CHAPTER 20
ANDREI
My weight is a crushing, grounding force right now.
The sweat dripping off my chin hits Ruby’s collarbone and I watch it pool there for a second while the heavy drilling outside the steel door sounds like a distant fucking rhythm instead of a death sentence.
I’m still buried deep inside her. My heart is hammering a frantic code against her ribs, beating so hard it feels like it’s going to crack my own sternum.
I want to stay in this exact moment until the entire building burns down around us but my biological clock is screaming that our time has officially run out.
I brush a damp strand of hair off her forehead, letting my thumb linger on her temple, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse under the skin.
It smells like salt and sex in here, mixed with the low hum of the ventilation system practically choking on the heat coming off our bodies.
"Don't look at the door," I tell her.
"Stay with me, Ruby."
"Just breathe."
The boom is thunderous, a bone-shaking concussion that ruptures the air in the room.
The reinforced steel door doesn't just open, it completely disintegrates inward like a piece of tin foil. The shockwave hits us and the massive steel desk we’re currently using as a bed slides three fucking feet across the concrete floor.
White drywall dust and jagged shrapnel instantly fill the air, creating this lethal, choking fog.
I grit my teeth so hard my jaw audibly clicks, bracing for the absolute hellstorm coming through that opening.
I can taste pulverized concrete on the back of my tongue.
The tinnitus is a high-pitched scream in my ears, and the sudden blinding glare off the hallway tactical lamps cuts through the smoke like a knife.
My tactical brain overrides my lizard brain instantly.
I’m already counting the milliseconds until the first boot hits the floor.
"Blyad!" I roar over the ringing. "Down! Get down!"
Before the debris even finishes raining down I throw my entire massive frame over Ruby.
Hot shrapnel peppers my back, stinging like a swarm of angry hornets but I ignore it, using my bulk to absorb the blast wave so she doesn't have to. I press her face hard into the crook of my shoulder to keep her from inhaling the toxic dust choking the room. I dig my fingers deep into her bare shoulders, a silent command telling her to stay absolutely still and small. I can feel the heat radiating off my own back, the grit of dust coating my teeth, and the rapid-fire clatter of falling ceiling tiles hitting the ground around us. A massive flare of possessive rage spikes through my chest at the thought of anyone seeing her like this. She’s my girl, my captive, my partner in this absolute clusterfuck.
"Don't move," I breathe against her ear.
"I’ve got you."
I roll off her with a rough, predatory grace.
I grab her arm and pull her into a tight crouch behind the shifted steel desk.
My hands are moving with frantic, ruthless efficiency as I help her pull up the ruined white slip she’s wearing.
I’m not looking at her body with desire anymore, I’m looking at it like armor that desperately needs to be fixed.
I snap her slip's torn strap back into place over her shoulder with a sharp, stinging tug.
The friction of the cheap fabric against her sweaty skin is loud in my head.
I can taste the metallic tang of blood from a small piece of shrapnel that slashed my cheek.
I fucking hate that I have to shove her back into the role of a victim just so we can survive the next two minutes.
"Cover up. Now." I order.
"Suka, they're here."
Through the thick, settling smoke, Arthur Hemlock steps into the panic room.
He looks absolutely disgusting in his immaculate perfection, wearing a tailored suit without a single speck of dust on it.
He’s flanked by two fucking giants in full black tactical gear.
Their assault rifles are already leveled at my head, the red laser dots dancing across my bare, tattooed chest like bugs.
Hemlock steps over a jagged piece of his own ruined door, casually checking his gold cufflink with mocking boredom while the cordite and dust settle around his expensive leather shoes.
The hum of the guards' tactical radios buzzes in the dead space, and the smell of Hemlock’s cloying, overpriced cologne cuts straight through the smell of explosives.
"Well, this is domestic," Hemlock says.
"Hold your fire, I want to enjoy the view first."
"You look a bit disheveled, Ignatov."
I want to rip his throat out with my bare teeth.
Hemlock’s greasy gaze slides right over me and settles entirely on Ruby.
He smiles. It’s a slow, arrogant expression of ownership that makes my blood run freezing cold.
