Chapter 24 Bellamy
BELLAMY
My pulse explodes, pain and cold and adrenaline blurring into one violent, electric second.
Rafe snatches both backpacks off the floor in one fluid sweep, slinging his across his broad shoulders with a practiced shrug, mine dangling from his left hand like it's filled with feathers instead of fifty pounds of cash.
Three long strides take him to the corner where he wraps his fingers around the arm of a hulking leather monstrosity—a vintage executive chair with cracked upholstery the color of dried mustard and brass tack trim that catches the dim light as he drags it across the floor.
The chair legs screech against the hardwood, leaving pale scratches like claw marks. He jams it under the doorknob with a grunt, his shoulders bunching beneath his black hoodie as the brass tacks catch the dim light.
“Five seconds,” he says, already moving toward the window, his shadow stretching long against the wall.
Five seconds, like that's enough time to outrun whatever the hell is waiting for us on the other side of that door, where the handle already rattles like an animal trying to get free.
My heart is a fist in my throat, pounding so hard I can taste copper on my tongue.
The words choke in my throat. “How the fuck are we getting out?”
The door slams inward with a sound like bones breaking—wood splintering into jagged teeth, the brass doorknob punching through drywall as something massive crashes against it. The barricade shudders, sliding inches under the force.
A raw, guttural voice bellows from the hallway, “You motherfuckers! I'm going to fuckin' kill you.” Each word drips with a promise of violence that makes my stomach clench.
Every hair on my body stands up, a wave of goosebumps prickling across my skin like tiny needles. My mouth goes desert-dry.
Rafe doesn't even flinch. His face remains carved from stone as he grabs my wrist, his calloused fingers digging into my pulse point. Electricity shoots through my veins at the contact, hot and sharp as a live wire.
Rafe's voice drops to a rough whisper. “Not anymore.”
He shoves me toward the street-facing windows.
The window lock resists, decades of paint sealing it shut, until Rafe's knuckles whiten and it finally surrenders with a brittle snap.
He jams the sash upward with his shoulder, hinges squealing in protest, and early-morning air knifes across my flushed skin, carrying the scent of rain-slick asphalt and distant sirens.
Before I can decide whether the electric current racing through my veins is terror or exhilaration, his calloused hands clamp around my waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my hipbones.
My lips part on his name. “Rafe.” But before I can protest, his voice cuts through, low and commanding.
“Hop out for me, baby.” And he shoves me out with enough force to send diamonds shifting underneath my breasts.
I tumble onto the fire escape, the rusted metal grating freezing under my scraped palms. Three stories below, puddles reflect yellow streetlights like scattered gold coins.
A dizzy rush of adrenaline spirals through me—fear tangled with a sick excitement, the kind of thrill that hits bone-deep and leaves you shaking for hours after.
I spin back toward the window, hand shooting out instinctively, my midnight blue fingernail polish dark against the night air.
“Come on!” I shout, my heartbeat a constant drum in my ear.
He's framed in the window, silhouetted against the dim light of the ransacked office.
His wild grin cuts across his face like a knife slash, all white teeth and savage joy, like this is the best goddamn night of his life.
His eyes are bright obsidian in the darkness, blown wide with adrenaline and something darker, hungrier—the look of a man who lives for the edge.
“I'm coming,” he growls, voice roughened glee.
He braces a hand on the frame, knuckles bleached white with pressure. Before he can throw his leg over the windowsill, a violent crack splits the air—too sharp to be wood, too fast to be anything but a gunshot.
The sound reverberates through my chest cavity like a second heartbeat.
Rafe jerks forward with a sharp grunt, momentum pitching him hard against the frame. His face contorts, jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping beneath his stubbled cheek. A dark stain blooms across his left shoulder, spreading like spilled ink against the black fabric.
“Oh fuck.”
My body lurches toward the window before the rational part of my brain even catches up. My hands grip the frame, and I’m screaming his name as if volume alone is enough to pull him through bloody and whole.
He moves. God, he moves fast, even hurt.
The backpack swings out first, then his right leg, but his left arm dangles limp, hand clenching and unclenching around nothing.
The next shot obliterates the glass above him, shards raining down like sleet across his shoulders and the fire escape.
