Chapter 22
One hour ago, I was a broke massage therapist eating ramen for dinner three nights a week.
Now I'm committing corporate espionage in a four-thousand-dollar dress.
The service corridor is narrow and utilitarian—bare concrete walls, exposed piping overhead, industrial lighting that flickers every few seconds.
It's the kind of space designed to be invisible, tucked behind the polished marble and crystal chandeliers of the main ballroom where the supernatural elite are currently drinking champagne and pretending they don't want to murder each other.
My heels click against the concrete.
Sharp.
Precise.
Way too fucking loud.
Cyprian moves ahead of me, his massive frame filling the corridor, his wings folded tight against his back.
He doesn't make a sound. Not a single footstep.
Not a breath. He's just this silent, terrifying presence gliding through the shadows like he was born to infiltrate high-security corporate towers.
Which, I guess, he was.
My heart is hammering against my ribs.
The obsidian silk gown keeps catching around my legs, forcing me to hike the fabric up with one hand while I navigate the uneven concrete in three-inch heels that were absolutely not designed for industrial espionage.
The diamond choker around my throat feels like it weighs ten pounds, pressing against my windpipe with every breath.
His mother's choker.
The one that marks me as his.
The one that tells every supernatural creature in this building that I'm under the protection of an eight-hundred-year-old gargoyle who will absolutely rip them apart if they touch me.
No pressure.
"How much farther?" I whisper.
"Thirty meters," Cyprian says without turning around. "The stairwell access is at the end of this corridor."
"And then?"
"Four flights. The executive suites are on the third floor."
Four flights.
In heels.
In a gown that costs more than my rent.
While committing a felony.
"This is insane," I mutter.
"It is necessary."
"Those are not mutually exclusive."
His amber veins flicker slightly brighter—the closest thing to amusement I'm going to get right now.
We reach the stairwell door.
It's heavy steel, industrial-grade, with a biometric scanner mounted on the wall beside it. The kind of security that screams authorized personnel only and we will prosecute trespassers to the fullest extent of the law.
Cyprian presses his palm against the scanner.
Nothing happens.
And then Kael's voice crackles through the earpiece hidden beneath my hair.
"Encryption virus is live. You have access in three... two... one..."
The scanner flashes green.
The lock disengages with a soft metallic click.
Cyprian pulls the door open and gestures for me to enter first.
I step into the stairwell.
The temperature drops immediately.
The air is cold and stale, smelling faintly of concrete dust and industrial cleaning solution. The stairs are steel—narrow, steep, utilitarian—designed for emergency evacuation, not glamorous corporate infiltration.
I look down at my heels.
Then at the stairs.
Then back at Cyprian.
"You're kidding."
"I am not."
"I'm going to break my ankle."
"You will not."
"How do you know?"
"Because I will catch you."
His tone is completely matter-of-fact.
Like catching me mid-fall on a steel staircase while we're actively committing corporate espionage is just another Tuesday for him.
Which, honestly, it probably is.
I take a breath.
And start climbing.
The first flight is manageable.
The second flight is uncomfortable.
By the third flight, my calves are screaming.
The heels force my weight forward onto the balls of my feet, and the narrow steel risers don't give me enough surface area to distribute the pressure. Every step sends a sharp jolt up through my ankles, and the obsidian silk keeps catching on the metal edges, threatening to trip me.
Cyprian is three steps ahead of me.
Silent.
Effortless.
His massive frame moving with the kind of fluid grace that shouldn't be possible for someone who weighs four hundred pounds.
Heat radiates off his back.
Not metaphorically.
Actually radiates.
I can feel it from here—the volcanic warmth of his stone skin, the way his amber veins glow softly in the dim stairwell lighting, casting flickering shadows across the concrete walls.
My breathing is ragged.
Not from exertion.
From adrenaline.
From the sheer, visceral terror of what we're doing.
We reach the third-floor landing.
Another biometric-locked door.
