CHAPTER 17
RUBY P.O.V.
The service elevator doors hiss open with a whisper that feels deafening after the absolute fucking meat grinder we just climbed out of.
My legs are pure jelly, shaking so hard under the torn hem of this stupid silk slip that I have to lock my knees just to keep from collapsing onto the polished floor.
I taste copper. It's pooling under my tongue, thick and metallic, and when I bring the back of my hand up to swipe a smudge of wetness off my cheek, I just end up smearing a fresh streak of crimson right across my skin. The contrast is jarring. It makes my skin crawl. We just spent an hour clawing our way up through blood and screaming and broken bones, and stepping onto the penthouse floor is like walking into a sterile, high-end morgue. It’s all white marble and expensive sandalwood floor wax, chilled by industrial-grade AC that hits my sweat-drenched body like a bucket of ice water.
It’s too clean. The kind of luxury that costs millions of dollars and hides a hundred different kinds of evil.
I am hyper-aware of the space Andrei occupied behind me only moments ago, the sheer dominating weight of him still burning a phantom imprint into my spine.
I take a half-step forward, my bare feet sticking slightly to the pristine floor, waiting for the floor to drop or the walls to close in.
"Don't move a fucking muscle, Ruby," Andrei growls.
I freeze instantly, every muscle locking up. "It’s too quiet. Even the air smells like a trap."
"Look up. Don't look at the floor."
I barely shift my weight before Andrei’s arm shoots out, barring my chest like a steel beam.
He doesn't look at me. His body is completely coiled, his ice-blue eyes fixed on the empty air of the long, opulent corridor in front of us.
As he holds me back, the side of his thumb grazes the underside of my breast through the thin silk.
The touch is entirely focused on the threat, completely clinical, but the sudden heat of his skin against mine is startling enough to make my breath hitch.
He reaches into his tailored jacket pocket and pulls out a small aerosol canister.
He points it forward and sprays a fine mist into the air.
The sharp hiss of the canister echoes off the marble walls.
Instantly, the dust motes dancing in the mist catch the light, revealing a complex, shimmering web of ruby-red laser beams crisscrossing the entire hallway in a geometric nightmare.
"A laser grid. Hemlock is a paranoid bastard," Andrei says, his voice a low, lethal vibration.
I stare at the maze of red light. "If you touch one, the floor becomes a kill zone."
"Stay in my shadow. Exactly in my shadow."
I follow the angle of the lasers up to the ceiling and see the real teeth of the trap.
Sleek, matte-black turrets are recessed into the alcoves above us.
Their camera lenses are twitching, performing a slow, rhythmic sweep of the floor below.
They aren't just static security beams meant to trip an alarm; the grid is designed to detect any mass that shouldn't be there and trigger automated fire. My grip on the hilt of my combat knife tightens so hard my knuckles—already bruised and bloodied from the floors below—turn a sickly, bone-white. The mechanical whir-click of the turret motors cuts through the silence, synched to the sterile glare of the white LED ceiling strips. I bite the inside of my lip, tasting fresh copper, my mind spiraling at the sheer impossibility of the setup. I’ve never felt more like prey.
This isn't a hallway. It's a high-tech slaughterhouse designed by a billionaire psychopath, and a single stray hair or unsteady breath is going to get me turned into red mist on his expensive fucking marble.
"See the lenses? They’re slaved to the beams," Andrei says.
I force myself to track the rotation. "How long is the sweep cycle?"
"Four seconds of blind spot. No more."
Andrei turns to face me, his hands landing heavy and absolute on my shoulders.
He looms over me, his massive frame swallowing my entire field of vision, casting a shadow that blankets my shaking body.
He doesn't ask for my cooperation. He demands it.
He expects me to abandon whatever shred of independence I have left and let him puppet my movements, expecting my body to become a flawless extension of his own.
His grip is so tight his heavy rings bite into the skin of my arms, leaving faint, stinging indentations that pulse with my racing heartbeat.
I can smell the harsh metallic tang of gunpowder mixed with his expensive cologne, feel the furnace-heat radiating off his chest, and see the way his eyes seem to actively glow in the reflection of the red laser light.
