Page 22 of The Pretty Savage

I was pretty sure that somewhere, while going down the stairs of death, I died. My foot slipped from the stair, and the panic that took hold of my body, freezing me to the spot, would've sent me to my death if it wasn't for Yolanda's grip on my arm holding me in place.

But the moment we came to solid ground, at an entrance of some sort, I keeled over, taking a deep breath and calming my erratic heart down, before I straightened up, glaring at my new friend.

Her face scrunched, the apology evident in her eyes, when she said, "I didn't think it would be that bad." And I admit, I couldn't exactly blame her for leading us down here, but fuck—the descent felt like a century had passed, and when I pulled out my phone, I realized it couldn't have been more than maybe ten minutes.

"I know," I grumbled, not wanting to upset or scare her. "I just hate heights."

"I could see that," she mumbled. "Do you want me to give you another minute or?—"

"I'm fine," I bit out. Because I was. I was in one piece, standing, breathing… It didn't matter that my heart was still racing, catching up with the reality that we were okay, at least for now. "We should get going. It's already getting late."

If I thought the light on the stairs was bad, it was fucking brilliant compared to the almost pitch-black darkness we started walking into after I glared at Yolanda when she opened her mouth to probably say something idiotic, like that I looked pale. I probably looked like shit, and the sweat that broke out on my skin as we walked here made my hair stick to my neck, but she didn't have to mention that. I didn't want her fussing over me.

So instead of saying anything, she walked toward the entrance of the cave, with me at her heels, straight into the darkness. Barely lit wall lamps turned on as we walked in, illuminating the path as much as they could, and it took me a moment to notice the door at the end of what I could only describe as a hallway, nestled between two massive pillars that were carved from the stone of the mountain.

While I loved history and architecture, I couldn’t focus on the writings on the pillars to recognize the style, but I had only ever seen something similar once before when I allowed myself to be a tourist in Athens, where I went to one of Athena's temples. The carvings on the pillars of the temple were almost identical to the ones here.

My eyes drank in the barely illuminated carvings on the wall, the foreign-looking runes becoming larger and larger the closer we came to the massive door looming in front of us. Yolanda approached slowly, her hands visibly trembling, holding on to the invitation she pulled out of that envelope, and before I could suggest that we should probably turn around and go back, she knocked three times, the sound of her knocks echoing around us.

I had a bad feeling in my gut about this, and I hated having bad feelings when there was no way out. We were doing this whether I liked it or not.

The sound of the door opening sent chills down my arms, the creaking sound burrowing itself deep in my mind, reminding me of the anguished cry of a woman I once heard while on a mission in Bucharest. A dim light barely illuminated the place where Yolanda stood, and on instinct, my hand went to the knife pressed against my thigh, waiting for an attack from whoever opened the door. But instead of an army of people that would kill us for being here, a short, stocky man appeared, much older than our barely twenty years of age, looking up and down Yolanda’s form before his dark, beady eyes landed on me, narrowing at my frozen arm and the place on my thigh I was touching over my coat.

"Name?" he barked, his raspy, heavily accented voice doing nothing to appease the nerves wreaking havoc in my body, but his eyes never left me.

"Yolanda," she answered. "Yolanda Engström," she repeated proudly, with a small smile touching her lips, and I knew what a defense mechanism was when I saw one. Yolanda hid her true emotions behind fake smiles, trying to appease the masses and show them she was as harmless as they came, and that was exactly where her strength lay.

"Not you," he barked, scowling. "Her." He tipped his head in my direction, his predatory gaze dragging down my body in a way that had the hair at the nape of my neck stand on end.

"Vega Konstantinova," I said loudly, letting my voice echo around the cave, seeing confusion wash over his features. "It is nice to meet you, but?—"

"You're not on the list," he grumbled. "She's on the list, but you're not."

"She's my guest," Yolanda piped in, stepping closer to me. "I got an invite for two people and it says I can in?—"

"No," the motherfucker said. "Not on the list. If she's not on the list, she cannot enter."

"But—"

"No, Ms. Engström. Rules need to be followed. Not on the list. Not accepted. She cannot?—"

"Let them through." My head swiveled in the direction of the door, trying to see the person that spoke. His deep voice sent a shiver of fear through me, and my eyes narrowed, trying to see him better as he stepped into the light, his eyes on us.

Dark blue eyes landed on Yolanda first, his eyebrow arching at the shivering girl standing next to me, while I took a moment to really look at him. The dim lighting he stood in did nothing to cover his stunning features, or eyes that reminded me of a tempest above the sea, threatening to destroy everything in its path. His dark blond hair was styled haphazardly, the curls falling onto his forehead, but if anything it amplified his beauty. He reminded me of a model I saw on the cover of a magazine not too long ago, and when my eyes moved to poor, unmoving Yolanda, I realized he wasn't only drinking her in—she was doing the same.

A short-sleeved T-shirt tightly hugged his chest, straining against the muscles in his arms, and it made me think of that one time when I tried to put on the shirt I used to sleep in when I was just a child, but it wouldn't fit anymore, almost tearing due to my much bigger body at the time, and I started laughing.

Yolanda's wide eyes landed on me, the panic she was obviously experiencing amplified by my little outburst.

"I'm sorry," I chuckled. "But it's just hilarious that someone would send you an invitation, tell you to bring a plus-one, and when you do, they don't let your plus-one enter."

The tall man standing at the door frowned at the gatekeeper whose face was becoming visibly paler.

"I think we can let them both enter tonight, don't you, Maurizio?" the blond giant said, his voice hard and face set in stone as he glared at the short man.

"But, sir, the rules?—"

"The rules were made to be broken." The giant smirked, coming closer to us. He looked ginormous from a distance, but the closer he came the more I could see that he towered over both Yolanda and me, and neither one of us were exactly short.

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