Page 60 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Mira

"Talk to me."

His voice cuts through the white noise in my head. No commands. No manipulation tactics I can identify and counter. Just... patience.

The rooftop offers escape from Cole's tactical briefings and Vanessa's keyboard symphony—twelve hours tracking container GPS signatures we'll never officially acknowledge. Ocean breeze carries salt from the cliffs below, mixing with jasmine from the garden. City lights spread like scattered diamonds below.

Twenty-three distinct voices he could make out through the steel. Jax counted each one.

His hand finds my shoulder—not sexual, just contact—but my body responds anyway. Heat spreads from that single point, making my breath catch.

"Nothing to discuss." My fingers grip weathered wood until splinters bite. "Mission parameters achieved. Intelligence gathered."

"Bullshit."

The word hangs between us without judgment. Just fact.

He shifts closer, his hand sliding down to my elbow, fingers wrapping loosely. That innocent touch makes my whole arm tingle "You've been up here an hour. You only isolate when something's really wrong."

How does he read me so easily?I've spent thirteen years perfecting emotional invisibility.

My training kicks in automatically. Study his posture, vocal patterns, micro-expressions for manipulation. But Jax's other hand runs through his hair, making it stick up at angles that shouldn't be so endearing. The nervous energy radiating from him creates an odd flutter beneath my ribs.

He's not pushing. That's... new.

"Katka." The name escapes him, raw and broken. "That was her name. The girl in container two."

My hand moves without permission, covering his where it rests on my elbow. His skin burns fever-hot.

"You couldn't have—"

"I know." His fingers interlace with mine, desperate pressure. "Doesn't make her voice stop echoing."

Our bodies drift closer without conscious thought. Arms pressing together from shoulder to wrist, and that simple contact fractures my concentration.

He's offering comfort, not taking anything.

"Maintaining cover requires emotional compartmentalization." The clinical response flows automatically even as his thumb traces my knuckles. "Personal feelings compromise operational security."

"Fuck, Mira. You sound like a training manual."

Heat floods my face. Nobody calls out my defensive mechanisms so directly.

"I am what the situation made me."

"No." He steps behind me, chest barely grazing my back, hands bracketing mine on the railing. Not trapping—I could move easily. But the warmth of him makes my knees weak. "You're what someone else made you believe you had to become. That's different."

Don't let him see how those words hit. Don't give him that weapon.

But something breaks in my chest anyway. Some wall I didn't know existed until it started crumbling.

"A child in container three couldn't stop coughing." His breath warms my neck. "Maybe tuberculosis. Maybe just terror. I'll never know."

I turn in the cage of his arms, back against the railing. Red-rimmed eyes, jaw clenched so tight the muscle jumps. Without thinking, my hand rises to cup his face. He leans into the touch immediately, desperately, eyes closing.

"Vanessa's tracking them. We'll get them back."

"Not soon enough for some."