CHAPTER 21
RUBY P.O.V.
I nod once against his chest, but the sudden glare of blue-white tactical lights cuts through the dust, blindingly bright and completely unforgiving.
Three figures emerge like wraiths through the jagged hole where the reinforced door used to be.
The lights on the guards' rifles sweep the wreckage, landing squarely on us.
Standing in the center of the destruction is Arthur Hemlock.
The bastard's evening wear is remarkably untouched, not a speck of dust on his fucking lapels, and his face is twisted into a look of sick, gloating triumph.
He's enjoying this. He's been watching every miserable second on his goddamn monitors.
The thought makes my skin crawl worse than the debris settling over my bare skin.
We are caught in a confined space, nowhere to run, no cover left, and completely unarmed.
The power dynamic is a joke right now. I squint against the searing glare of the weapon lights, using my left hand to shield my eyes while my right hand frantically searches the floor behind Andrei's bulk, my fingers scraping blindly over broken tiles for a shard of glass, a broken pipe, anything sharp.
"Look at the little rats," Hemlock sneers, his cloyingly expensive cologne cutting straight through the cordite.
"I hope we didn't interrupt anything private. "
Andrei shifts his weight off me just enough to get his knees under him.
His large hand slides from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, and he gives me a single, sharp, bruising squeeze.
It’s a silent, instantaneous download of intent.
When I risk a glance up at his profile, I don't see the man who just had his hands buried in my thighs; I see the warlord.
His ice-blue eyes are completely dead, dead to the world, dead to Hemlock, just rapidly calculating the exact distance to the doorway.
His thumb presses hard into the sensitive dip at the base of my skull, a gesture of absolute ownership and a harsh command to get ready.
The heat of his palm against my cold, debris-covered skin grounds me.
The steady, rhythmic thud of his heart against my shoulder tells me he isn't afraid.
The squeeze means move. It means he has a plan, and I am the primary gear in it.
I have to be perfect. "Wait for my move," he breathes so quietly I feel it more than hear it. "Do it now."
I reach for his discarded suit jacket lying half-buried in the rubble.
My fingers are trembling, but I make sure to exaggerate the shake, turning real adrenaline into practiced precision.
I drag the heavy, expensive silk over my bare, bruised shoulders, hunching over to look smaller, frailer, completely shattered.
I fumble with the lapel, purposefully letting the fabric slip off one shoulder to show them exactly how weak and defeated I am.
Hemlock chuckles, the smug, wet sound echoing off the reinforced concrete walls.
"A bit late for modesty, don't you think, Ruby?
" he says. Talk, you bastard. Keep talking while I get into position.
Every goddamn word you say is another second for us.
"You're a dead man, Arthur," I whisper, my voice raspy and pathetic.
Hemlock laughs out loud. "Is that all you have to say? "
Andrei’s jaw is a block of granite. He remains perfectly still on the floor, shifting onto his knees with his hands fully visible and open in a textbook, false show of surrender.
The absolute silence coming off him is heavier than the hum of the building's emergency generators. But I can see the hair-trigger tension coiled in his massive thighs. He’s putting his entire life in my hands right now, waiting for me to pull the guards' focus long enough for him to strike. He’s a statue.
He’s waiting for me. If I miss the beat, we’re both getting our heads blown off before we even clear the floor.
His eyes remain fixed on the cracked tiles, but his nostrils flare as he draws in a deep, slow, lung-expanding breath.
"She's hurt," Andrei says, his accent thick and deliberately defeated. "Don't touch her."
I lean forward and force a wet, wracking cough that violently tears through my chest. I let my forehead drop until it's almost touching the rough concrete, letting my chopped, messy hair fall over my face to hide my eyes.
I draw in a ragged, whistling breath, making it sound exactly like my lungs are filling with fluid.
The metallic tang of real blood is already in my mouth—I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste copper and feel the sharp sting of my own teeth breaking skin.
A small, dark trail of blood leaks from the corner of my mouth and drips onto the floor.
Taste the blood. Make it real. They need to see a broken bird, a total casualty, not a survivor.
