Chapter 13 - Sophia
Sophia
We plunged into darkness.
The stairwell was narrow and industrial—bare concrete walls, metal steps that groaned under our weight. Tony’s grip on my hand was vice-tight, pulling me so fast I could barely find my footing. I stumbled after him, heart pounding, feet slipping with every step.
Halfway down, I missed a step entirely.
My foot slid out. My body jerked sideways, momentum yanking me hard against the railing. Pain bloomed in my hip as I slammed into metal, my knees buckling beneath me.
Tony didn’t stop, hauling me back up like I weighed nothing.
He pulled me around the corner at the bottom of the stairwell and dropped to a knee, dragging me down with him.
I barely registered the motion before a gunshot cracked too close.
Tony flinched, ducked, then snapped back up with his gun drawn.
He fired back without hesitation—a clean, practiced motion.
Another shot whined past, snapping into the concrete wall behind us.
He yanked me up again, and we ran. My legs were barely working, heavy with adrenaline and pain.
A heavy-looking door marked the only way forward.
Maybe it was locked. Maybe it wasn’t. Tony didn’t care.
He barreled into it shoulder-first like it was made for him to break.
The hinges snapped, and we burst into another dimly lit hall, storage racks towering on either side, forcing us into a single-file sprint.
I pressed a hand to my chest, breath ragged, trying to match his pace.
“This way,” he growled, yanking me around another corner.
The sound of pursuit grew louder. Closer.
We had a good ten-second lead on them, and only one direction left. We tore into a large storage room filled with towering stacks of crates.
Tony paused, scanning.
Then he shoved me to the floor beside a crate.
He crouched, head just above the edge of the container, eyes constantly moving. My pulse hammered in my ears, every breath sharp and shaking.
Then I saw it. At the far end of the room, just out of sight—another door, slightly open, revealing a stairwell. Up. Out. Safe.
I grabbed Tony’s sleeve.
“There. That could be an exit.”
He spotted it.
Another barrage of bullets drove us both lower. He held his gun above the crate without aiming and fired until he was out of ammo.
He ejected the mag, his movements jerky, hands trembling so hard I thought he might drop the gun. He reached into his coat and pulled out another magazine, nearly fumbling it as a bullet cracked into the wall right next to his head, peppering his face with shards of concrete.
His breath came in rapid bursts, eyes wide with something close to panic.
Finally, he slammed the new mag into place, racked the slide with a sharp snap, and lifted the gun again, jaw clenched tight.
He fired again—clean, controlled, but fast.
Another reload.
Another burst.
Urgent. Desperate.
He peeked over the box, then ducked back, covering my body with his as an endless wave of bullets cracked around us, then slowed.
“Go!”
I hesitated.
“Go!” he shouted again, more forcefully.
He was already turning away, running out into the open, aiming with precision now. Firing with control. With purpose.
My chest tightened, and I forced myself to move, sprinting toward the door as gunfire roared behind me.
I shoved through the door into the stairwell and saw daylight bleeding into the dark corridor around the black door at the top.
Behind me, there was no more gunfire. No shouting.
Just silence.
My breath came in sharp, quick gasps as I climbed, each step an eternity.
At the top, I pushed against the heavy door. It groaned, then gave.
Sunlight blinded me. I staggered forward, dizzy, breath burning my throat.
Rough, strong hands grabbed me. Too calm. Too sure. Pulling me close.
I screamed instinctively.
“Shhh, sh shh. You’re okay. I’ve got you now.”
His voice was low. Calm. Steady.
I collapsed into his arms.
Then my eyes adjusted to the light, and I saw his face.
Ivan’s face.
I thrashed, trying to get away, but his grip didn’t budge. He locked both my arms with just one of his in a crushing hold. I screamed, struggling, but it didn’t matter.
His free hand moved slowly. Terrifyingly slow. He brushed my hair aside. Fingers grazed my throat.
I jerked my head, but he caught my chin. Tilted my face up.
“Shhh, there’s no need for that,” he murmured, lazy amusement dripping from every syllable.
His fingers skimmed the neckline of my shirt. Featherlight. Possessive.
Then lower. Hands trailing down my chest, hovering—just shy of contact. Not quite touching. Just close enough to taunt.
He laughed softly, rich with something darker.
He leaned in to speak into my ear.
“Third time’s the charm, huh?”