The Mad Heiresss Dangerous Mercenary Lover

The screw slipped.

Cilla Clark's hand shot out, her fingers pinching the cold metal threads before the screw could hit the ceramic tiles below. The sharp edge bit into her palm. Blood welled up, warm and sticky against her skin. She didn't flinch. She didn't even blink. She just held the screw in a death grip until her knuckles turned white.

Ten years in this place had taught her that a single sound could kill you.

She pulled her hand back into the narrow ventilation shaft and let the screw drop into her pocket. The final bolt was gone. She pushed the grate open, the metal scraping softly against the wall. Her legs trembled, the muscles spasming from the years of sedatives pumped into her system. It felt like trying to walk on wet noodles. She dragged herself forward, her elbows scraping against the dusty aluminum.

The air in here was thick. It smelled like formaldehyde and old dust. It tickled the back of her throat, making her chest tight. She bit down hard on her lower lip, forcing the cough down. She tasted copper. Good. Pain kept her focused.

She turned the corner and stopped. Red light crisscrossed the darkness ahead. Infrared. A web of invisible lasers waiting to slice her open or trigger an alarm. She reached into the pocket of her thin hospital gown and pulled out a handful of baby powder she had stolen from the nursery.

She blew it lightly. The powder hung in the air, illuminating the red beams. They were tight, spaced irregularly. She mapped the path in her head in a millisecond. She took a breath and moved.

She twisted her body, contorting her spine in a way that defied normal human anatomy. She slid through the gaps, slow and precise. Halfway through, her right shoulder gave out. The old injury tore, a hot, sickening pain ripping through the joint. Sweat broke out across her forehead, soaking the thin cotton. She clenched her jaw and kept moving.

She made it to the exit vent. Through the slats, she saw the storm. Rain was coming down in sheets, hammering the mud below. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark grounds of the psychiatric facility.

She kicked the louvers open. She didn't hesitate. She fell.

The two-story drop felt like flying. She hit the muddy grass and instinctively tucked her shoulder, rolling to absorb the impact. But her legs gave out. She crashed into a puddle, mud splashing up into her eyes and mouth. She gasped, struggling to push herself up on her shaking arms.

A pair of black tactical boots stepped into her line of sight. Mud caked the heavy soles.

She froze. Her eyes tracked up the boots, over the tailored black slacks, to the long black trench coat soaked by the rain. Lightning cracked again, highlighting the man's face. Hard angles. A sharp jaw. Cold eyes that looked like they had seen a hundred wars.