Page 102 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Mira's voice in my earpiece. Controlled like yesterday. Not thinking about walls or how she walked away.

But she'd deleted my betting apps. Canceled transactions. Saved me from financial self-destruction when Roman's disappearance sent me into freefall.

Professional interest or something more?

"Your gambling triggers are active." Cole's observation lands like a diagnosis. "This level of operational complexity is feeding your compulsions."

They're right. Without Roman's grounding techniques, I'm one crisis away from betting on mission outcomes.

My phone buzzes. Racing odds for weekend events. Simple bets to redirect anxious energy.

One small wager. Prove I still control something.

"San Francisco location triggering family proximity stress and gambling urges."

Mira's voice cuts through from the entrance, and my entire body responds before my brain catches up. Heat races down my back, pooling low as my cock stirs despite the chaos in my head.

I freeze, hands hovering near my phone.

How long has she been watching?

The team turns, but she's watching me. Reading me like intelligence, cataloging every tell while my blood redirects south.

"Breathing pattern changed entering city limits. Key spinning accelerated during parameters discussion. You've checked your phone seventeen times since planning started, hand moving toward it again."

Of course she counted. She moves closer, and I catch her scent—clean, dangerous, making my heartbeat spike in ways that have nothing to do with anxiety.

"Mission complications are feeding your compulsions." Another step. Close enough that I can see the flutter in her throat. She's affected too. "Unpredictable outcomes, failure points, Roman's survival depending on coordination you're not sure you can provide."

Her voice drops to that measured tone that cuts through chaos, but there's something else underneath. Concern that makes my chest tight in different ways.

My laugh comes out hollow, bitter. "Thanks for the psychological profile. Really helpful when I'm trying not to fall apart in front of my team."

Sharper than intended, but she doesn't flinch. Her expression softens—not imagination this time.

Don't snap. She deleted your betting apps yesterday. Kept you from self-destructing.

"I'm not analyzing your triggers to mock them." Her hazel eyes hold mine, and the intensity makes my skin feel too tight. "I'm identifying tactical vulnerabilities that could compromise Roman's rescue."

The words ground me. She's right. This isn't about my fucked-up coping mechanisms. Roman's out there, depending on us.

Mission first. Always mission first.

But my fingers keep drumming, and the phone keeps buzzing with opportunities to turn crisis into controllable variables.

Bet on mission success rates. Calculate infiltration timing odds.

The thought should disgust me, but there's sick logic to it. If Roman's gone anyway, at least I could profit from predicting failure modes.

What kind of person thinks like that?

"Jax."

She says my name and the spiral stops cold. Not commanding like orders, but something almost... intimate. The way she says it makes heat crawl up my neck.

I look up. She's closer—close enough that her body heat reaches me, close enough that her presence feels like anchor in choppy water.

"You're running probability calculations on Roman's rescue operation."