Page 78 of Sexting the Bikers
Boots scuff the floor as they back away from the glass. I hold my breath, afraid even the sound of my heartbeat might betray me. The closet door stays untouched. They never even glance in my direction.
The taller guard mutters something about reporting to Gregor. Thankfully, they leave the door open. Footsteps retreat down the hallway, swallowed by distant shouting and the slam of exterior doors.
I keep still, counting slow to twenty, then thirty, until the house settles back into uneasy silence. Through the closet crack, only the faint rectangle of moonlit carpet remains.
I slip from the closet and melt into the gloom, silk brushing my legs. The hallway roars with boots and shouted orders. I keep low, hugging the wall, sliding past open doorways without letting a toe touch the light.
Two guards rush by, rifles leveled, muttering about search teams sweeping the grounds. I press flat behind a console table, heart hammering. When they pass, I dart forward, counting each stride to keep my pace silent.
At the corridor’s bend, a lamp spills a pale circle across the floor. I wait for a shout from the far end—none comes—then sprint through the light, bare feet whispering over the rug. My chest tightens, every breath a knife between my ribs, but I don’t slow.
I aim for the service stairs. The kitchen door stands ahead, double panels of polished oak. Voices echo closer. I twist the knob and shove. It doesn’t budge.
Locked.
Shit.
I race my eyes around the pantry alcove. Shelves stacked with silver platters. A window above the sink, but too small. Footsteps pound down the hall. I have seconds.
A utility cupboard gapes open beside the door, shelves crammed with linens. I dive inside, pulling the folding door mostly shut as boots thunder past. One guard stops outside the pantry, cursing about wasted time. He rattles the knob, barking that someone should get keys. His radio crackles. Orders fly. My pulse jumps with each word.
“I think I spotted someone downstairs.”
Gregor’s reply sends ice up my spine. “Told you that little bitch never left. She’s playing us.”
As soon as they leave, I yank open the nearest door near the pantry, heart stuttering. A narrow stairwell slopes downward, air turning sharp with damp earth. No time to weigh odds. I slip inside and pull the door until it almost latches, leaving just a breath of space so it won’t echo shut.
My feet hit the first step and I pause, listening. The basement stairwell yawns ahead, bricks sweating moisture, but voices boom behind me in the hall.
Cold clings to my skin as I feel for the rail. There is none. I descend by touch alone, fingers brushing rough concrete, feet testing each step before committing. Every exhale sounds too loud in the hollow stairwell. Above, boots pound, hunting.
At the bottom, the steps spill onto an uneven floor. Total darkness presses around me. I stretch my arms wide, palms skimming stone and rotting wood. A drip echoes somewhere to my right. The air smells of mildew and iron, like old blood and rusted pipes.
I slide along the wall, fingertips searching for edges, seams, anything that might be a doorframe. My pulse thrums in my ears. A door slams upstairs, followed by curses and the heavy tread of men fanning out. They will reach this level soon.
My hand snags on a metal latch set low in the wall. I crouch, groping it. Hinges groan as I tug, revealing a crawlspace barely wide enough for my shoulders. Stale air billows out, colder still. Iduck inside, teeth clenching against the chill, and ease the panel closed behind me.
The crawlspace is a coffin of bricks and dirt. I inch forward on hands and knees, my tight dress catching on rough stone until I tear a slit in the skirt to move freely. My knees scrape, but the pain keeps me alert. Far ahead, a slit of light glimmers, a coal chute maybe, or a cracked storm vent.
Voices filter through the basement, angry, close. A flashlight beam sweeps the main chamber, catching dust motes that drift through the crack in my hiding panel. I press against the floor, willing my breath silent.
Panic claws at the edges of my mind, but I force it back. There has to be a way out.
My fingers close around a cold metal handle. Prayers and curses tangle on my tongue as I brace both feet and shove with everything I have.
The door pops outward, slamming into something solid. A grunt echoes back at me. Then light spills into the duct and Dog’s face appears, inches from mine. He rubs his chest where the door hit, then flashes a crooked, breathless grin. Sweat and dirt streak his cheeks; his eyes blaze with reckless energy.
“Get out of the way, princess,” he whispers, voice low and urgent. “The bloodhounds are after me.”
Shock freezes me for half a heartbeat, then relief surges so hard my knees wobble. I twist sideways, letting him squeeze into the cramped passage with me. He shoulders the metal door closed behind him and slides the interior bolt home. The latch clicks just as shouts echo down the basement corridor.
We’re pressed thigh to shoulder in a space barely wide enough for one. The darkness swallows us again, his breath hot against my ear.
I can feel my pulse in my throat. “How did you even get in?”
“Front gates were busy,” he whispers, catching his breath. “Thought I’d try the back way.”
“In the middle of a manhunt?”
