Page 121 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Make it three."

The silence that follows her response makes my blood run cold. Because that wasn't the polite, controlled Mira. That was something else entirely.

More security pours through the office door. Five men with automatic weapons, moving with professional coordination.

Then I hear footsteps in the corridor outside. Not running. Walking. Purposeful and unhurried.

"Nobody touches him."

Her voice carries through the door, calm as discussing weather. But underneath that polite tone runs something that makes my spine tingle with recognition and terror.

Glass shatters in the hallway. A man's grunt cuts off abruptly. Another tactical team member tries to radio for backup, his transmission ending in a wet gurgle.

Then she appears in the doorway.

Mira stands framed by emergency lighting, scanning the room with predatory focus. Her gaze finds me behind the desk, finds the blood soaking my shoulder, and something fundamental shifts in her expression.

The calculating predator mask drops completely. What replaces it is arctic fury wrapped in balletic grace.

"You shot him."

Three words. Spoken like a death sentence handed down by a beautiful judge.

That's when the dance begins.

She moves like lethal poetry set to music only she can hear. Every step deliberate, every kill choreographed. The first operative turns toward her, and she spins—fuckingspins—her leg sweeping upward with impossible grace, connecting with his throat. He drops without a sound.

Jesus Christ.

My cock hardens despite the gunfire, despite the blood loss, despite everything logical screaming that I should be terrified. Because this—this is who she really is. Not the woman who makes breakfast with gentle hands, but something far more dangerous and beautiful.

And she's killing for me.

I understand what I'm witnessing. This isn't Mira choosing violence—she's been violent her whole life. This is something else entirely.

This is Mira realizing her weapon-self isn't broken. It just has a new purpose.

Every kill flows with the same balletic precision she's always possessed, but there's something different in the way she moves. Not the cold efficiency of Mikhail's weapon. This is protection. This ismine.

For the first time in her life, the weapon has chosen what's worth protecting.

The second man raises his weapon. Her hand flicks almost casually, and a throwing knife sprouts from his eye. She doesn't pause, already flowing toward the third operative like deadly water.

She's dancing. She's actually dancing while she murders them.

Every movement serves double purpose—lethal efficiency wrapped in impossible grace. Like Swan Lake performed with corpses as props. Each kill flows into the next with balletic precision that makes my chest tight with something between terror and worship.

The third operative manages to fire. She redirects his aim with one hand, drives her blade between his ribs with the other. His shots go wide, peppering the ceiling. She guides his falling body down with the same care a prima ballerina would show her partner.

Eight men. Maybe ninety seconds. She just killed eight trained operatives in ninety seconds like it was choreography.

"Remy, how close?" Her voice stays calm, clinical, but I hear the edge underneath.

"Two minutes out. Keep pressure on the wound."

"I know how to handle a gunshot." A pause. "Drive faster."

Static crackles through the comm as Remy presumably floors it.