Page 19 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Final sector. A decreasing radius turn that's killed more drivers than any other corner in illegal racing history. It starts wide and welcoming, then tightens like a noose, sucking you toward the wall if you don't adjust your line perfectly.

I enter too hot, too aggressive, chasing ghosts and lap times. The rear breaks loose completely, and suddenly I'm sliding sideways at seventy miles per hour toward certain impact.

This is how Tommy died. Too fast into a corner he couldn't handle.

Time dilates. Everything slows to individual frames I can process and adjust. Counter-steer. Feather the throttle. Feel theexact moment the rear tires start to grip again. The car snaps back into line inches from disaster, close enough that I can see individual rivets in the container wall.

The finish line appears—two flaming barrels marking the end of the course. I cross sideways, still drifting, because why not show off when you're already this deep?

"Fifty-six point three seconds!" Gideon's voice booms through the speakers. "Jesus Christ, Ace!"

I bring the Mercedes to a stop, engine ticking as it cools, my hands trembling on the wheel. Not from fear—from the comedown. From the absence of speed and danger and that perfect edge between control and chaos.

Fifty-six point three. Fast enough?

I climb out on unsteady legs, and the crowd's already buzzing. Other drivers shake their heads, knowing they'll have to push even harder to beat that time. Gideon's grinning like a proud father, clapping me on the back hard enough to bruise.

"That's the Jax I remember," he says. "Absolute fucking insanity."

But I'm not listening. I'm scanning the crowd here, the spectator areas, the VIP section. Looking for dark hair and predator eyes. Looking for her.

Nothing.

Where are you?

"Nice driving."

The voice comes from behind me, near the staging area where spectators shouldn't be. I spin around, and there she is, materialized from shadows like smoke.

The burgundy dress is gone, replaced with tight black pants and a leather jacket that does nothing to hide her curves. Her hair is pulled back, revealing the elegant line of her neck. Those hazel-green eyes study me with an intensity that makes my blood heat.

How the fuck did she get back here?

"You're not supposed to be in the staging area," I say, my voice coming out rough.

"I go where I want." She steps closer, and I catch that scent again—expensive perfume with an undertone of danger. "Fifty-six seconds. Impressive."

"Could've been faster."

"Could've been dead." Her eyes track over my face, reading something there. "You race like someone with nothing to lose."

Wrong. I race like someone with everything to prove.

"Maybe I just like going fast."

"No." She moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her body. "You race as if you're trying to outrun something. Or catch up to it."

The observation hits too close to home. Tommy. My parents. The gambling addiction. All the ghosts I can't shake no matter how fast I drive.

"Speaking from experience?"

Something flickers in her eyes—recognition, maybe. Or warning.

"We all have things we're running from, Jax."

The way she says my name makes my cock twitch in my jeans. Again.

Jesus, getit together.