"I am not."
"I'm going to break my ankle."
"You will not."
"How do you know?"
"Because I will catch you."
His tone is completely matter-of-fact.
Like catching me mid-fall on a steel staircase while we're actively committing corporate espionage is just another Tuesday for him.
Which, honestly, it probably is.
I take a breath.
And start climbing.
The first flight is manageable.
The second flight is uncomfortable.
By the third flight, my calves are screaming.
The heels force my weight forward onto the balls of my feet, and the narrow steel risers don't give me enough surface area to distribute the pressure. Every step sends a sharp jolt up through my ankles, and the obsidian silk keeps catching on the metal edges, threatening to trip me.
Cyprian is three steps ahead of me.
Silent.
Effortless.
His massive frame moving with the kind of fluid grace that shouldn't be possible for someone who weighs four hundred pounds.
Heat radiates off his back.
Not metaphorically.
Actually radiates.
I can feel it from here—the volcanic warmth of his stone skin, the way his amber veins glow softly in the dim stairwell lighting, casting flickering shadows across the concrete walls.
My breathing is ragged.
Not from exertion.
From adrenaline.
From the sheer, visceral terror of what we're doing.
We reach the third-floor landing.
Another biometric-locked door.
Another soft click as Kael's encryption virus grants us access.
Cyprian pushes the door open slowly, carefully, his amber eyes scanning the corridor beyond.
