CHAPTER 16
DAMON
I hauled Margarita into the pitch-black maintenance closet and slammed the heavy steel door.
I didn't just close it, I threw my entire fucking weight into it, my shoulder connecting with the iron so hard it groaned before I shoved the heavy sliding bolt home.
It shrieked like a dying animal, a final violent punctuation to us running for our lives through the sludge of the subway tunnels.
We were trapped in a space no bigger than a coffin, the darkness completely absolute.
I kicked a pile of oily, discarded rags out of the way to make sure my boots had solid traction on the slick concrete.
"Don't move," I rasped, my lungs burning. "Stop breathing so loud."
She was hyperventilating somewhere to my left.
"If that bolt holds, we have five minutes. Maybe less."
I pressed my forehead against the freezing metal of the door, my right hand still white-knuckled around the bolt.
I strained to hear past the low-frequency thrumming of the high-voltage lines running inside the walls, waiting for the crunch of tactical boots on gravel.
The psychological toll of being hunted by those mercenary pricks was twisting my protective instinct into something way darker, way more demanding.
I wiped a smear of Margarita’s blood—transferred to my hands when I shoved her through that drainage pipe—across my jawline. Marking myself with her.
"They’re sweeping the upper maintenance tier," I muttered, mostly to myself, tracking the distant low hum of a subway train vibrating through the soles of my boots two levels up. "Listen. Can you hear the rats? When they stop moving, we know the guards are close."
It would be so fucking easy to just lose it right here. To stop being a soldier and start being the monster she was so terrified of.
I turned away from the door. My eyes were finally adjusting to the absolute lack of light, catching the faint pale outline of her face in the corner.
The pure adrenaline that had kept me moving through the crossfire was pooling low in my gut now, turning into a completely different kind of hunger.
I was supposed to be looking for a secondary exit.
I wasn't. I was looking at her. The mission was entirely eclipsed by the visceral, biological need to claim the only thing I had left in this rotting hole.
I grabbed the collar of my tactical vest and ripped the Velcro open, the sharp tearing sound making Margarita jump.
"Come here."
She didn't move. She was trembling. I could feel the air vibrating between us, feeding the exact same chemical high that was currently lighting my blood on fire.
"I said, come here, Margarita. Now."
I didn't wait. I reached out in the dark, my hand finding her upper arm. My grip was bruising, intentionally heavy, making sure she knew exactly who had her. I yanked her forward until her chest slammed into mine, knocking the air out of her lungs in a sharp gasp. I wanted to break her just enough so she’d never think about running again.
Not from me. My thumb brushed over the pulse point in her neck, feeling the frantic hummingbird beat of her pulse under the smell of her skin—salt, sweat, and that faint hint of clinical antiseptic that cut straight through the closet's rot.
"You're shaking," I said, the rough texture of my tactical glove scraping against her jaw. I leaned down, the heat of my breath hitting her forehead. "Look at me. Even if you can't see, look at me."
I spun her around and shoved her back. Her hips collided hard with the edge of a rusted utility sink.
The metal groaned under the impact, a loud, jarring screech that seemed to echo endlessly.
It was a massive liability to make that kind of noise, but I didn't give a fuck anymore.
I was way beyond tactical caution. I pinned her there, boxing her in with a wall of solid muscle and heat, trapping her against the biting cold, stained porcelain.
The drain smelled like stagnant water. I swept my arm across the side of the sink, knocking a pile of old glass specimen jars onto the rags below.
They shattered silently, muffled by the oily cloth.
"Don't make a sound," I commanded, crowding her space entirely. "Hold onto the edge. Don't let go."
The sound of those jars breaking was loud enough to get us killed. The thought that we were going to get caught and I was going to die right inside her only made me harder.
I yanked her hair back, wrapping my fist in the dark messy strands to expose the white column of her throat to the dark.
I didn't kiss her. I bit the junction where her neck met her shoulder, my teeth scraping her skin, marking her as mine while my other hand fumbled with her clothes.
My leather-clad fingers struggled with the zipper of her oversized jacket for a second before I lost patience and just ripped the fabric down with a sharp, violent tug.
"You’re mine in the dark," I growled against her skin, the scrape of my stubble dragging across her neck, the metallic taste of blood hitting my tongue when I nipped too hard. "Tell me you feel that."
