Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I accept cash and compliments.”
We slip through the door into a service stairwell that smells like bleach and metal. Not pleasant, but deeply comforting in a “this feels like the real world” way.
Ozzy pulls me down the stairs, fast but careful. We hit the next landing. There’s a door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Ozzy reaches for it, but there’s a crash above us.
“They’re moving! Stairwell!”
Ozzy’s entire body shifts, posture going lethal. He squeezes my hand. “Time to go.”
“We’re already going,” I snap. “I’m literally sprinting.”
He glances down at me, eyes amused and sharp. “Good,” he murmurs. “Keep sassing. It means you’re alive.” That is not a sentence I ever wanted as a motivator. But it works.
We burst through the service door into a loading dock corridor lit by flickering fluorescents. The sound of the building changes here—less polished, more industrial. Pipes overhead. Utility carts. A security camera that’s been conveniently covered with something that looks like a strip of black tape.
Ozzy moves with purpose, scanning.
“Where’s your team?” I whisper.
“We’re it, sweetheart.” Ozzy keeps moving, and my shoulders slump slightly.
“You’re it?” I figured when I got rescued there’d be a team of ex-military security professionals. Not a guy with a mohawk. Yet, then again… I never thought I’d get rescued. Like… who am I? Ya know? Why am I being rescued and not any of the other women in this hellhole?
“Yeah, we’re it. We have others helping, but not here.”
I nod. Can’t argue with that.
We reach the loading dock. There’s two guards pacing. Watching. One looks up, sees us, and goes for his gun.
Ozzy moves. He lifts the gun in his hand and shoots. A dart hits the guard and he goes down with a deafening thud.
The second guard rushes forward, and I don’t think. I grab the nearest object—which is a heavy metal clipboard on a hook—rip it free, and swing. The edge connects with the guard’s shoulder. He yelps. I swing again. This time I hit him in the jaw. His head snaps sideways and he goes down like a dropped bag of cement. I blink, breathing hard.
Ozzy stares at me. For a terrifying second, I wonder if I just ruined the plan and he’s going to be like, ma’am, please stop the assaulting. Instead, his gaze drags over me, slow, like he’s seeing me for the first time. Then his mouth curves. Not soft. Sharp. Proud. Dangerous. “Remind me never to make you mad,” he murmurs.
I lift the clipboard. “Too late. I’m already mad.”
He takes a step closer and I can feel him—heat, adrenaline, the faint scent of clean soap and something metallic. His eyes flick to my lips, briefly. Then to the clipboard in my grip. Then back to my face. “You okay?” he asks again.
I nod, swallowing. My hands are shaking, but my voice comes out steady. “Yeah.”
He looks at me for a beat too long. Like he wants to touch my face. Like he wants to pull me against him. Like he wants to do something that is definitely not appropriate in a loading dock.
“Showtime,” Arrow says—low, amused.
Ozzy taps his comm. “We’re on the dock.”
The stairwell door opens and more guards spill out, shouting. Ozzy’s hand is on my back instantly, guiding me toward the open dock door. Arrow takes off running, and we follow quickly behind.
We’re running in the empty lot toward a black SUV. Arrow hits the keyfob and the vehicle's lights blink red. He hops behind the wheel and Ozzy and I rush to the other side, hopping into the back seat.
The second we’re in, Arrow guns it. The SUV lurches forward. I twist, peering through the back window. Guards pour out of the dock, yelling, one raising a gun— and then their world abruptly explodes into confusion as a second vehicle cuts across the lot, blocking them.
I catch the flash of headlights. A horn. Someone shouting. The guards scatter.
Ozzy leans closer, voice low near my ear. “Render.”
“Your friend?” I whisper.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “He’s dramatic.”
“I like him already.”
Ozzy makes a sound like a laugh, but his eyes hold no humor. Instead he almost appears jealous.
Arrow’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. “Seatbelt.”
I blink. “What?”
Ozzy reaches over, grabs the belt, and clicks it across my chest. It’s a small thing. A normal thing. And it makes my throat tighten, because it’s the first normal, protective gesture anyone has given me in weeks.
“I’m fine,” I whisper.
Ozzy looks at me like he knows I’m lying. But he doesn’t push. Instead, he says softly, “You did good back there.”
I swallow. “Thanks,” I whisper.
Arrow’s voice cuts in, dry. “Did you two meet two minutes ago or twelve years ago?”
Ozzy scoffs. “Don’t start.”
Arrow glances at him. “You started. With your hair.”
Ozzy’s hand flies up to his mohawk like it’s personally offended. “My hair did nothing.”