They’ve been waiting for me to make exactly this mistake.
I move carefully along the walkway, trying to find a route down that won’t deposit me directly into their arms. The next building has a fire escape, but it leads to another alley that could just as easily be monitored. The building after that connects to a parking garage through a skybridge, but the distance is too far to jump and the structure looks too flimsy to trust with my weight.
Behind me, I hear the clang of metal against metal. They’ve found the ladder.
Panic floods my system like ice water. I run along the walkway, no longer caring about noise or stealth, just desperate to put distance between myself and the men climbing up behindme. The platform shudders with each step, bolts creaking ominously under the sudden stress.
I reach the end of the walkway and realize I’m truly trapped. The next building is twenty feet away—an impossible jump over four stories of empty air. Below me, the alley dead-ends at a loading dock surrounded by chain-link fence. Above me, there’s nothing but sky.
“End of the line, sweetheart.”
The voice comes from behind me, calm and conversational, like we’re discussing the weather instead of my impending capture. I turn to see two men at the other end of the walkway, both larger than me, both moving with the casual confidence of predators who’ve cornered their prey.
“Make this easy on yourself,” the second man says. “Come with us quietly, and nobody gets hurt.”
“Where?” I ask, stalling for time I don’t have.
“Somewhere private. Somewhere we can have a proper conversation about your future.”
The words make my skin crawl. This isn’t about money or revenge or even Marcus Hale’s twisted idea of ownership. This is about breaking me, about reducing me to something manageable and compliant before delivering me to whoever’s paying for my destruction.
They start walking toward me, movements coordinated, blocking any chance of retreat. The walkway groans under the combined weight of three people, and I realize with crystal clarity that this flimsy structure was never designed to support this much stress.
“Easy,” the first man says, noticing my backward step toward the edge. “Nowhere to go but down, and that’s a long drop.”
He’s right, but falling might be preferable to whatever they have planned.
I take another step back, feeling the railing press against my spine. The men tense, realizing I might actually be desperate enough to jump.
“Don’t be stupid,” the second man snaps. “You think a broken back is better than what we’re offering?”
“Depends what you’re offering.”
“A chance to be useful. To serve a purpose that matters.” His smile is all teeth and malice. “To learn your place.”
Another step back. The railing is at my shoulders now, and I can feel the empty air behind me like a living thing, hungry and patient. The walkway sways more violently with my movement, metal stressed beyond its limits.
“Last chance,” the first man says, reaching for me. “Come quietly, or we drag you down screaming. Your choice.”
The walkway chooses that moment to betray me completely. The support brackets, weakened by too much weight and too much movement, tear free from the brick wall with a screech of tortured metal.
The platform tilts violently. I grab for the railing, but it’s already falling away from the building, taking all of us with it. The two men shout in alarm, scrambling for purchase on a structure that’s disintegrating in real time.
I’m going to die. The thought is strangely calm, almost peaceful. Not the death Marcus Hale planned for me, but death all the same. At least it will be quick.
Then a hand closes around my wrist with bruising force, yanking me back from the edge just as the walkway tears completely free. The two men fall with it, their shouts cutting off abruptly when they hit the concrete below.
I slam into a solid chest, arms wrapping around me with desperate strength. Nikola’s scent—cologne and gunpowder and something uniquely him—floods my senses as he pulls us both back from the edge onto solid ground.
We collapse together on the roof, both breathing hard, both shaking from adrenaline and proximity and the kind of terror that leaves marks on your soul. His arms are still around me, holding me against him like he’s afraid I might dissolve if he lets go.
“You fucking idiot,” he breathes against my hair, and there’s no anger in it, just relief so profound it sounds like prayer. “You beautiful, reckless, impossible woman.”
I should pull away. Should demand answers about how he found me, how long he’s been following, whether this rescue was as calculated as everything else he does. Instead, I let myself sink into his warmth, let myself be held by someone who just saved my life for reasons I still don’t fully understand.
“They were waiting for me,” I whisper. “This whole time, they were waiting for me to run.”
“I know.”
