Page 173 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Whoever's feeding us this intel wants us to know he's alive." Mira's voice carries that clinical tone she gets when she's hunting. "But not where he is."

Asher pushes away from the wall, taking up position near the door. Always covering exits. "Question is whether Roman's working with Cipher or being held by them."

"Does it matter?" The words come out sharper than I mean them to. "Either way, he left us to figure this out alone."

Kade moves between us, his command presence filling the space. "We continue the mission. But now we know we're not alone in this."

"Alone would be easier." I drag both hands through my hair. "At least when you're alone, you know who's making the decisions."

Cole circles back toward the workstation, studying the data over Vanessa's shoulder. "The protection we've been getting... someone's been investing serious resources."

"Investments expect returns." Mira steps into my path, forcing me to stop pacing. "The question is what they want from us."

Vanessa scrolls through more files, timestamps and operation codes blurring together. "Look at this pattern. Every time we were in real danger, something shifted in our favor."

"The warehouse fire that gave us cover in Portland." Asher counts off on his fingers. "The security glitch that let us into the Seattle container yard."

"The emergency ventilation that saved Vanessa's life." My voice cracks on the last part.

Kade positions himself where he can see both the screens and the team. "Cipher's been playing the long game. Whatever they want, they need us alive and operational."

"Which brings us back to Roman." I resume my restless movement between the servers. "Is he part of their plan or fighting against it?"

Mira tracks my movement, predator instincts engaged. "When Roman's ready, he'll find us. He always does."

"If he can." Cole's strategic paranoia kicks in. "If he's not compromised."

The weight of not knowing settles over the room. Roman's alive somewhere. Cipher's been pulling strings since day one. We have proof but no answers.

"Hope." The word tastes bitter. "Whoever's been helping us gave us hope. But hope for what? And why now?"

forty

Jax

My boots wear a path between the French doors and the kitchen island, but the cottage feels like a cage. Every circuit brings me past Mira at the dining table, and every time I have to touch her—shoulder, neck, the silk of her hair. Like if I stop touching her, she'll disappear. Like Roman did.

"Play it again."

She doesn't look up from the laptop. "That's the seventh time, Jax."

Seven. Everything's seven today. Seven months since Roman "died." Seven times watching this video. Seven cups of coffee making my hands shake. Or maybe that's the rage. Or the grief. Or the way she smells like gun oil and vanilla, making me insane.

"Seven fucking months." The words taste like betrayal and bourbon, though I haven't had a drink in days. "Seven months of thinking I failed him. Of gambling away everything because I couldn't save another brother."

The video shows Roman entering a safe house. Tactical vest. Careful movements. Breathing. While I was drowning in survivor's guilt, betting on underground fights, convincing myself I was cursed—everyone I care about dies or disappears.

"He's been alive this whole time." I'm behind her now, both hands on her shoulders, kneading the knots I find there. She leans into my touch—a tell, that lean. Usually she holds herself separate. My cock hardens instantly. "Playing some game while we planned his funeral."

"The timestamp is recent." Her voice stays clinical, but I feel her pulse quicken under my thumbs. Another tell. "Whatever he's doing—"

"He could have sent something. Anything." My voice cracks, and suddenly I'm spinning her chair around, dropping to my knees between her thighs. The position puts me at eye level with her chest, and I have to fight not to bury my face there. "I thought I lost him like Tommy."

Her hands frame my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. Those hazel depths that see too much, know too much, want too much. But there's something else there—a flicker of uncertainty she's trying to hide. "Stop."

"I can't stop. My brain won't stop. It keeps spinning and spinning and—"

She kisses me hard, swallowing my spiral. I whimper into her mouth as her tongue invades, demanding submission, and I give it gladly. My hands grip her thighs, pulling her to the edge of the chair as I press closer, needing to crawl inside her skin. When she breaks the kiss, we're both panting, and I can feel how wet she is through her jeans.