I don’t know how I won her trust but I silently vow to never break it.
We lean into the curves, the bike hugging the road as we race into the gathering night, the burning lab a fading pyre long behind us.
She's safe. She's with me. And as her hands clutch the gun across my abdomen, her chin resting on my shoulder, I know this is only the beginning. Veles will come, the shadows of her captivity will chase us, but with her arms around me like this, nothing else matters. I've found her. And I'll burn the world before I let her go and no one will harm her again.
Please, god, don’t let me be wrong.
7
LAYLA
His name is Beast. Fitting. I roll his biker handle around in my head and compare it to the man I’m currently wrapped around.
He moved like a predator on the hunt today.
I close my eyes and let the wind push the thoughts from my head. Humid air rushes past us in a wild symphony, tugging at my hair and cooling the sweat-slicked scratches on my skin as we tear through the night.
Beast’s body is a solid wall of heat and muscle pressed against me, his leather cut draped over my near-naked frame like a claim. Its worn scent mingles with gunpowder and the faint, wild musk that is purely him.
My arms stay locked around his waist, fingers splayed across the taut ridges of his abdomen beneath the thin T-shirt. I feel every flex and roll as the Harley devours the road. The engine's deep thrum vibrates up through my core, mirroring the pulse hammering between my thighs—a dangerous rhythm that hasnothing to do with escape and everything to do with the man shielding me from the world.
For the first time in five months, I feel like I might actually be alive.
I press my cheek to his back, inhaling deeply. The steady rise and fall of his breathing grounds me amid the chaos we've left behind. Veles’s shadow lingers in my mind. But while I’m wrapped around this stranger, the Russian’s threat feels distant.
We take the curves fast, leaning into each bend. His body moves with a kind of ferocious grace. Every shift of muscle telegraphs through his white T-shirt the strength he wields under my palm.
My fingers flex against the hard line of his ribs, and my pulse jumps every time he accelerates, chasing the city lights that flicker like distant stars high above us.
I cling to him with everything I have, willing myself not to look back. If I do, I might remember the man I shot or the sound of the lab exploding or the copper taste of fear burning the back of my throat.
We race through the outskirts of New Orleans, night air thick with magnolia and gasoline, the city glowing gold on the horizon. Every bump in the road jars my body against his, skin to skin. I breathe him in, feel the wild thunder of his heart under my palm, and for a split second, I wonder if maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe I never escaped. Maybe this is what it feels like to finally break and drift into a better nightmare.
But then his hand comes down on mine, warm and strong, and squeezes just once. I’m real. He’s real. We’re actually not dead.
Thirty minutes, maybe less, and the city folds around us. Highways turn into side streets, and neon bleeds into the darkness. There is a distant pulse of jazz filtering through the dimming light of the day. It joins the sound of light traffic around us.
Along the wide sidewalks, normal people go about their lives as if death didn’t nearly take them away.
We make a sharp turn and head down a narrow alley behind a row of old brick warehouses. The engine rumbles low as he kills it, the sudden silence ringing in my ears.
Before I can blink, he’s off the bike, reaching for me. His hands are gentle but commanding as he lifts me from the seat with one arm hooked under my knees, the other braced behind my back. He makes his movements look effortless. My muscles and brain are too tired to argue the point that I can walk. My body willingly folds against his, my skin buzzing from adrenaline and the lingering terror that refuses to let go.
He carries me up a private set of stairs, the metal groaning beneath our combined weight. The door at the top of the stairs is made of metal and looks heavy. He shoulders through it, shielding me with his body, blocking out the world with one broad shoulder.
Inside, the loft is huge.
Open beams, exposed brick, buttery light pouring from sconces on the walls. The floor is polished wood, and every surface gleams with the kind of lived-in luxury that speaks of money and secrecy. A battered brown leather sofa faces a massive window overlooking the city, half-covered in blackout shades. There’s a kitchen at one end, gleaming steel appliances, and a round oaktable stacked with files and empty whiskey bottles. But what pulls my eyes is the bathroom. At the back of the loft there are two frosted glass doors slid open to reveal a beautiful shower with hanging vines on one side and a deep bathtub on the other. It’s all black tile, matte green and shiny chrome.
Feeling anything right now is nothing short of a freaking miracle so I drink it all in. It’s crazy how the smallest of details seem blown up and ping off my radar.
The promise of hot water sounds like the best freaking way to celebrate being alive.
My savior shuts the door with his boot, sliding a large lock into place, and surveys the room with a predator’s eye. He sets me down gently on the couch, crouching in front of me to keep his bulk between me and any windows. His hand hovers over my thigh, his thumb tracing a bruise just above my knee, and I can’t tell if he’s reassuring himself or me.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The world narrows to the sound of our breathing, the dull throb of my heart, the heat radiating from his body as he kneels in front of me.
In one hand I clutch my wad of papers. The other I settle over his. “Thank you for what you did tonight.”
