Chapter 25 Bellamy
BELLAMY
“We’re gonna have to run the last flight, and our friend up there is going to hear us, so be quick, yeah?”
I yank my wrist from his grip, the friction burning my skin, and flash him the flattest glare I can muster. “This isn't my first job, you know.” My voice comes out low and steady despite the adrenaline coursing through me like electricity.
He leans into me, close enough that I can count his eyelashes, the heat of his body radiating between us in some kind of challenge I refuse to acknowledge.
His eyes, dark as midnight and just as dangerous, lock onto mine.
“It's your first job with me.” Then he grabs my wrist again, his calloused fingers sliding down to lace with mine, rough skin against soft, his grip firm but not painful.
The corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing the ghost of a dimple. “Ready, baby?”
I roll my eyes, tasting copper where I'd bitten the inside of my cheek.
“Let's go.” The nickname—baby—lingers between us, making my skin prickle like static before a storm.
It's probably just some ridiculous habit he has with everyone, a convenient placeholder because he can't be bothered to remember actual names.
The kind of false intimacy that means nothing to him and shouldn't mean anything to me.
We take the last flight in a blur, the rusted metal rattling like a freight train beneath our steps.
My lungs burn with each ragged breath, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades despite the chill.
I have no idea how much time is left on our timers, but I know Beck wouldn't let Bishop leave without us.
And I can't let myself think about Lola—her face hovers at the edges of my mind like a ghost I refuse to acknowledge.
Instead, I focus on the stairs. One wrong step means falling a story onto the pavement below.
Gunshots crack through the air like thunder, concrete dust exploding from the wall inches from my head. I don't turn around and I don't stop. Rafe's hand is solid and secure in mine.
We reach the last stretch: a ladder. Rafe shoulders past me with a look that brooks no argument, his boots clanging against metal as he descends.
The ladder groans under his weight. When he reaches the bottom, his silhouette disappears into shadow, then reappears as he positions himself below me.
My knuckles whiten as I swing onto the first rung.
Halfway down, his hands materialize from the darkness, warm against my ribs even through my vest.
“I've got you,” he murmurs, his breath ghosting against my neck.
I release the rung, my stomach dropping as gravity claims me.
His hands tighten at my waist, steadying me as my sneakers hit the pavement with a dull thud.
The moment I'm stable, his fingers find mine again, calloused palm against mine.
I yank him toward the shadows hugging the wall, pressing my shoulder blades against the cold brick.
Above us, silence has replaced the shouting.
My ears strain in the darkness, catching only our ragged breathing and distant traffic.
The quiet prickles along my spine. Footsteps would mean he's following.
Silence means he's already moving—planning something.
“We need to get to the van.” I glance toward the street. “It's on the other side of the building, and the only way around is exposed. But there are no cameras this way.”
“I’m right behind you,” he murmurs, jerking his chin toward the street.
We creep toward the mouth of the alley, where amber streetlight bleeds into shadow.
I'm about to step into that dangerous glow when Rafe's hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my throat. He slams me back against the brick wall, rough edges scraping my shoulder blades once again. I’m definitely going to have bruises tomorrow.
His body presses against mine, all heat and hard muscle, as his lips crash down on mine with bruising intensity.
My mouth opens on instinct, a moan punching out between our teeth.
Every nerve ending goes white-hot. The taste of him—blood, sweat, something wild—floods into me, dizzying and wrong and exactly what I need.
He yanks my hair, arching my throat, and kisses down the line of my jaw, biting just below my left ear.
I feel his blood slick and hot against my skin, and the jewelry he stuffed down my shirt digs in with each gasp.
He pulls away, his face inches from mine. “Now run,” he says.
I almost laugh. Instead, I drag him by the wrist, and dart out into the open.
The adrenaline is a living thing in my veins, fueling every step and every reckless, impulsive decision I’ve ever made.
My sneakers slap against the wet asphalt.
Rafe’s breath is a rasp at my ear, his stride matching mine, both of us in perfect sync even as chaos rages behind us.
The van looms ahead—a gray whale hunched at the curb.
I spot Bishop in the driver’s seat, engine idling, face half-lit by the dash.
He’s yelling, waving us forward, but the words are lost in the rush of blood in my ears.
I slam into the side door, wrench it open, and tumble inside.
Rafe tumbles in after, slamming the door shut so hard the metal vibrates under my knees.
Beckett is up front, yelling, “Go, go, go!” at Bishop, whose knuckles are white on the wheel as he jerks us from the curb with a howl of tires and a lurch that pops my teeth together hard enough to taste blood.
Rafe is on top of me, half sprawled across my lap and the seat, his right hand still clutching mine like a lifeline. His left arm is slick with blood, the sleeve clinging dark to his bicep.
“What the fuck happened?” Bishop growls.
All Rafe does is laugh—a raw, jagged sound that scrapes against the metal walls of the van.
It starts low in his chest and builds until his whole body shakes with it.
