CHAPTER 13
RUBY P.O.V.
Warren Gault is dead. He’s just a piece of cooling meat slouched over a desk, and I’m standing here completely paralyzed while whatever is left of my civilian morality fractures into a million irreparable pieces under the weight of what I just watched.
The combat knife Andrei forced into my hand feels like a block of lead.
The hallway is dead silent except for the low, monotonous hum of the building's HVAC system and the rhythmic drip-drip-drip of Gault’s blood hitting the pristine marble floor.
Under the flickering buzz of a damaged neon light overhead, I stare blankly at the bright red smear currently decorating my bare toe.
The heavy, metallic copper scent is mixing with the stale odor of Gault's expensive cigars, making my stomach roll violently.
I press the flat of the knife against my thigh and wipe the smudge of blood off the blade, leaving a long, dark red streak across the white silk of my slip.
I don't even care anymore. I wonder if I'll ever be able to scrub the smell of this man's death out of my skin, or if I'm just permanently ruined.
Andrei isn't looking at the body. He’s already scanning the architecture, hunting for the next tactical advantage like a fucking machine.
"Don't look at his face," Andrei orders, his voice completely devoid of any human empathy. "Focus on the breathing, Ruby. The dead don't hunt. The living do."
And then, the elevator at the end of the long corridor dings.
It’s a cheerful, polite little bell that heralds an absolute death sentence.
Instantly, the rhythmic, synchronized thud of heavy boots begins echoing against the stone walls.
Flashlight beams, blindingly powerful and stark white, start sweeping the hallway, cutting through the shadows like scythes.
I count the footsteps in my head, my heart immediately slamming up into my throat because there are way too many of them for us to fight in an open corridor with zero cover.
Andrei shifts his massive weight, his hand dropping smoothly to the suppressed pistol strapped to his hip.
As he moves, a spent shell casing from his earlier execution rolls off the edge of a console table, but Andrei's hand shoots out and snatches it right out of the air before it can clatter onto the marble floor.
"Six men. Tactical gear," he mutters, his ice-blue eyes locking onto the far corner. "Stay behind me. Don't even blink."
I hear the mechanical whine of a security drone hovering somewhere behind the patrol, the sharp click of their boots advancing on the tile, and the sudden drop in air pressure as the elevator doors slide shut.
Andrei drops down to one knee, his eyes rapidly scanning the baseboards along the wall until he spots a heavy steel ventilation grate near the floor.
It looks absurdly small, a claustrophobic little hole that couldn't possibly fit his towering, heavily muscled frame, but the white light from the patrol’s flashlights is already sweeping the far end of the wall.
We are out of time. Andrei tests the weight of the grate with his fingers, his knuckles turning stark white as he prepares to rip the metal right out of the drywall.
"There," he says, his face a mask of cold, lethal intent. "Small. Tight. Move, suka!"
He hooks his thick fingers into the metal slats and pulls backward with a deep, guttural grunt of exertion.
The metal rips out of the wall with a horrific shriek, a high-pitched protest of tearing screws and bending steel that sounds like a siren to my ringing ears.
He instantly tosses the heavy grate onto a carpeted section of the hall to completely dampen the noise of the impact.
A single loose screw pops out and rolls rapidly across the floor toward the marble, but I instinctively shoot my bare foot out, trapping the sharp metal under my toes right before it hits the stone and gives away our position.
The sudden silence that follows the tearing metal is oppressive.
The cold draft bleeding out of the open vent smells like old dust, ozone, and decades of absolute neglect.
"Get in," Andrei commands, shoving my shoulder. "Head first. Deep as you can go."
Every single sound I make feels like a gunshot.
I scramble forward and slide into the pitch-black tunnel, the freezing, rough metal immediately biting painfully into my bare knees and the palms of my hands.
It looks like a tomb. I’m not even sure which is worse: the men with the assault rifles rounding the corner or being buried alive in this suffocating little box with a literal monster.
