CHAPTER 1: THE CATACOMB CRUSH
POV: Romi
If anyone had told me I’d be crawling on all fours through a Roman tomb, with liquid gold running through my veins while a pissed-off inquisitor in a Brioni suit drove me forward from behind—I would have spat in their face.
Yet, here I was.
Damp, ancient mud was actively ruining my favorite leather jacket. Worse, the man crawling right behind my ankles could probably kill me with two fingers and a holy word.
"Move, Romi," Laurence’s deep, rough voice cut through the dark. It vibrated right against my lower back, sending an unwelcome kick of adrenaline straight to my chest.
"I'm going as fast as I can, Father Christmas," I hissed back, dragging my boots through the narrow stone tunnel. "Some of us don't have military-grade knee pads."
"Less talking. More crawling."
He didn't sound out of breath. Of course he wasn't. Laurence Dupré was a machine built by the Vatican to terminate anything that went bump in the night.
Right now, he was also my only shield against the absolute shitshow my life had become exactly three hours ago.
Never drink from an unlabeled crystal decanter in a demon-owned penthouse. Rule number one of art theft. I knew the rule. I just ignored it because I thought it was seventy-year-old Macallan.
Instead, I had swallowed a glowing, centuries-old alchemical substrate. Now, my blood felt like boiling gold, and my skin was humming with a terrifying, electric fever.
A wave of dizziness hit me, making the ancient stone walls of the St. Agnes catacombs spin in the dark. I stumbled, my palms slipping on the wet clay.
Instantly, a heavy, gloved hand clamped around my waist, lifting me effortlessly forward. Even through the heavy leather of my jacket, the weight of his palm burned like a branding iron.
"Don't stop," Laurence commanded, his chest pressing briefly against my backside as he shoved me onward.
"Touch me like that again and I charge extra," I snapped, though my voice lacked its usual bite.
The truth was, my body was sabotaging me. The substrate inside my veins wasn't just making me hallucinate; it was turning my senses up to a dangerous, agonizing frequency.
And right now, Laurence’s scent was filling the claustrophobic tunnel—an intoxicating blend of high-end Italian cologne, burnt gunpowder, and pure, clean male skin.
Every time I took a breath, my lungs felt like they were catching fire.
My heart hadn't received the memo that this man was a walking, lethal red flag. Instead, it was hammering against my ribs, driven by a wild, primitive instinct that wanted to turn around and climb him like a tree.
Suddenly, a sound echoed from the darkness behind us. A wet, scraping screech tore through the tunnel, raising the hairs on my arms.
The Hounds of the Abyss. The Syndicate's elite tracking mutts had found our scent. Or rather, they had found my scent.
"They're close," Laurence muttered. His tone didn't shake, but I heard the sharp click of his runic blade sliding from its wrist sheath.
"How close?" I asked, my pulse hammering erratically against my ribs.
"Close enough to taste your blood if you don't hurry."
I scrambled forward, my fingers clawing at the dirt, but the tunnel was narrowing.
The air grew thick, choked with dust and the ancient smell of decay.
Above us, the ceiling gave a low, ominous groan.
A piece of centuries-old mortar cracked, dropping a shower of pebbles onto my shoulder.
"Laurence—"
"Get down!"
The world exploded in a deafening roar of grinding stone. Before I could even think to shield my head, a massive weight slammed into my back.
Laurence grabbed my collar, violently throwing me forward into a tiny, recessed burial alcove beneath a thick stone archway.
He lunged in right after me, his massive frame completely covering mine just as the ceiling of the tunnel collapsed.
A thunderous crash shook the ground.
Dust blinded me, filling my throat as the entrance to the tunnel was completely buried under tons of rock.
Then, total, absolute silence. And pitch blackness.
I tried to inhale, but my lungs hit a solid wall of muscle. We were jammed into a space no bigger than a coffin.
Laurence was entirely on top of me, his heavy, solid weight pinning me flat against the cold stone floor.
I couldn't move a millimeter. Laurence shifted, pinning his heavy thighs over mine to anchor us both into the tight stone recess.
"Laurence," I choked out, a sudden spike of panic clawing at my throat. "I can't—"
A leather-gloved hand slammed over my mouth, cutting off my words.
"Quiet," he breathed. His voice was a bare whisper, right against my ear, making the skin on my nape prickle with dangerous heat. "They are right outside."
I froze. The darkness was absolute. I couldn't see my own hand, but every other sense was dialed up to a scream.
He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in heavy, rhythmic movements against my breasts.
Every line of his rock-hard abs was pressed perfectly into my stomach.
In the pitch black, he felt less like a man of God and more like a physical manifestation of gravity—crushing, absolute, and inescapable.
"Do not move. Do not make a sound," he whispered against my temple.
His second hand came down, his long fingers biting deep into the soft flesh of my thigh, locking us together.
His grip was merciless. It was going to leave bruises, but the pain was instantly drowned out by something much worse.
The substrate.
The moment his fingers dug into my thigh, a literal electric shock shot up my leg. A heavy, liquid heat settled deep in my pelvis, so intense it made my head swim.
My body didn't care that we were buried alive. It didn't care that demons were hunting us. It only cared about the massive, dangerous male body crushing me into the dirt.
My skin flushed hot, a sudden sweat breaking out across my collarbone.
I could hear his heart beating. It was fast. Faster than it should be for a cold-blooded killer.
He was reacting to me. The alchemical freak-show in my veins was leaking through my skin, and he was breathing it in.
I shifted my hips instinctively, trying to relieve the sudden, unbearable ache between my legs.
Laurence let out a sharp, ragged hiss through his teeth. His grip on my thigh tightened until it was borderline painful, his thumb pressing dangerously close to my center.
He leaned down lower, his face burying into the crook of my neck, his lips brushing against my pulsing vein.
"Stop moving, Romi," he growled, his deep voice vibrating directly into my skin.
I tried to speak against his gloved palm, murmuring a muffled, defiant curse. I wasn't going to just lie here and let him dictate my breathing, even if my body was begging for him to press harder. I bit his palm. Not enough to break the leather, but enough to make a point.
Laurence shifted, his upper body pressing down even heavier, completely suffocating my defiance.
He slowly pulled his hand away from my lips, replacing it instantly with his face, hovering barely a millimeter above mine.
I could feel the heat radiating from his lips.
I could smell the dark, addictive pull of his proximity.
"You think this is a game?" he muttered, his tone dropping into a deadly, low register that made my breath hitch completely.
"I think you enjoy holding me down a little too much, Inquisitor," I whispered back, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to sound sharp.
"If you don't shut your mouth right now," Laurence murmured, his lips grazing mine as he spoke, "I will silence you myself, right on top of these bones."
My heart stopped. The threat wasn't holy, and it wasn't professional.
It was entirely primal. His breath was hot against my mouth, and for a second, I wanted nothing more than for him to close the distance.
I wanted him to bite.
I wanted him to break the agonizing tension stretching between us in the pitch black.
His glove slid higher up my thigh, the rough leather dragging up my denim, and at that exact moment, the walls of the catacombs shuddered with the screeching howl of the beasts.
