Page 155 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

My phone buzzes. Text from Jax:"Forty-five hours, twelve minutes. Miss you."

I type back:"LAX. Tomorrow."

thirty-six

Jax

Forty-three hours, sixteen minutes since she left for London.

Not that I'm counting or anything.

I'm tapping out 2-1-5 against my thigh—February fifteenth broken into a nervous rhythm I can't stop. Tommy's death date. Thirteen years of muscle memory my body won't let me forget. The pattern helps when nothing else does.

Flight BA 268 from London: On Time

My phone lights up with her text from twenty-five minutes ago: "Through customs. Almost there."

Almost there. Almost home. Almost back where I can see her and touch her and know she's safe.

International arrivals doors slide open, and business travelers pour out in wrinkled suits, dragging luggage behind them like anchors. Family reunions explode around me—squealing kids launching themselves at grandparents, couples melting into each other after weeks apart.

Then I see her.

Black jeans, black sweater, single carry-on slung over her shoulder. She's scanning the crowd with that systematic sweep she does—left to right, cataloging exits and threats before she even thinks about finding me.

Always the predator, even in an airport.

Our eyes lock.

I move first. Six strides to close the distance between us, and she drops her bag at impact. Arms around my neck, mine around her waist, lifting her slightly off the ground because I need her closer, need to feel that she's real and safe and here.

Her mouth finds my ear. "Missed you."

Two words that hit me harder than any confession of love.

She missed me. Mira Knight, who needs no one, missed me.

Someone clears their throat behind us—needs to get past—and we break apart, both breathing like we've been running.

I grab her bag with one hand, keep the other on her lower back as we move toward the exit. The familiar weight of her presence settles something restless in my chest.

"Your parents." Her voice cuts through the crowd noise. "When did you last see them?"

Where the hell did that come from?

The question stops me mid-stride. "Why are you—"

"Answer me."

That tone. The one that means she's already three steps ahead in whatever game she's playing.

"Three years. Tommy's death anniversary. It went badly."

She stops completely at the exit doors, turns to face me. "We're going there now."

What? No. No way.

"Mira, no—"