Page 132 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"I'm fine." I swing onto the bike behind him, and his whole frame trembles when the engine starts. "We need distance."

"Right. Distance. I can do distance. I just—holy shit, I'm on a bike. With you. After—" His rambling cuts off as he pulls into traffic, but I can feel his heartbeat hammering against my chest. "Did you see that turn back there? The one where I almost—but I didn't, and Tommy would've—"

"Jax." I press closer, letting him feel me solid against his back. "Breathe."

"Breathing. Yeah. Good plan." But his voice is manic with triumph and terror. "Blade, we're—fuck, what's the—" He clears his throat, forcing tactical speak. "Blade, we're mobile. Package secure."

Cole's dry response crackles through comms: "Copy. Try not to have a complete breakdown until you reach the warehouse."

The abandoned warehouse Cole directs us to smells like rust and old motor oil. Jax kills the engine but doesn't dismount—just sits there vibrating with leftover adrenaline.

"I did it," he says, voice full of disbelief. "I actually fucking did it."

Before I can respond, he's off the bike and spinning me around, hands running over my body—not medical assessment, something more desperate. Possessive. His palms map my ribs, my arms, my throat, like he's memorizing I'm real.

"You're okay?" The words come out rough. "The explosion—you're not hurt anywhere I can't see?"

"I'm fine—"

"Don't." His hands frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones with reverent hunger. "Don't be fine. Be real. Be here. Be—"

I grab his shirt and yank him down, crushing our mouths together. This isn't comfort. This is claim. Verification. My tongue sweeps into his mouth while my hands tear at his jacket, needing skin, needing proof he's whole.

He backs me against the brick wall hard enough to knock breath from my lungs. "Mira—fuck—I need—"

"I know." My fingers find the tears in his shirt, trace the bruises forming underneath. "I know, just—"

His mouth drops to my throat, teeth scraping over my pulse point, and the sound I make is absolutely not professional. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, tangling in my hair—like he can't decide where to touch first.

"Jesus Christ, could you two not?" Cole's voice cuts through the haze. "We have maybe ten minutes before—"

"Shut up," Jax growls against my neck, and the authority in it makes heat pool low in my belly. "Just—one second—"

"You're bleeding," I manage, though my hands are pulling him closer instead of checking injuries.

"Don't care." His mouth finds mine again, desperate and claiming. "Rode a fucking motorcycle. Through an explosion. For you. I get this."

Footsteps. Multiple sets. Cole and Remy, but Jax doesn't pull away—just presses me harder against the wall, body caging mine possessively.

"Seriously?" Remy's voice carries amusement despite everything. "Now?"

"They're in shock," Cole observes clinically. "Adrenaline response. Verification of survival through physical—"

"We can hear you," I gasp, but Jax is doing something with his tongue that shorts out higher reasoning.

"Don't care," Jax repeats, hands gripping my thighs like he's considering lifting me up right here.

"Morrison, Santos, and Kim didn't make it."

That stops us. The names hit like ice water. Jax pulls back just enough to breathe, but keeps me trapped against the wall, his body a shield between me and everything else.

"They knew the risks," Remy says quietly, moving closer. "They saved the rest of Lange's team when those SUVs showed up."

The tremor that runs through Jax has nothing to do with motorcycles now. His forehead drops to mine, and for a moment we just breathe together, processing the loss.

"Gideon?" The name comes out of him like broken glass.

"Secured at the LA facility," Cole reports, tone shifting to pure business. "Interrogation suite prepped."