Chapter 7 · Wrong Kind of Rescue

"Get your hands off me!"

I didn't even have time to breathe before a heavy, gloved hand clamped over my mouth and dragged me backward into the shadows. My heels skidded across the damp stone, and my back slammed into a cold wall with a force that knocked the wind right out of me.

I struggled, clawing at the arm, but the grip was like a vice. A low, jagged voice hissed in my ear, smelling of iron and old blood.

"Shut up if you want to keep your tongue," he muttered.

I froze. The voice was rough, exhausted, and dangerously close. I could feel the heat radiating off his chest, pressing me flat against the masonry. For a second, I stopped fighting, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked up and saw a sliver of a face—sharp jawline, a smear of crimson across a cheekbone, and eyes that looked like they'd seen the end of the world and decided it was boring.

This was Kane Draker. The top delver. The man who was supposed to be the gold standard of the Maw.