He gestures casually with his pistol toward the scratched metal desk where we were just intertwined five seconds ago.
The psychological violation is crystal clear—he wants us to feel small, exposed, and caught like animals in a trap.
I slowly shift my stance, stepping sideways just enough to completely hide Ruby’s trembling legs from the guards' line of sight. I hear the sharp click of a safety being disengaged on one of the rifles. I hear Ruby’s ragged, shallow breathing right behind my spine.
I’m calculating the exact trajectory of a lunge. I need a distraction. I need her.
"Did you get your money's worth, Andrei?" Hemlock asks.
"She's a resilient little thing, isn't she?"
"A shame to waste such... energy."
I don't look at Hemlock. I turn my head just a fraction of an inch, just enough to catch Ruby’s eye.
In that searing, ice-blue to hazel connection, I transmit everything I need her to know.
The plan isn't spoken out loud, it’s a shared vibration humming between us.
I need her to be that girl from the cafe again.
The one who was unimpressed, defiant, and ready to bite down to the bone.
A tiny muscle in my jaw twitches, a rhythmic signal I know she recognizes from the absolute hell we’ve been through.
The physical space between us is tight, the intense heat radiating from our proximity anchoring us together.
I see the shift in her eyes. The fear is dying. The killer is waking up. Fucking good.
"Look at me," I say, my voice a low scrape.
"Do you remember what I taught you?"
"Wait for it."
Ruby gives me a single, sharp nod. It’s so small that a tactical guard trained to spot movement would completely miss it, but to me, it’s a goddamn thunderclap.
She understands the play. Immediately, she begins to slump.
Her face contorts perfectly into a mask of pathetic, weeping terror.
It’s a performance that makes my skin crawl with dark pride.
She lets her hand slip weakly from the edge of the desk, her fingers splayed out on the concrete floor as if she’s completely losing her physical strength.
Her forced, hitching sobs fill the room, her shoulders shaking violently under the ruined straps of her slip.
She’s better at this than I am. She’s going to break their focus.
"Please..." she cries out, her voice cracking perfectly.
"Don't hurt him."
"I'll do whatever you want."
While Ruby expertly draws the guards' eyes with her absolute breakdown, my right hand creeps slowly back toward the edge of the desk behind me.
My fingers brush against the cold, serrated hilt of the combat knife I tucked there twenty minutes ago.
I don't grip it yet. I just memorize the exact position, feeling the textured grip against my slick palm, my muscles coiling tight like a viper ready to strike.
I slowly exhale, steadily dropping my pulse to lower my overall profile as an immediate threat.
I just need them to keep looking at her.
Keep your eyes on the weeping girl. Ignore the fucking monster standing right in front of you.
"Leave her out of this, Hemlock," I say, keeping my voice flat.
"She’s just a girl."
"Your fight is with me."
I stand up fully, stepping out from the desk and presenting my massive, scarred chest as the primary target.
I spread my arms slightly, a pathetic gesture of mock surrender that forces the two giants to widen their tactical stance and focus entirely on my upper body.
I intentionally stumble slightly on a piece of drywall, playing hard into the idea that the blast completely dazed me.
The bright glare of the hallway lights behind them creates these harsh silhouettes that are a bitch to track, but I don't need to see their faces.
I just need to see their guns. Come on, you stupid bastards.
Look at the Bratva king. Don't look at the floor.
"Here I am," I say.
"Do it yourself, Arthur. Don't hide behind the help."
"You’ve always been a coward."
Out of the corner of my eye I see Ruby pull the ruined slip higher up her thighs.
To them it looks like a desperate, terrified attempt at modesty, but I know exactly what she’s doing.
She’s clearing her legs, ensuring the cheap fabric won't trip her up when she makes her move. I notice the raw, red scrape right down her spine where the metal desk bit into her skin earlier, a flashing reminder of exactly what we just shared in the dark. I flex my toes against the floor inside my boots, checking my traction in the thick layer of concrete dust. The smell of iron and dirt is suffocating. I’m going to make these fuckers bleed for every single mark on her skin.
"She’s hurt," I say, keeping the distraction going.
"She needs a doctor."
"Look at what you did."