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)
Arrow signals a halt at a junction, his hand slicing the air. Voices echo faintly from above—guards bantering about some sports game, their laughter muffled but cocky. We slip past, up a maintenance shaft that’s basically a vertical coffin, my muscles burning as I haul myself rung by rung, sweat trickling down my back like icy fingers.
Finally, the access panel to the holding floor. Arrow pops it with a gadget that looks like a fancy bottle opener, and we’re in—a utility closet stacked with mops that smell like pine cleaner and regret. Heart pounding, I peek out: hallway empty, carpet plush underfoot, absorbing our steps like secrets.
Room 1408. Her door. Lock picked in seconds… thanks to Juno’s tech wizardry. Inside, the room’s dim, lit by a single lamp that casts long shadows over silk sheets rumpled on the bed. And there she is: Salem. She’s breathtaking, but I try to focus on the here and now. She’s here. She’s weak. And now it’s time to get her the fuck out.
“Hey,” I whisper, holding up my hands like I’m approaching a spooked cat. “I’m Ozzy. Here to crash the party. You like piña coladas? Getting caught in the rain? No? Bad timing. Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”
She blinks, then—miracle of miracles—a tiny, crooked smile. “Worst rescue line ever.”
And just like that, my heart does a flip that’s equal parts relief and oh-shit-this-is-real. Arrow covers the door while I help her up. She’s light, trembling, her skin cool and clammy against mine, smelling faintly of lavender soap masking something sharper—fear, maybe drugs.
THREE
SALEM
If you’d told me three weeks ago that my grand escape from a high-rise human trafficking nightmare would star a guy with a literal mohawk, a sketchy service corridor that smelled like regret and old mop water, and me bickering about door etiquette like we’re auditioning for HGTV’s “Kidnap & Renovate”—I’d have said, “Yeah, sounds about right.” My life’s been a dumpster fire with extra accelerant for years; why not add pyrotechnics?
Ozzy’s hand wraps around mine, warm and steady, not the possessive death-grip I braced for. It’s firm enough to say “I’ve got you,” but loose enough that I could yank free if I wanted. Which is... annoyingly considerate. Also stupidly hot. Like, can we pause the life-or-death sprint for a second so I can appreciate how his fingers feel like they were custom-molded for mine? No? Fine. Priorities.
My brain, however, is on a completely different channel—one where survival takes a backseat to cataloging irrelevant details. Exhibit A: the way his black tactical shirt clings to his shoulders like it lost a bet with gravity. Sweat-damp fabric outlining every ridge of muscle, because of course he’s built like he bench-presses small cars for fun. Exhibit B: the way he moves—quick, precise, predatory in that “I will cheerfully end anyone who touches you” way, not the creepy “I collect eyeballs as souvenirs” way. Big difference. Important distinction when you’re running for your life.
And then there’s the mohawk. The actual mohawk. It’s not even ironic; it’s proudly vertical, and pitch black like it’s auditioning for a cyberpunk reboot. Who looks at a black-ops rescue mission and thinks, “You know what this needs? Peak 2005 Hot Topic energy”? Ozzy, apparently. And somehow it works. I hate that it works.
We hit the service corridor at a dead sprint—well, I’m more like a frantic shuffle in borrowed sneakers two sizes too big; he’s gliding like he was born to dodge imaginary bullets. The door ahead is one of those industrial steel monstrosities with a push-bar that screams “employees only, or you’ll be fired... or worse.” He slams his shoulder into it. Nothing. Locked. Of course it’s locked. Because why would the universe make this easy?
“We need to bust the door down,” the other guy, Arrow, says.
“Won’t budge,” Ozzy says, studying the door once more.
“Kick it,” Arrow says.
I plant both hands on the bar and shove. It doesn’t budge. Because physics hates me. “It’s not locked. It’s stuck, genius.”
“Let’s push together.” He crowds in behind me—close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him, smell clean sweat and something faintly like gun oil and pine—and reaches around to add his strength. Our bodies align for one ridiculous heartbeat: my back to his chest, his arms bracketing mine, breath hot against my ear as he mutters, “On three. One—”
We both shove. The door gives with a metallic screech that probably wakes half the building. We stumble through into blessed darkness.
“Move,” Arrow orders.
Ozzy doesn’t let go of my hand. Just tugs me forward, down the stairs two at a time, his grip now a lifeline instead of a polite invitation. My heart’s doing cartwheels. Sure, there’s fear, yes, but also this dumb, giddy spark every time his thumb brushes my knuckles like an apology for dragging me into this madness.