Chapter 10
LUCIA
The bathroom door splinters inward.
The boom hits before I process the shape of him in the frame.
Not sound—pressure. The specialized, directed flashbang detonates in the isolated kitchen corridor, the thick concrete walls absorbing the bulk of the decibels while the concussion moves strictly through the floor tile, through the bones of my feet.
My eardrums compress, but I know the blast won’t carry past the heavy acoustic doors to the main ballroom.
The world goes cotton-muffled for two full seconds.
Rafe’s voice cuts through the pressure. His combat knife is already moving—one stroke down the back of the blood-red gown, the blade finding the seam with the precision of a predator.
The silk splits like a second skin. He kicks open a baseboard vent, pulling out a pre-positioned go-bag, and shoves heavy tactical gear into my hands.
“Change. Now,” he snarls. I strip in the shadows of the hallway, the cold air hitting my bare skin before I slide into the rough, heavy canvas of the tactical leathers.
They are too big, the thick material rubbing against my sensitive nipples and the aching heat of my pussy.
His golden eyes are on the door. On the corridor.
On everything that is not me, because he is already three moves ahead and the only currency right now is seconds.
The gear smells of baked leather, hot engines, and gun oil. It smells like him.
We move.
The service corridor is narrow and low-lit.
Rafe’s hand on my wrist—not gentle, not rough, simply directional, a compass grip that says here, this way, now—pulls me left at the junction before I see the junction.
Two cartel guards materialize from the shadow on the right.
Rafe releases my wrist. He steps into them.
No gun—the sound would carry to the ballroom.
His fist connects with the first guard’s jaw and the crack is specific and final.
The second guard swings; Rafe absorbs it across his shoulder and returns it to the man’s throat.
Both guards are on the floor before I have fully registered they were standing.
He takes my wrist again. We run.
The tunnel entrance is a metal door at the base of a concrete stairwell.
Cold air hits from below—the deep, specific cold of underground spaces, earth and stone and the absence of circulation.
The USB drive bites into my sternum with every stride, the hard metal edge grinding against bone.
We reach the end of the tunnel, where the matte-black Ducati Panigale V4 waits like a coiled beast. Rafe throws a leg over the seat, hauling me up behind him before I can even catch my breath.
He doesn’t wait; he twists the throttle, and the world becomes a violent smear of black asphalt and yellow concrete.
I press my chest into his rigid back, the drive a sharp reminder of the secrets I’m carrying out of the fire.
A blackout helmet shields my face from the biting wind. My rapid, ragged breathing bounces off the dark internal visor.
The hard metal edge presses deeply against my skin beneath the layers of borrowed armor. The constant, sharp pain is a physical reminder of the lethal leverage resting against my heart.
The heavy sportbike swerves sharply off the illuminated highway. Rafe downshifts. We plunge into the deep shadows of an abandoned industrial alley. Thick tires crunch over broken glass and loose gravel.
The engine cuts out.
Sudden silence rings in my ears.
“Phone,” Rafe orders. The rough command sounds muffled through his heavy helmet.
My trembling fingers dig into the deep pocket of the jacket. The cold metal of the device meets his calloused palm. I don’t protest.
His combat boot doesn’t crush it. His thumbs press the side buttons. The screen goes black. He pops the back casing off, removes the tiny internal tracking chip, and snaps the plastic shut. The disabled device vanishes into his tactical pack.
“Dominic tracks everything,” Rafe states flatly. “The GPS signal is dead. The network connection is severed. We are off the grid.”
The reality hits me hard.
The dark alley offers zero comfort. I dragged three private security contractors into a bloody cartel war out of pure desperation. Dominic will hunt them. Calix will slaughter them on sight. A target now rests on their broad backs because of a frantic text sent from a bathroom stall.
“You signed your own death warrants.” The helmet traps my ragged whisper.
Rafe turns his head. The dark tinted visor hides his golden eyes.
“We sign our death warrants every single morning.” The heavy metal kickstand snaps up. “Hold on tight.”
The engine roars back to life.
We blast out of the dark alley and hit the open highway. The Ducati demands a specific, aggressive riding posture. The forward tilt forces my body flush against his massive back. My inner thighs bracket his narrow hips tightly. My arms wrap around his rigid torso just to survive the speed.
The physical friction is agony.