Another soft click as Kael's encryption virus grants us access.
Cyprian pushes the door open slowly, carefully, his amber eyes scanning the corridor beyond.
"Clear," he murmurs.
We slip through.
The third-floor executive corridor is a different world entirely.
Polished obsidian floors.
Floor-to-ceiling glass walls overlooking the city skyline.
Recessed lighting that casts everything in a cold, clinical glow.
And silence.
Absolute, oppressive silence.
The kind that comes with heavy surveillance and zero tolerance for unauthorized personnel.
My heels click against the obsidian.
Sharp.
Precise.
Echoing.
Cyprian moves beside me now, his hand resting at the small of my back, his palm warm and steady through the silk. His wings are folded tight, but I can feel the tension in them—the way they're coiled and ready to unfurl at the first sign of threat.
We pass three closed office doors.
Four.
Five.
And then we reach the end of the corridor.
A massive set of double doors.
Polished black wood.
Biometric scanner.
And a small brass plaque that reads: MARCUS HALE - CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER
Cyprian's amber veins flare.
Bright.
Dangerous.
"Kael," he says quietly.
"Already on it," Kael's voice crackles through the earpiece. "Virus is deploying. You have access in five... four... three... two..."
The scanner flashes green.
The lock disengages.
Cyprian pushes the doors open.
And we step into Marcus Hale's private executive suite.
It's obscene.
That's the only word for it.
The suite is massive—easily the size of my entire apartment—with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the entire city. The obsidian desk in the center of the room is the size of a small car, polished to a mirror shine, with holographic displays flickering across its surface.
The walls are lined with awards.
Plaques.
Framed photographs of Hale shaking hands with politicians, corporate titans, military generals.
And in the corner, mounted on a pedestal like a trophy, is a taxidermied gargoyle wing.
Cyprian goes completely still.
His amber veins flare orange.
Not gold.
Orange.
Dangerous.
"Cyprian," I whisper.
He doesn't respond.
He's staring at the wing.
At the way it's been preserved and displayed like a hunting trophy.
"Cyprian," I say again, louder this time. "We don't have time."
His jaw clenches.
And then he moves.
Not toward the wing.
Toward the desk.
He positions himself at the doors, his massive frame blocking the entrance, his wings unfurling slightly to fill the space.
A living barricade.
"Three minutes," he says quietly. "Find it."
I move to the desk.
The holographic displays are still active, flickering with encrypted data streams and security feeds. I scan the surface, looking for anything that resembles a physical drive.
And then I see it.
A small obsidian case.
Biometric-locked.
Sitting on the corner of the desk like it's just another paperweight.
"Found it," I breathe.
"Extract it," Cyprian says.
I pull the encryption device Kael gave me from the hidden pocket in my gown—a tiny black chip no bigger than my thumbnail. My hands are shaking as I press it against the biometric lock.
The case hums.
The lock flickers.
And then it clicks open.
Inside is a crystalline data drive.
Small.
Unassuming.
Worth millions.
I grab it.
And the moment my fingers close around it, every screen in the suite flashes red.
"Fuck," I whisper.
Kael's voice crackles through the earpiece, urgent and sharp.
"Alarm triggered. Building-wide silent protocol. Hale's enforcer teams are moving. East stairwell. You have maybe ninety seconds before they reach your floor."
Cyprian's amber veins flare incandescent.
"Move," he says.
I shove the drive into my pocket and run.
We burst back into the corridor.
And that's when I see it.
The crimson light.
Flooding the walls.
The floors.
The ceiling.
A pulsing, dangerous grid that turns the entire building into a glowing cage.
And from somewhere below us, I hear them.
Footsteps.
Heavy.
Methodical.
Getting closer.
"Cyprian—"
"I know."
His wings unfurl.
Massive.
Powerful.
Filling the corridor.
"Hold on to me," he says.
"What?"
"Hold on to me."
I don't argue.
I wrap my arms around his neck.
And he runs.