I crawl blindly on my stomach until the top of my head bumps into a sharp bend in the ductwork.
Before I can even brace myself, the entire structural shaft vibrates violently as Andrei forces his massive shoulders into the opening behind me.
He drags the heavy grate back into place with a muted scrape, totally sealing us in.
The claustrophobia is instant, crushing my chest so hard I can barely draw oxygen.
The air is entirely too thin, rapidly turning stifling and hot with our combined, panicked breath.
I try to shift forward, but my hair gets caught on a jagged metal burr sticking out of a rivet.
I have to physically jerk my head down, tearing a few strands right out of my scalp to rip myself free.
"Keep moving," he breathes against the back of my calves. "Quiet. Don't stop until I touch your heel."
I swallow the gritty, metallic dust coating the back of my throat and drag myself forward until the heavy, synchronized thud of tactical boots stops directly outside our vent.
A blinding beam of white flashlight slices directly through the slats of the grate, illuminating the thick dust motes dancing in the dead air between us.
I instantly stop moving. I hold my breath until my lungs burn with battery acid.
Andrei shuffles forward until he is a solid, immovable wall of muscle pressed completely flush against my spine, his aggressive body heat radiating straight through the thin, ruined silk of my slip.
We are literally inches away from the guards' boots.
A single sneeze, a cough, or a shifting foot against the aluminum would get us both sprayed with bullets.
Andrei flattens his hand against the small of my back, his thick fingers spreading wide, using his physical strength to ground me to the floor so I don't twitch.
"Clear left," a muffled, electronic voice barks through a tactical helmet radio. "Check the offices. Blood trail ends here."
The terrifyingly bright light of the flashlight continues sweeping back and forth across the vent.
The guard is looking right at the grate.
He has to see us. There is no way he doesn't see us. One of the men steps closer, the overpowering smell of fresh boot polish drifting right through the slats, and kicks the wall right next to our heads to test for a hollow space. The metallic clang vibrates so hard through the shaft that it literally rattles my teeth in my skull. I begin to shake. I can't stop it. It’s a fine, uncontrollable, full-body tremor born of pure, unadulterated adrenaline and terror. If my knee taps this metal floor, we are dead. Andrei’s reaction is instantaneous—he shifts his weight and heavily pins me harder against the metal floor, crushing the breath out of me so my body stops vibrating.
I hear the faint sound of leather stretching as Andrei literally bites down on the side of his own glove, using his teeth to keep his own breathing entirely silent.
"Nothing but a vent," the guard mutters. "Move to 41. Lock it down."
If I die right here, I’m dying in the dark, smothered under the weight of this lunatic.
I wait for the relief of the guards moving on, but instead, the proximity changes.
The terrifying, steady rhythm of Andrei’s heart suddenly speeds up against my shoulder blades.
The friction of his custom wool trousers shifts against my bare legs, and then I feel it.
The unmistakable, rock-hard, heavy ridge of his arousal pressing deliberately into the cleft of my buttocks.
Are you fucking kidding me? I am absolutely unhinged with panic, we are trapped in a metal tube seconds away from being executed, and this absolute psychopath is getting hard from the sheer danger of it.
He is totally deranged. His knee aggressively wedges between my thighs, forcing my legs apart to stabilize both of us against the metal floor.
"Stay. Still," he whispers, his hot breath brushing my ear. "Don't move a muscle."
Before I can even process the audacity, Andrei’s hand snakes rapidly around the front of my neck.
His massive palm clamps entirely over my mouth with bruising, suffocating force.
He yanks my head back hard against his shoulder, totally exposing the vulnerable line of my throat to the dark.
His other hand drops heavily onto my hip, his fingers digging possessively into the bone.
Even as his palm smothers my lips, his thumb lazily strokes along my jawline.
The taste of salt and rich leather from his glove invades my mouth.
"Ssh..." he commands, his chest rumbling against my spine. "Listen to them."