Page 152 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Her fingers curl into my shirt, nails scraping against the fabric. "You can't just—"

"Watch me."

My thumb traces along her jawline, feeling the rapid pulse at her throat. She's not afraid. She's turned on. The realization hits me like a punch to the gut, making my voice drop to something barely human.

"I've lost everyone who mattered. Tommy. Roman. I won't lose you too."

Her breathing changes, becomes shallow and quick. Those hazel eyes study my face like she's memorizing every detail.

Good. Remember this moment when you're sitting in some sterile safe house thinking about running.

"This isn't your fight anymore," she whispers.

"Wrong. You became my fight the moment you let me touch you."

I lean closer, my forehead resting against hers. The space between us crackles with everything we can't say. Everything that might not get said if she doesn't make it through the next two days.

"Forty-eight hours."

She nods once, sharp and quick. Then she's gone, sliding out from between my body and the car like smoke. Her movements are fluid, controlled, but I catch the way her hands tremble as she adjusts her jacket.

She feels it too. This pull between us that's bigger than logic or training.

I watch her walk toward Holden's car, memorizing the way she moves. The confident stride. The way she checks her surroundings without seeming paranoid. Every detail burns itself into my brain because I need to remember her exactly like this.

The car door closes. Engine starts. Taillights disappear around the corner.

My phone is in my hands before I even register the decision. Cole answers on the first ring.

"Track her phone. Now."

"Already on it."

Of course he is. Best team in the business.

My phone buzzes. Unknown number, but I recognize the pattern.

"London coverage arranged. She won't be alone. - S.K."

I don't know if that's reassurance or a threat. With Sasha, it's probably both.

thirty-five

Mira

Three texts from Jax. Three.

I stare at my phone screen, black tactical pants half-zipped, morning light filtering through heavy London curtains. The messages came in through the night while I pretended to sleep.

2:14 AM: "Still tracking you. Signal's strong."

3:47 AM: "Remind me to show you that Italian place when you get back."

6:23 AM: "Twenty-four hours."

The countdown. Of course he's counting down.

When you get back. Not if. When.