CHAPTER 15 #2
"Make it work. Go."
He shoves me toward it. I hit my hands and knees on the tunnel floor and hesitate at the mouth of the pipe.
It smells like rotting mud and ancient decay.
But Damon's hand is on the small of my back, flat and unyielding.
I scramble in. The cold, slimy mud immediately soaks through the knees of my jeans.
The thick rust coating the interior edges of the pipe bites into my palms, scraping the skin raw.
My hair catches on a jagged piece of flaking iron hanging from the top of the pipe. I try to move forward, and my scalp screams. I jerk my head violently, ripping the strands free and leaving a clump of my own hair behind on the rust.
"Keep going."
"I can't move..." I gasp, my shoulders scraping both sides of the pipe simultaneously. "It's too tight."
"Keep going or I'll push you."
I crawl until my hands hit a solid metal grate blocking the rest of the pipe. I am flat against the bottom, pressed into the foul mud, my boots practically hanging out the entrance.
Damon squeezes into the pipe right behind me.
The space is impossibly small, a literal tomb designed for water, not flesh.
He doesn't just fit behind me; he fills the entire void.
His massive chest presses flush against my back.
His heavy, muscular legs tangle directly with mine.
He has to tilt his head to clear the ceiling of the pipe, resting his rough, stubbled jaw directly on my shoulder blade.
"Don't move."
"I can't breathe." The air is completely gone, displaced by his mass.
"Breathe through me. Quietly."
A beam of tactical light flashes directly over the opening of the pipe.
The harsh glare filters through the gaps around Damon’s boots, illuminating the wet mud inches from my face for a split second before vanishing.
We can hear their gruff voices now, just feet away.
One of the mercenaries steps heavily near the entrance.
He kicks a loose chunk of concrete, and it clatters sharply against the outside of our pipe.
Damon’s hand slides through the mud and covers mine. His thick, rough fingers pry my clenched fist open and interlace with mine, gripping tightly enough to keep my entire arm from shaking.
The mercenary's voice barks outside, "Check the next junction."
The silence in the pipe stretches out, agonizing and thick.
I am trapped in absolute, suffocating proximity.
I am hyper-aware of every single point of friction between our bodies.
Every time Damon takes one of his shallow, guarded breaths, his broad chest expands, crushing against my spine.
The sensory cocktail in this tiny space is going to make me pass out.
The stench of the mud is entirely overpowered by the sharp musk of his sweat, the heavy iron smell of his blood, and the raw, aggressive heat radiating from his skin.
He is wounded, dangerous, and terrifyingly close.
My logical brain is screaming in terror, waiting for the flashlight to shine in and the bullets to start flying.
But my body is betraying me in the dark.
My pulse is hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm.
The cold mud soaking my clothes is completely irrelevant against the intense, burning heat of his body pressing into mine.
Damon shifts his weight slightly, a minute adjustment to alleviate the screaming pressure on his injured liver.
The movement causes his lower half to grind firmly against my ass. Through the friction of his heavy denim and my wet jeans, I feel the unmistakable, hard ridge of his arousal press flush into the small of my back.
I let out a tiny, muffled gasp, my back arching completely on instinct, pressing myself harder into him. It’s involuntary. It’s a biological short-circuit, a feral response to the hunt, the adrenaline, and the pure, violent masculinity wrapped around me.
His teeth graze the sensitive shell of my ear as he exhales a low, guttural vibration that rumbles straight down my spine.
"Be still, Margarita."
"Damon... please."
"Don't move a muscle."
We stay locked together in the filth, the heat between us suffocating, until the heavy boots finally recede down the main tunnel.
The sweeping light beams vanish, leaving us back in the natural, oppressive gloom.
Damon doesn't move immediately. He stays pressed against me, his arousal still hard against my spine, the tension in his massive frame refusing to dissipate. His breath is hot and heavy on my neck.
"They're gone."
"We need to get out," I whisper, my voice cracking.
"Wait. Just... wait."
The distant, low-frequency hum of the subway system returns, filling the silence. I clench my free hand in the mud, my short nails digging painfully into my own palm.
Finally, Damon pushes backward. He extracts himself from the pipe with a tight, pained grunt, sliding out into the narrow service tunnel.
He grabs my ankle and drags me backward out of the hole.
I tumble onto the grimy concrete floor next to him, panting, my lungs burning for the stale tunnel air.
I am covered in filth. Mud is caked on my face, matted in my hair, and soaking through every layer of my clothes.
I reach up to wipe the muck out of my eyes and only succeed in smearing it further across my cheek. I look at Damon. He is sitting back against the wall, staring at me. The look on his face has nothing to do with survival. It is raw, unmasked, territorial hunger.
"You're a mess."
"Look at you," I snap, pointing to his side. "You’re bleeding again."
"I don't care."
I grab my phone from the floor and hit the power button.
The screen flickers once, displaying a heavily distorted, glitched-out image of the map for half a second before going completely black.
It’s dead. We are in total darkness, with no guide, and heavily armed men still patrolling the main arteries of the tunnels behind us.
"It's over. The map is gone." I toss the dead phone into the dark. It hits the concrete with a hollow clack.
"I saw it. I know where we are going."
"I don't believe you."
He pushes himself to his feet, a low groan escaping his chest. He leans heavily on the wall, dragging his hand along the concrete as he moves forward on pure, stubborn willpower. He stops, staring into the gloom.
"There." His voice is wrecked.
I follow his gaze and see the faint, rectangular outline of a heavy door set into the wall further down the shaft. The sanctuary from the map.
"You’re going to collapse."
"Not until we’re inside."
I step under his arm, letting his heavy weight drop onto my shoulder. "Hold onto me."
We stumble the last twenty feet, the rough scrape of his boots on the concrete echoing loudly. We hit the door. It’s a reinforced steel maintenance closet, painted industrial orange but currently flaking with heavy rust. It looks solid.
Damon puts his uninjured shoulder into the metal. A guttural roar tears out of his throat as he shoves. The heavy iron hinges scream in high-pitched protest, refusing to budge. The noise is a siren in the quiet tunnel.
I throw my shoulder against the steel right next to his.
"Together. Push!"
"It's... it's moving."
"Get inside. Now!"
The metal grinds violently over the concrete floor, scraping open just enough for us to squeeze through the gap.
We fall together into the pitch-black space of the closet.
Damon spins around instantly, slamming his entire body weight against the door to close it.
He reaches up in the dark and throws the thick, rusted deadbolt.
The heavy, metallic clack seals us off from the world.
We are trapped inside a tiny, freezing box, completely blind, soaking wet, covered in blood and mud.
The smell of damp linen and industrial soap hits my nose.
I stumble backward, my hand finding the cold, porcelain edge of a utility sink bolted to the wall.
I grip it tight, grounding myself in the physical reality of the porcelain while my lungs heave.
"Are we... are we safe?"
"We're alone."
His silhouette moves in the dark, stepping closer to me. I reach out and my fingers brush against his knuckles.
"Damon, your hand is shaking."