She tasted like the end of the fucking world and I wanted to swallow her whole so the bastards outside could never even look at her.
I shoved her scrub pants down to her knees, gripped my heavy cock, and entered her with a single, brutal thrust. It was unlubricated and raw, the friction tearing a sharp cry of shock out of her lungs.
I gripped the underside of the sink so hard the rusted metal flaked off under my fingernails, burying myself to the hilt.
"Take it," I snarled. Pain and pleasure, it was all the exact same thing right now. It was just proof the bullets missed. "I need to know you're alive. Fight me."
I set a punishing, frantic pace, my body slamming into hers with the same ruthless rhythm of a heartbeat in the middle of a firefight.
I was using her tight cunt to burn off the terror, my hands molding her hips like clay, hauling her back onto my cock with every stroke.
Margarita’s head knocked back against the concrete wall with every thrust, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud that echoed over the squeak of the sink's rusted mounting bolts.
"Stay with me," I ordered, my sweat-slicked skin slapping against hers in the freezing air. "Don't you dare close your eyes."
I was going to ruin her for any other man on the planet. She was only ever going to respond to this level of violence.
Margarita’s moans started to rise in volume, helpless, ragged sounds tearing from her throat.
Then I heard it. The unmistakable scrape of combat boots just outside the steel door.
I instantly clamped my heavy, leather-gloved hand over her mouth, sealing her voice completely inside her throat.
I pressed my thumb hard into her cheek, forcing her jaw open slightly to make sure the muffle was absolute.
"Not a fucking word," I breathed right into her ear, my body frozen deep inside her. "Shh. They're right there."
The smell of the leather glove—gun oil and old sweat—pressed against her nose, trapping the suffocating heat of her own breath against my palm. If she screamed, I’d have to kill her before they did. I couldn't let them have her.
A flashlight beam cut through the gap at the bottom of the door, a thin yellow line of doom illuminating the dust motes dancing on the floor.
I didn't move a single muscle, but the internal pressure was mounting to an agonizing peak.
I was buried deep inside her, gripping her so tight I was leaving bruises she'd wear for weeks. A single drop of sweat fell from my chin and landed squarely on the back of Margarita’s hand.
Absolute, dead silence stretched out from the hallway.
Just the muffled, frantic sound of her trying to breathe through her nose against my leather palm.
Take one more step. Just open the door, you bastards. I’ll kill you all while I’m still inside her.
The yellow light flickered and disappeared.
The heavy footsteps faded down the corridor.
The surge of adrenaline from the near-miss was the final catalyst. I lost all pretense of control.
I yanked her hair so hard her spine arched, pulling her chest off the sink so the angle was sharper, so I could get even deeper.
I started driving into her with a ferocity that made her eyes roll back in her head.
I wasn't just having sex; I was conquering her.
"They’re gone," I grunted, slamming into her wet heat. We were ghosts. We were already dead anyway, so this didn't matter. This was the only real thing left. "Now. Give it to me now."
I reached around to her front, my gloved hand finding the sensitive, swollen knot of her clitoris.
I showed absolutely no mercy, my rough thumb grinding against her, overstimulating the sensitive skin, edging her straight toward a cliff.
I wanted her to shatter while I was still silencing her, wanting the vibration of her scream to be felt only by my hand.
Margarita’s fingernails clawed desperately at the rust on the sink, leaving red-brown crescents packed under her nails.
"Take it. Scream into my hand," I demanded, increasing the brutal friction, thrusting up into her cervix. "That's it. Good girl."
Look at what I can make you do. Even in hell, you’ll come for me.
I finished with a guttural, bone-deep roar that I managed to swallow into the back of her neck.
My entire body spasmed, unloading a hot, heavy release deep inside her.
I pinned her so hard against the sink that a spiderweb crack snapped through the porcelain.
I held her there in a violent, possessive clinch that lasted until my vision finally cleared, burying my face in the crook of her shoulder, my teeth bared in a silent snarl.
My chest heaved against her spine, struggling to pull oxygen back into my lungs.
"Don't move," I rasped, my voice blown out. "Stay right there. Mine."
I was never letting her go. If the world wanted her, they’d have to go through my corpse to get her.
I pulled out, zipped my pants, and wiped my gloved hand on my thigh. I grabbed my rifle off the floor and checked the magazine. Time was up.