Page 16 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Thank fucking God.

Gideon claps his hands, the sound cutting through the noise. "Transport to the container yard in ten minutes! Participants only in the first venue! Spectators can follow on the feeds in the spectator area!"

The crowd begins dispersing, people moving toward different exits, different purposes. Gideon gets pulled away by someone with a clipboard and a panicked expression, leaving us standing there.

Alone.

Say something. Don't fuck this up.

Mira turns to me, and her complete attention makes the world tilt sideways. Without Sterling's presence, she seems to expand, taking up more space, becoming more dangerous.

"I suppose I'll have to watch from the spectator area." She steps closer, close enough that her perfume floods my senses. It's something expensive with an undertone of gunpowder and secrets. "Try not to crash, Mr. Ryder. It would be such a waste."

Closer. Need her closer.

"Jax," I correct, my voice cracking like I'm going through puberty again. "Call me Jax."

She reaches up, straightens my collar with fingers that burn through the fabric. The gesture is intimate, possessive, a claim she's making in front of everyone.

Touch me again. Please.

"Jax." She says my name like she's tasting it, rolling it around her mouth to see how it feels. "Don't disappoint me."

"I never disappoint," I say, then immediately want to take it back. "I mean, sometimes I disappoint. Actually, I disappoint a lot. My parents, my team, probably God—"

Stop. Talking. Now.

Her laugh is low and dangerous, like velvet wrapped around a blade. "I like men who disappoint. They try so much harder to make up for it."

She walks away, every step calculated to destroy me. The crowd parts for her like she's royalty or danger or both. I watch until she disappears through the VIP exit, heading for wherever spectators go to watch men risk their lives for money and glory.

Gone. But not for long.

I stand there for a full ten seconds, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to process what just happened.

My phone buzzes. Text from Cole:"Your heart rate is 170. What the fuck is happening?"

Another from Asher:"Fuck the money, but your head needs to be on what Roman found, not whatever's making you stroke out."

Roman. Right. The mission.

I grab the nearest glass of champagne from a passing server and down it in one go. The crystal is delicate, expensive, and it cracks in my grip—a hairline fracture spreading from where my thumb presses too hard.

Just like my self-control.

Another text, this one from Remy:"Whatever you're about to do, don't. Remember why we're here."

Roman's dead. But she's alive. So fucking alive.

I force myself to think about Roman. His last message before going dark mentioned Lynch's races. Something about clients that didn't feel right. Something worth investigating alone, without backup, because he didn't want to risk the team if his suspicions were wrong.

His suspicions got him killed.

Focus. Mission. Roman. Not her. Not Mira.

The transport convoy is loading outside. Modified vans and SUVs with blacked-out windows, ready to ferry racers to the container yard. I should be thinking about Roman. About his investigation. About why Gideon's operation was worth dying for.

But I'm thinking about that dress, that laugh, and the way she looked at me like she knew exactly what kind of damage she was doing.