We step into the void, descending into the shadows.
7
Gemma
Metal shrieks against metal,a terrifying, teeth-grinding sound that vibrates straight down to the marrow of my bones. Dante's shoulders flex in the dim light of the penthouse hallway. He digs his bloodied fingers into the seam of the rusted elevator doors. Muscles cord along his neck. The knotwork and skull tattoos on his arms distort with the sheer, violent force of his exertion. Dust rains down from the ceiling plaster.
The steel doors groan in protest, then snap apart. A gaping, black maw opens in front of us. The empty elevator shaft.
Cold, stale air rushes up from the void, carrying the metallic tang of old grease and the scent of twenty-year-old dust. A dark shaft drops straight down.
Cooking carnitas at two in the morning in a cramped food truck prepares a girl for a lot of things. Drunk frat boys throwing bottles. Broken generators in zero-degree weather. Shady cops asking for free meals. It absolutely does not prepare a girl for an improvised descent down a fourteen-story drop with a man built for ruin.
"Jump to the center cable," Dante commands. His voice holds zero room for negotiation. It is pure tactical steel. "Wrap your legs around it. Grip with your hands. Use the friction of your boots to slow your slide. Do not let go."
"Just casual paramilitary parkour in the dark. Normal Tuesday." Sarcasm is a defense mechanism, but it is currently the only thing keeping me from vomiting all over my ruined boots.
Dante steps to the edge of the abyss. He does not hesitate. He drops into the blackness.
The cable groans as he hits the wire. He slides down a few feet, then stops. He looks up. His dark eyes catch the faint hallway light. He is covered in the blood of the men he just slaughtered to protect me. He looks like a demon summoned straight from the underworld.
And he is entirely mine. The realization lands hard in my chest. The tactical detachment is gone from his gaze, replaced by a raging, possessive fire that demands my absolute obedience to keep me breathing.
I step to the ledge. The drop makes my stomach roll.
"I am right below you," Dante says, his voice echoing in the concrete shaft. "You slip, I catch you. You will not fall. Jump."
I jump.
Cold steel rips against my palms. Friction burns instantly flare across my skin. My boots slam against the cable, the rubber soles gripping the grease-coated wire. I slide fast, out of control for three terrifying seconds, before slamming directly into Dante's solid chest.
His arm anchors me. He halts my descent with pure strength. We dangle in the pitch-black shaft, suspended over a lethal drop.
"I have you," he grunts against my ear. The familiar scent of him radiates off his skin, mixed with the sharp copper of the blood he spilled. It overrides the smell of the old grease.
"Keep going," I whisper against his neck. My fingers dig into his broad shoulders. "Get us out of this death trap."
We begin the descent. It is an agonizing, synchronized slide. The darkness is absolute. The only sounds are the screech of our boots on the cable, the metallic groan of the shaft, and our harsh, ragged breathing. My arms scream in protest. The muscles in my thighs burn. The grease coats my hands, making it nearly impossible to maintain a grip. Every time I slip, Dante is there. His body acts as a solid iron shield below me, absorbing my weight, securing my hold, refusing to let the darkness swallow me.
We pass the thirteenth floor. Then the twelfth. The air grows marginally warmer, though the damp chill of the abandoned hotel remains.
"Eleventh floor is compromised," Dante murmurs, his voice barely audible over the hum of the cable. "The signal jammer ends there. If they have radios, they will stage a choke point. We bypass."
"Ten," I say, my voice trembling. "Take us to ten."
We slide past the doors of the eleventh floor. Faint voices echo through the steel. Flashlight beams cut through the narrow crack in the doors, slicing across the dark shaft. Dante freezes, anchoring us both in the void. He presses my face into his shoulder, shielding me from the slivers of light. He does notbreathe. He becomes a statue forged of pure violence, waiting for the threat to pass.
The light shifts away. The voices fade down the corridor.
Dante resumes the slide. The descent to the tenth floor is pure agony. My grip is failing. The friction burns are bleeding.
"Here," he whispers.
He locks his legs around the cable, suspending his entire frame with core strength alone. He reaches out with one hand, gripping the interior latch of the tenth-floor doors. He pulls. The metal refuses to yield. A low growl tears from his throat. He wrenches his arm back and throws a devastating punch straight into the seam of the doors.
The steel groans, bends, and snaps off the rusted track. He rips the doors apart just enough to create a gap.
"Go," he commands, shoving me toward the opening.