Gears shift. The bike accelerates hard. He leans the heavy machine deep as we weave through the city’s industrial outskirts, pushing the bike to its limit to lose any tail before we head for the high ground.
Every movement rubs my body against his tactical armor.
The violence of the escape mixes with raw arousal.
My core throbs. My thighs clench tighter around him.
I bury the side of my helmet against his broad shoulder, my arms locked around his waist. The solid, burning heat radiating from his massive body acts as a shield.
The blistering warmth burns away the phantom sensation of Calix’s fingers digging into my hip.
Calix touched me like a defective piece of property.
Rafe drives like a man transporting a highly volatile explosive.
City lights vanish. Dark, winding mountain roads replace the smooth concrete highway. Tall pine trees crowd the narrow asphalt.
I catch the flash of strobes in the bike’s side mirror. A voice crackles in my earpiece—the comms Nick forced me to wear.
“Rafe, we have company,” Kaila’s voice is tight. “Two blacked-out SUVs just cleared the tunnel. They’re doing eighty. Sector 7.”
“Copy,” Rafe growls. He twists the throttle. The Ducati surges forward, the front wheel lifting inches off the ground.
The LEDs of the pursuit vehicles gain ground. They aren’t city cops. They’re Costa’s elite QRF. They’ll ram us off the mountain without a second thought.
“Tristan, status,” Nick’s voice cuts in.
“Coming in hot,” Tristan’s voice is a calm, steady rumble. “Hold the line, Beast. Brake on three.”
I clench my eyes shut.
One.
Two.
Three.
Rafe slams the brakes. The rear tire fishtails, screaming against the asphalt.
Behind us, a blacked-out pickup roars from a side trail, broadsiding the lead SUV with the force of a tectonic shift.
I don’t know who is driving, but they move with the same lethal precision as the men in my suite.
Metal screams. Glass shatters. The second SUV swerves to avoid the wreckage, slamming into the side and pinning it against the granite cliff face.
Rafe reaches up, tapping a button on his helmet to bark a response I can’t quite hear over the roar of the wind. The bike slows.
Static crackles through the internal speakers of my helmet. Nick’s voice fills my ears.
“Status report.”
“Clear of the city,” Rafe answers gruffly. “Route is clean. Package is secure.”
“Surgeon extracted Tyra and the nanny flawlessly,” Nick states over the secure line. “They bypassed the residential security grid. They are safe and off the radar. I walked out the front doors. Clean exit.”
A crushing weight lifts off my lungs.
Tyra is safe.
“Destination confirmed,” Nick adds. “The North Cabin. Go dark.”
The comms channel clicks off.
“We are going into the deep woods,” Rafe yells over his shoulder.
Relief floods my system. The residual panic washes away. The heavy stone in my chest finally shatters.
The temperature drops sharply as we climb higher into the mountains. The air turns thin and freezing.
Bright headlights sweep across a hidden dirt driveway. A large, isolated structure emerges from the darkness. Heavy timber and dark glass surrounded by towering pine trees.
The engine cuts out. The kickstand drops.
The silence of the deep woods presses in. No sirens. No string quartets. No cartel guards.
The adrenaline leaves my system all at once. It abandons my muscles without warning. The bone-deep exhaustion of the escape and the crushing weight of the night’s trauma take over, leaving me raw and dangerously defenseless.
Tyra. My daughter’s name hits me like a second wave.
She is still at the compound. Still in her room with the grey wolf and the yellow walls and the guards who answer to Dominic.
My chest cracks open. I need to get her out.
I need Jude to get her out. The panic is a living thing clawing behind my ribs.
I swing my right leg over the high leather seat. My boots hit the dirt.
My shattered nervous system gives out. My legs turn to water. Gravity takes me down.
The hard ground never arrives.
Rafe catches me. His hands grip my waist. He hauls me flush against his broad chest.
The contrast hits hard. Calix handled me with careless disgust. Rafe holds me like he’s anchoring me to the earth.
“Stand up, Firebird.” His voice is a rough, gravelly command.
I lock my knees. I stand on my own two feet. His hands drop.
We step inside the dark, freezing cabin. I flip the wall switch. Warm amber light floods the living space, though the corners remain swallowed in shadows. Heavy leather furniture. A stone fireplace. Bare wooden floors.