I duck instinctively, pressing myself flat against the metal against the grating, knees and ribs rattling as metal shudders beneath me.
“Move, baby!” Rafe barks, voice gone harsh and guttural, but not weak.
I scramble sideways, blood roaring in my ears as I press my back flat against the brick wall next to the window. Rafe spills onto the fire escape in the next breath, grunting as he slings his backpack full of gear on.
“Are you hurt?”
Blood soaks through his sleeve, but Rafe's jaw is granite.
“I'm fine. Asshole got a lucky shot.” His right hand snaps out, fingers circling my wrist like iron, and he yanks me in front of him with enough force to make my teeth click. “We gotta get to the bottom before he gets to the window.”
We clatter down the rusted fire escape, my boots slipping on metal slick with drizzle. Each step reverberates through the structure, announcing our escape to anyone listening. The jewelry between my breasts jabs with every movement, cold and accusatory.
Fear coils around my lungs like barbed wire, and I suddenly wrench around to face him on the next landing.
“We have to go back. Lola is in there.”
I try to dart around him, then shove against his chest when that fails, but his fingers remain locked around my wrist like a steel manacle.
He walks me backward until rough brick scrapes between my shoulder blades, catching strands of my hair.
His face looms inches from mine, close enough that I can see the flecks of amber in his wild eyes, count the beads of sweat along his hairline, smell the metallic tang of blood mixing with his cologne.
“She's fine,” he growls, voice scraping low and dangerous. “Gage would've gotten her out.”
“You don’t know that,” I stress, pressing against his hold on me.
He steps into me, pinning my body to the brick with his, one hand trapped between us, his blood-soaked sleeve smearing warmth against me.
The rough edges of the bricks scrape against my shoulder blades through my hoodie as his weight crushes me against the wall.
“Stop talking,” he hisses, his breath hot and ragged against my lips, smelling faintly of whiskey and adrenaline.
Rage ignites inside of me, a match struck against sandpaper, spreading liquid fire through my veins until my skin feels too tight to contain it.
My chest expands with fury, lungs filling like I'm about to plunge beneath storm-churned waves.
I push onto my toes, my spine straightening as I gain those precious inches.
My lips part, teeth bared, jaw aching with the force of words clawing their way up my throat.
“Get the fuck out of my way, Rafe,” I snarl, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. “You guys might leave each other behind, but I—”
He swallows my words with his lips, claiming my mouth with desperate violence.
For a moment, I don’t move, stunned still, my fury frozen in my throat.
But then his tongue sweeps into my mouth, hot and demanding, and I feel the rough scrape of his stubble against my chin, smell the metallic tang of his blood mingling with rain-soaked concrete and sweat-slick skin.
His teeth catch my bottom lip, the sharp sting melting into heat that floods down my spine.
It's like being slammed into a wall. My anger turns molten, liquifying into something reckless and raw. I bite him, hard, tasting salt and copper. He groans and deepens the kiss, his hand fisting in my hair until it aches deliciously. For one spiraling second the rest of the world blurs out—every footstep, every gunshot, every ache in my chest. All that’s left is the bruising crush of his mouth and the hot, dizzying pulse underneath my skin.
He breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine, his breath staccato against my lips. “Look up.”
I blink, dazed. It takes effort to drag my gaze from his face and look above us. There’s a man leaning out of the window, the barrel of his gun catching moonlight as he sweeps it back and forth out of the window. His mouth moves, words lost beneath the thunder of blood in my ears.
“That mouth of yours was about to give us away. And as much as I can handle a bullet, i’m not so sure if you can,” he murmurs against my throat, his lips brushing against my pulse point.
Indignation sings in my veins like electricity through a live wire, hot and dangerous.
My chest constricts with competing emotions—fury at his high-handedness, confusion over the kiss, terror about Lola—until I can barely breathe through the tangle of them.
I settle on quiet seething instead, jaw clenched so tight my molars might crack.
“Asshole,” I gasp, the word a ragged slice between us, sharp enough to draw blood but too breathless to carry the venom I intended.
But he’s already laughing, breathless against my earlobe, like this is the only thing that makes sense in the world.
I tear my gaze away from his mouth and tell myself—hard—that agreeing with Rafe Calloway has never once ended well for anyone.