Page 103 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Not a question. She reads me that clearly.

"The drumming changed. You're not thinking engine timing anymore. You're calculating betting odds on operationaloutcomes." Her voice drops to whisper, meant only for me. "And wondering if you'd actually place those bets."

I stare, hands completely still. The accuracy hits like punch to the gut.

"That's..." I swallow, throat dry. "That's really messed up, isn't it? The idea I might bet on whether we save the man who gave me purpose."

The admission tastes like poison, but it's true. Some twisted part wants to turn Roman's uncertain status into calculated risks.

Her fingers wrap around my wrist before my hand drifts toward the phone. Contact burns—skin on skin making my heartbeat hammer, warmth spreading up my arm and straight to my cock.

"Proximity to family triggers often destabilize carefully constructed coping mechanisms." Her thumb brushes my wrist, and she has to feel how fast my blood pounds. "Your brain craves complex problem-solving when gambling urges surface."

The phone buzzes again. Racing event attendance odds.

Just one bet. Something small.

My hand moves toward the phone without conscious decision.

Her grip tightens, fingers sliding down to interlace with mine. The shift from clinical to personal makes my breath catch.

"Not today." Her voice carries authority that makes my cock twitch. "Roman needs your coordination skills sharp, not scattered by compulsive betting."

Heat shoots through me. I'm suddenly aware how close she is. How her clinical assessment has shifted into something protective, possessive even.

"Look, I appreciate the intervention, but Roman's life is on the line and I can handle—"

"You don't have to carry this alone." Her free hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my racing heart. "I understand psychological triggers and operational pressure."

The statement hits harder than lectures about gambling addiction. She's not trying to fix me. She gets it.

I sink back into the chair, exhausted by maintaining composure. Her hand stays on my chest, grounding me.

"Roman used to redirect this stuff. Give me complex logistics problems when betting urges got bad. Keep my brain busy with mission planning instead of probability calculations." Voice rougher than intended. "He'd make me calculate escape routes, analyze enemy movement patterns until compulsion passed."

The man who saved me when I was drowning in Tommy's ghost.

"Now his rescue depends on perfect coordination and I'm falling apart because the person who kept me functional is the one we're trying to save."

Mira moves to the chair beside me. Not crowding but close enough that our knees touch. The contact sends heat through me despite everything else.

"What specific triggers are most intense right now?" Clinical question, but her eyes show genuine concern that makes my chest tight.

"The unpredictability. Racing variables, crowd patterns, Gideon's security responses." My hands start drumming again, slower. "My brain wants to bet on outcomes so I feel like I have control over whether we find Roman."

"But betting creates illusion of control while actually removing it."

Exactly. She understands without making me feel broken.

"Roman's disappearance triggered worse gambling patterns because I couldn't control the one variable that mattered most."Words spill faster than intended. "Now his rescue depends on perfect coordination and I spiral deeper because I'm calculating odds on whether he survives, which makes me the kind of person who would profit from tragedy, which makes me want to bet more to prove I'm not actually that fucked up."

Vicious cycle laid bare. Her hand slides from my chest to my shoulder, squeezing gently.

"Your coping mechanisms worked with Roman's support structure. Without that anchor, operational complexity overwhelms your usual defenses." She pauses, something shifting in her expression. "But anchors can be rebuilt."

She's not making it sound pathetic. Just tactical. And the way her thumb traces circles on my shoulder makes concentration difficult for entirely different reasons.

"I don't know how you do it." I meet her eyes, feeling something shift between us. "See right through the bullshit and know exactly what I need."