Page 91 of Dublin Beast

She doesn’t flinch when I meet her gaze.

“We’re getting out of here,” she says. “Both of us.”

For the first time in hours, I might actually believe it.

CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR

Bryan

The water is hip-deep and smells like death.

I’m talking about the unnatural lovechild between rot and sewage and chemical runoff, the kind of scent that singes your nasal passages and coats the back of your throat like oil.

It’s thick down here—icy, oppressive. No space to breathe, no light to guide.

The perfect place for a person to bleed out and vanish, really.

I shift my weight, water sloshing against my jeans as I plant one hand against the damp tunnel wall, the other hovering just above the surface where something—not small—brushed past my leg five seconds ago.

I didn’t shout, which I think deserves a medal. Because I don’t want Harper to freak out and think twice about coming down here.

That ship has sailed.

“Bryan,” Harper calls from above, her voice echoing down the narrow shaft. She sounds breathless and pissed. “This is insane.”

“We’ve already established that,” I call back, adjusting my footing on the slippery concrete beneath me. “Keep bracing your back against back wall and use your hands and feet to shimmy down here. Palms wide. Feet flat.”

“You better still be down there.”

“Where else would I be?”

“Bailed. Left me to rot. Eaten by mutant sewer rats. Take your pick.”

“Still here.” I grit my teeth against the cold as another ripple brushes my thigh. “Standing in god-knows-what and hoping whatever just swam past wasn’t sentient.”

“That’s not helping.”

“Neither are you. Get your arse down here.”

I glance up the dark passage and see nothing. My heart is pounding harder than it should, and not just from the threat of drowning in a Victorian-era shit tunnel. We argued about this—hard.

She didn’t want to go first in case I couldn’t fit, said she wasn’t about to crawl into a death tube only for me to get stuck like some idiot in a horror film.

I saidfuck that, because I wasn’t about to leave her alone with only a bolted door between her and Mason. What if he or his men came back, and I was at the bottom of a storm drain?

We argued. Wasted time. I went first.

And now I wait. Wet, anxious, and trying to ignore the way my adrenaline is playing chicken with my better judgment.

The scrape of her boots on the stone is getting louder, so I can only hope she’s almost down.

Then her foot slides into view.

“Good, girl.” I coach her, raising both arms now, ready to catch. “Keep your back pressed against the wall, slow and steady.”

She lowers herself inch by inch, bracing her shoulders and feet like I told her. “My legs feel like Jell-O”

“Imagine how they’d feel if you weren’t as fit as you are. You’re killing it.”

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