The reality hits me hard.
The dark alley offers zero comfort. I dragged three private security contractors into a bloody cartel war out of pure desperation. Dominic will hunt them. Calix will slaughter themon sight. A target now rests on their broad backs because of a frantic text sent from a bathroom stall.
“You signed your own death warrants.” The helmet traps my ragged whisper.
Rafe turns his head. The dark tinted visor hides his golden eyes.
“We sign our death warrants every single morning.” The heavy metal kickstand snaps up. “Hold on tight.”
The engine roars back to life.
We blast out of the dark alley and hit the open highway. The Ducati demands a specific, aggressive riding posture. The forward tilt forces my body flush against his massive back. My inner thighs bracket his narrow hips tightly. My arms wrap around his rigid torso just to survive the speed.
The physical friction is agony.
Gears shift. The bike accelerates hard. He leans the heavy machine deep as we weave through the city’s industrial outskirts, pushing the bike to its limit to lose any tail before we head for the high ground. Every movement rubs my body against his tactical armor. The violence of the escape mixes with raw arousal.
My core throbs. My thighs clench tighter around him.
I bury the side of my helmet against his broad shoulder, my arms locked around his waist. The solid, burning heat radiating from his massive body acts as a shield. The blistering warmth burns away the phantom sensation of Calix’s fingers digging into my hip. Calix touched me like a defective piece of property. Rafe drives like a man transporting a highly volatile explosive.
City lights vanish. Dark, winding mountain roads replace the smooth concrete highway. Tall pine trees crowd the narrow asphalt.
I catch the flash of strobes in the bike’s side mirror. A voice crackles in my earpiece—the comms Nick forced me to wear.
“Rafe, we have company,” Kaila’s voice is tight. “Two blacked-out SUVs just cleared the tunnel. They’re doing eighty. Sector 7.”
“Copy,” Rafe growls. He twists the throttle. The Ducati surges forward, the front wheel lifting inches off the ground.
The LEDs of the pursuit vehicles gain ground. They aren’t city cops. They’re Costa’s elite QRF. They’ll ram us off the mountain without a second thought.
“Tristan, status,” Nick’s voice cuts in.
“Coming in hot,” Tristan’s voice is a calm, steady rumble. “Hold the line, Beast. Brake on three.”
I clench my eyes shut.
One.
Two.
Three.
Rafe slams the brakes. The rear tire fishtails, screaming against the asphalt.
Behind us, a blacked-out pickup roars from a side trail, broadsiding the lead SUV with the force of a tectonic shift. I don’t know who is driving, but they move with the same lethal precision as the men in my suite. Metal screams. Glass shatters.The second SUV swerves to avoid the wreckage, slamming into the side and pinning it against the granite cliff face.
Rafe reaches up, tapping a button on his helmet to bark a response I can’t quite hear over the roar of the wind. The bike slows.
Static crackles through the internal speakers of my helmet. Nick’s voice fills my ears.
“Status report.”
“Clear of the city,” Rafe answers gruffly. “Route is clean. Package is secure.”
“Surgeon extracted Tyra and the nanny flawlessly,” Nick states over the secure line. “They bypassed the residential security grid. They are safe and off the radar. I walked out the front doors. Clean exit.”
A crushing weight lifts off my lungs.