"I... I can't..." I wheeze, squeezing my eyes shut. "Help..."
I push myself up on shaking arms. The sharp sting of pulverized glass grinds into my palms, but I ignore it.
I look directly up at the guards. I make my hazel eyes go wide and glassy, welling them up with unshed tears and feigned, pathetic shock.
The younger guard, Guard 1, has his red laser sight bouncing rhythmically against my chest. I reach out a blood-smeared, violently trembling hand straight toward him, letting my fingers twitch uncontrollably as if I'm losing all motor function.
Look at me, you coward. Look at the girl you helped throw into this hellhole.
See how weak I am. "Please... it hurts...
" I whimper. Guard 1 shifts his stance, obviously uncomfortable.
"Stay back, girl," he barks, but his voice wavers. Hemlock clicks his tongue. "Check her."
I stagger to my feet, letting Andrei’s oversized jacket hang off my frame like a funeral shroud.
I take two drunken, pathetic steps toward the doorway, moving deliberately away from Andrei to widen the gap between us.
My bare feet crunch directly on the sharp remains of the glass desk, and I let out a sharp, genuine hiss of pain that sells the act perfectly.
The biting cold of the floor and the sudden rush of air against my skin is all I can focus on.
One more step. Just give me one more step and the angle is exactly what Andrei needs.
I purposefully trip over a heavy chunk of drywall, throwing my weight sideways so my hip strikes the jagged edge of the ruined desk.
I flail, struggling to stay upright. "She's going down," Guard 1 says, his rifle barrel tracking my fall. "Don't move!" Guard 2 snaps.
I clutch my abdomen tight, doubling over as if my guts are spilling out.
In the motion, I allow the silk jacket to slide all the way off my left arm, exposing my bare, bruised shoulder, the jut of my collarbone, and the curve of my hip.
It’s humiliating, using my own battered body as a cheap tactical distraction, but I don't give a fuck. I catch Guard 1’s eyes, watching the exact second his focus shifts from the massive, lethal Russian on the floor to my exposed skin.
I tuck my chin down to my chest immediately, hiding the lethal, predatory glint that flares back to life in my eyes.
That's it. Look at the skin. Look at the girl.
Forget the monster waiting right behind you.
"She's bleeding out," Guard 1 says, taking his eyes completely off Andrei.
"Watch her!" Hemlock snaps, stepping back.
With a final, theatrical, choking gasp, my legs completely buckle.
I don't brace myself; I just collapse like a puppet with its strings severed.
I hit the concrete hard, face down, my skull bouncing once with a dull, heavy thud.
I lie perfectly motionless, the vibration of the floor buzzing against my cheek, breathing in the smell of stale smoke and dust near the ground.
I exhale completely, forcing my ribcage to go completely still to simulate total unconsciousness.
Three... two... one... go, Andrei. Kill them all.
"She's out," Guard 1 calls out, taking the bait.
"Cover the Russian!" Guard 2 yells back.
The psychological impact is instantaneous, just like I knew it would be.
The human brain is a stupid, predictable machine—it always tracks falling objects.
Guard 1 takes a half-step forward, his rifle barrel dipping toward the floor as his gaze stays glued to my body.
Even Guard 2, the guy who actually seems to know what he's doing, flicks his eyes toward me for a fraction of a second, his brain logging the casualty.
I hear the slight whir of Guard 1's rifle optics shifting, his heavy breath loud in the tight space.
I see his finger twitch on the trigger guard, his posture relaxing just a fraction of an inch.
It's the only mistake he'll ever make. "Is she dead?
" Hemlock asks, disgusted. "Don't worry about her," Guard 2 barks. They actually fell for it.
The air in the room just vanishes. Andrei doesn't just move; he fucking launches.
One second he is a defeated heap on the floor, and the next he is a blur of pure, terrifying kinetic energy.
He covers the ten feet between them before the guards can even twitch to pull their sights back up.
His boot heels kick up a massive cloud of debris, the sound completely lost in the violent rush of wind his body creates.
He is a thunderclap. Fast. Brutal. Beautiful.
"Move!" Guard 2 screams. "Down!" Guard 1 yells.