard the metal vibrates under my knees. Beckett is up front, yelling, “Go, go, go!” at Bishop, whose knuckles are white on the wheel as he jerks us from the curb with a howl of tires and a lurch that pops my teeth together hard enough to taste blood.
Rafe is on top of me, half sprawled across my lap and the seat, his right hand still clutching mine like a lifeline. His left arm is slick with blood, the sleeve clinging dark to his bicep.
“What the fuck happened?” Bishop growls.
All Rafe does is laugh—a raw, jagged sound that scrapes against the metal walls of the van. It starts low in his chest and builds until his whole body shakes with it. And I don't know why, but it triggers something primal inside me, something wild and reckless that's been coiled tight since the moment we started running.
