Page 147 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Justice served with hot lead. So easy. So final.

But that's what he wants. What he's always wanted. To prove I'm nothing more than his weapon.

Behind me, Jax moves closer. Not to stop me, but to support whatever choice I make. His breathing stays steady, controlled, like the loyal man who found me in that casino and refused to let me disappear.

"You're not his creation," Jax whispers, voice low enough that only I can hear. "You're mine. Ours. The team's. You choose who you become."

The team. My family. People who want me alive, not just useful.

His words anchor me to something bigger than revenge.

The gun wavers slightly as understanding floods through me. Killing Petrov gives him exactly what he wants—proof that his conditioning worked. That I'm still the broken sixteen-year-old he tried to forge into his perfect weapon.

Death is mercy. Quick, clean, over in seconds. He deserves none of that.

"International Criminal Court," I say, lowering the weapon slowly. "Decades in a cage, forgotten by history. No martyrdom. No legend. Just an aging criminal dying alone while his victims get justice."

Petrov's face twists with rage, the mask finally dropping. "Weak! Just like your pathetic moth—"

My fist connects with his already broken nose before he finishes. Bone cracks under my knuckles, cartilage shifting to a new angle. His head snaps back, chair tipping dangerously.

Blood spatters across my knuckles and my cunt clenches. The physical release of violence sends arousal flooding through me, soaking my underwear. Behind me, Jax makes a sound—half growl, half moan—fighting not to press against me, not to let Petrov see how violence affects us both.

God, I want him to bend me over this table right now. Show Petrov who really owns me.

"Don't." I lean forward until we're inches apart. "Ever. Speak of her again."

Jax's hands find my shoulders, pulling me back gently but firmly. His touch burns through the tactical fabric, his erection pressing against my back for just a moment before he steps away.

He knows exactly when to touch, when to pull back.

"Done here," I say, holstering the Glock with deliberate precision. "Get him processed for transfer."

The choice is made. Not his version of justice. Mine.

The metal door closes behind us with a hollow click. Petrov's desperate shouts echo from the interrogation room, but the soundproof walls muffle them into pathetic whispers.

Jax moves beside me down the narrow corridor, his shoulder brushing mine with each step. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw and the way his hands flex at his sides.

"You chose us."

His voice carries something raw and desperate. Before I can respond, he spins me around, pressing my back against theelevator wall. The metal is cold through my tactical shirt, but his body radiates heat as he cages me between his arms.

"You chose us over revenge."

Yes. I did. And that choice changes everything.

His mouth finds mine, hungry and claiming. The kiss tastes like relief and possession and something deeper I'm still learning to name. His arousal presses hard against my hip, evidence of what watching me spare Petrov did to him.

He gets off on my control. On my strength. On watching me choose something harder than violence.

"Elevator," I breathe against his lips.

He reaches over and hits the call button without breaking contact. His free hand tangles in my hair, tilting my head back so he can trace his teeth along my throat.

"Watching you in there..." His voice drops to that rough register that makes my thighs clench. "Seeing you choose justice over blood. Christ, Mira."

The elevator arrives with a soft ding. We step inside, and Jax immediately crowds me against the back wall, his hands mapping my ribs over the tactical vest. Every bruise from Baltimore sings under his touch, pain mixing with pleasure.