And I don't know why, but it triggers something primal inside me, something wild and reckless that's been coiled tight since the moment we started running.
A laugh bubbles up from my own throat. It’s half-hysteria, half-relief, riding high on adrenaline and the knowledge that we're still alive.
“Jesus, Bells,” Lola grumbles, pulling me out from underneath Rafe.
“Careful. He’s hurt,” I warn as I swallow down the huff of laughter.
“Who’s hurt?” Gage peers over from the row behind us, his gaze narrowing as it sweeps over me.
“Your brother got shot.”
Voices collide in the cramped van—Lola's high-pitched alarm, Bishop's throaty curses from the driver's seat, Cruz’s rapid-fire questions, and Gage's low, threatening growl.
Each voice crashes over the others like waves in a storm, the volume rising with every second until the metal walls seem to vibrate with their panic and rage.
I lean forward and reach for Rafe’s shoulder, where the blood is the darkest. “Let me look at it.”
“I’m fine, baby,” Rafe murmurs low, capturing my hand. “Best leave it until we get home.”
I stare at him for a moment, biting the inside of my cheek as I debate on what to do. He just grins at me from his sprawled out position on the floor of the van, this wild look in his eyes as his head tips back.
“Don't be ridiculous,” I snap, pitching forward on my knees across the gritty metal floor of the van.
I slip my backpack off, the weight of stolen treasures making it land with a heavy thud as I thrust it at Lola.
“Give me your sweatshirt.” I hold my hand out toward Gage without looking, fingers splayed impatiently in the dim light.
A bundle of warm, worn cloth hits my palm with surprising force.
I crawl into Rafe's space, the van's lurching movements making me sway as I position myself between his parted legs.
His blood is darker than I expected, almost black in the shadows, and sticky against my fingertips as I press the wadded-up sweatshirt to his shoulder, feeling the heat of his wound radiating through the fabric.
Rafe hisses between his teeth. His right hand flexes against my thigh, fingers digging into denim hard enough to leave five perfect bruises by morning. The muscles in his jaw ripple beneath stubbled skin.
“Fuck that hurts,” he growls, voice dropping an octave as he looks at me from underneath half-open lids, pupils blown so wide his eyes appear almost black in the dim light of the van.
I ignore how close he is. I swallow hard, but can't wash away the lingering taste of him—salt and iron and something dangerously addictive. The phantom pressure of his lips still burns against mine, and my throat tingles where his fingers had pressed moments earlier.
“You can take it, Rafe, can't you?” I ask, voice steadier than I feel.
He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, dragging it slowly through, leaving it flushed and wet. His fingertips dig deeper into my thigh, five distinct points of pressure that send electricity racing up my spine.
“I could take worse,” he says, voice practically a purr.
The words hit lower than they should, and I have to dig my nails into my palm to keep my face composed. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I say flatly. “If you pass out, I’m stapling you.”
Rafe’s smile widens, teeth flashing white, and if I didn’t know better I’d think he was enjoying this. The pain, the chaos, the mess of it all. Maybe he is.
Maybe this is where he feels alive too.
“Try not to bleed all over the van, Rafe. We were planning to bleach-bomb it, but now we’ll have to strip it,” Bishop says from the driver’s seat as he takes a hard turn, the tires shrieking.
“Hey, you wanna let everyone know we’re running away from a fucking crime scene?” Beckett grumbles, reaching over and holding a hand to the dash to brace himself.
“Your concern is touching, brother,” Rafe drawls, flicking his gaze over my shoulder before settling back on me.
“You wanna fuckin’ drive, kid?” Bishop snaps at my brother.
My hackles raise at Bishop's tone, a flash of heat crawling up my neck like wildfire through dry brush. I clench my jaw so hard my molars ache, but I swallow the retort burning on my tongue. Not now. Not with Rafe bleeding under my hands. I’ll deal with him later.
“You good, man? What do you need?” Gage says, his voice closer than I realized, the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and something sharper—suddenly filling the cramped space between us.
I keep pressure on Rafe's shoulder, feeling the warm blood seeping through the sweatshirt, staining my fingertips crimson. I do my best to ignore everything else—the sway of the van, the shouting, the electric current running between us.
“I'm fine. 'Tis but a scratch,” Rafe says with a dismissive wave of his left hand.
He winces, a flash of genuine pain crossing his features before his mask slips back into place.
His hand drops, and his fingertips graze my other thigh, leaving five burning points of contact through my jeans like a brand.
Not even one part of me believes it was accidental—the lingering pressure of his fingertips, the deliberate way they traced across my jeans like he was mapping territory.
“If he’s quoting Romeo and Juliet, then he’s fine,” Cruz says on an exhale. “Fuck, man. What happened back there?”
I let their voices wash over me as Rafe fills them in on our surprise visitor.
Guilt starts to worm its way underneath my sternum.
I don’t know who that was or how we missed it during all the recon.
Or if this was bad luck or if we’re being watched.
And that thought settles in my gut like a live wire instead of fear.