I have to fight every feral instinct screaming at me to push him away and run.
I hate that I have to rely on him. I hate that this warlord who bought me in a basement is the only reason I'm still breathing.
"You breathe when I breathe. You move when I move," he orders, his voice dropping to a rumble I feel in my own chest.
"If I stop, you freeze. Even if you're mid-step."
"Total surrender, Ruby. Or we die here."
I swallow the massive lump of pride lodged in my throat and nod once.
Andrei moves first, dropping into a low, fluid crouch that makes absolutely no sense for a man of his towering size.
He slips under a chest-high beam, his broad back hovering mere inches from the burning red light.
He pauses, looking back over his shoulder at me.
I mimic his stance, my abused leg muscles instantly screaming in protest as I force them to hold the awkward, suspended position.
I feel the intense heat of the laser passing just above my spine.
The sheer slip I wear offers zero protection, the fabric doing nothing to shield my skin from the static crackle of the air near the emitters.
A single drop of sweat rolls down my temple, catching on my eyelashes and threatening to sting my eye, but I don't dare blink.
I don't dare raise a hand to wipe it away.
Every muscle in my body is on fire, trembling under the weight of the adrenaline crash.
"Slow. Keep your center low," Andrei whispers.
"Jesus, it’s hot," I grit out through clenched teeth.
"Focus on my heels. Nothing else."
We progress through the first few yards in a slow-motion, agonizing dance of survival.
Andrei twists and leans, contorting his massive shoulders to thread through the impossible gaps, and I follow every exact shift of his weight.
It’s a terrifying game of Simon Says where the penalty for losing is getting ripped apart by high-caliber rounds.
At one point, I have to dip my head to the side, and a laser beam passes so close to my hacked-off hair that my nostrils fill with the sickening stench of singed protein.
The turrets overhead continue their merciless sweeping, their red active lights blinking like malevolent eyes tracking our every twitch.
The sensory overload is a constant, grinding mental drain.
The visual blur of the red lines over the cold marble floor, the heavy, rhythmic thud of Andrei’s breathing just ahead of me, the mechanical whir of the guns—it’s cracking my focus right down the middle.
I shift my weight forward, and my bare toe catches on a tiny floor transition plate.
My center of gravity tips dangerously. I almost gasp, my arms flailing silently for a fraction of a second to catch my balance.
Before I can tip entirely, Andrei’s large, calloused hand slams onto the small of my back, pinning me steady against the empty air.
The contact is jarring. His hand is scorching hot, violently possessive, providing an instant physical anchor in the middle of the deadly red web.
He holds me there until my frantic trembling subsides, his wide palm pressed completely flat against the thin silk covering my lower spine.
I can feel the heat of his individual fingers burning through the fabric, the heavy pressure of his thumb digging into the curve of my hip.
It's a massive distraction. Even in the middle of a literal death trap, the sheer power dynamic between us is overwhelming.
The roughness of his suit jacket sleeve brushes against my bare arm, and the sudden, breathless silence as we both freeze makes my pulse spike for reasons completely unrelated to the guns pointed at our heads.
"I have you," he murmurs, his tone uncompromising.
"Don't look at the beam, look at me."
"Breathe. Through your nose."
I lock my eyes onto his, drawing a shaky breath in through my nose, forcing my heart rate to match the steady, unbothered rhythm of his chest. We inch forward again, leaving the safety of his hand behind, until we reach the hallway's midpoint.
The security here stops being difficult and crosses straight into sadistic.
The lasers converge, forming a tight, intersecting box only three feet wide.
There is no physical way to crawl under or climb over it without breaking a beam and triggering a sensor.
To make the trap even better, the ceiling turret directly above this section has a wider sweep, cutting our window of invisibility completely in half.
I lick my severely dry lips, the tiny sound of my tongue clicking against my teeth sounding like a goddamn gunshot in the suffocating quiet of the hall.
The sharp smell of ozone from the emitters makes my stomach churn.
The cold sweat pooling at the base of my spine turns to ice.
"There’s no gap," I whisper, staring at the impossible knot of light.
"Yes, there is. But we have to move as one." Andrei analyzes the box, his jaw tight. "The turret is coming back in three... two..."