Page 22 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"?????," I breathe.

"Enhanced protocols," Jax mutters, fingers drumming a complex pattern against his thigh—mathematical, precise, anxious. "They know someone's here."

"Your fault. Too much electronic interference when you—"

"My fault? You're the one who—" He cuts off as footsteps echo on the metal stairs. "Shit. Move."

We move simultaneously, bodies flowing in opposite directions around the structural beam. Mirror images carving through shadows. The guard's flashlight beam passes through empty space where we'd stood.

Why do I know exactly where he'll go?

I shift left. He shifts right. No communication, no planning, but we clear the corner like we've rehearsed this for years.

Two guards block the next passage.

Jax's hand taps against his leg—three beats, pause, two beats.

Three seconds, then we move. How the hell do I understand his signals?

Three seconds later, we strike in flawless synchronization. My knife finds the guard's carotid artery while Jax drops his target with a blood choke. Both men crumple silently.

We stare at each other over the bodies.

"That was—"

"Don't," I snap, but my pulse races for reasons that have nothing to do with combat.

This shouldn't work. We shouldn't work.

Radio chatter erupts. "Sector seven, report. Sector seven—"

"Forty seconds until they investigate," Jax says, already moving. His hand hovers near my lower back, not touching but close enough that heat radiates through my jacket. "There's a shipping container—"

"I know."

Of course we're thinking the same thing. Of course.

We run together through the industrial labyrinth. His breathing syncs with mine, footfalls landing in exact rhythm. When I leap over a pipe, he's already ducking under the next obstruction. When he signals left, I'm already turning.

This is impossible. This kind of synchronization takes years of training together.

But my body moves with his like we're dancing, and something in my chest recognizes something in his.

Dangerous. This is dangerous.

"Here." He yanks open a container door.

We dive inside the cramped space, filled with racing equipment that leaves barely enough room to stand. Darkness swallows us whole.

The door clicks shut and I jam the lock with my knife. Silence except for our breathing.

"Don't move," I whisper. "Don't even breathe loud."

"Says the woman who's—" His voice cuts off as footsteps approach outside.

A flashlight beam pierces through the door gap. We press backward simultaneously, and suddenly his body cages mine against the wall.

Six feet of solid muscle pins me in place. The three-inch height difference means his breath warms my temple, my face level with his throat. His cock presses hard against my stomach through our clothes.