Page 153 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

My fingers hover over the keyboard. What do I say to someone who's already planning dinner reservations while I'm about to decide if a man lives or dies?

Someone who notices if I don't come back.

The thought hits different this morning. For thirteen years, I've lived in hotels and safe houses. Temporary spaces with temporary identities. Places to exist, not live. But there's a loftin SOMA now with my toothbrush next to his. Coffee cups that match. A bed that smells like both of us.

"Home," I whisper to the empty room.

The word tastes foreign. Dangerous. Like something I'm not allowed to want.

I zip the pants and reach for the black sweater. Tactical fabric that passes for civilian wear. The kind of outfit that moves with you when everything goes wrong.

My reflection stares back from the bathroom mirror. Same face. Same calculating eyes. But something's shifted behind them. There's weight there now. Responsibility.

He's waiting for me.

The realization should terrify me. Should make me want to run the moment this is over. Disappear into Miranda Knight's clean history and start over somewhere Jax Ryder can never find me.

Instead, I type back: "Forty-six hours. Don't do anything stupid."

Three dots appear immediately. He's awake. Probably hasn't slept. Probably touching himself thinking about me the way I did last night thinking about him.

"Define stupid."

Despite everything, I smile. That eager energy of his.

"You know what stupid looks like."

"Fine. I'll keep it to medium-risk stupidity only."

A knock interrupts us. Holden's voice carries through the adjoining door.

"Briefing time. Intel update."

I close the phone without responding to Jax's message. Let him wonder. Let him count down his forty-six hours while I decide whether Alexei Petrov lives or dies tomorrow.

The door handle turns cold under my palm. "Coming."

Holden's already in motion when I enter his room, pacing between the bed and window while tapping commands into his tablet.

"Transport intel came through." He doesn't look up from the screen. "Your friend Petrov's being moved tomorrow morning."

Friend. The word twists in my gut like a blade.

I settle into the chair by the desk, watching him work.

"Show me."

He turns the tablet toward me, fingers swiping across a detailed map of London. Red dots mark checkpoints along a route from Belmarsh Prison to Woolwich Crown Court.

"Standard prisoner transport for his extradition hearing. Multiple countries want him - Russia, Ukraine, the Americans. They're deciding who gets him first."

I study the route, memorizing distances and timing. Seven years of planning Alexei's death, and now someone's laying it out like a mission briefing.

"Here." Holden taps the screen at the courthouse. "Delivery bay has a six-minute window during the transfer. Light security."

The tactical part of my brain catalogs the information. Entry points. Escape routes. Clean shot angles.

"You're giving me a choice," I say.