Page 63 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

He sees me. Actually sees me, not just what I can do for him.

The desperate ache of being truly wanted—not used, not feared, but genuinely desired—overwhelms every rational thought. My hands explore the hard planes of his chest, mapping territory that feels simultaneously foreign and inevitable.

His mouth claims mine again, tongues tangling while his hands span my waist. Some distant part of my brain notes the danger, but the rest drowns in sensation.

This was supposed to be manipulation. When did it become real?

But as his touch grows bolder and my control dissolves completely, survival instincts crash through desire like ice water.

What am I doing? This is exactly what gets people killed.

My hands freeze against his chest as reality crashes through the haze of need.

I push against him, not hard but firm enough that he immediately loosens his hold. The space between us fills with cool ocean air.

"I can't. Not yet. Not..."

The words stick in my throat because how do I explain that safety terrifies me more than any weapon? That thirteen years of survival have taught me that caring equals weakness equals death?

"Hey." His voice stays gentle even as confusion flickers across his face. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for."

He's not angry. Why isn't he angry?

Most men would push. Demand explanations. Use my moment of weakness against me.

Jax steps back, giving me the space I need without making me ask for it.

That understanding makes everything worse.

I smooth my shirt with shaking hands, rebuilding walls with practiced efficiency. Distance. I need distance from his patient acceptance and the way it makes me want to crumble completely.

"This is reckless." I gesture between us while my body still aches for his touch. "Not the mission, not the criminals. This."

God, I can still taste him. Every cell screams to go back, to finish what we started.

The part of my brain that's kept me alive for thirteen years starts calculating all the ways this connection makes us both targets.

"Alexei Petrov would use you to break me." The words taste like ash and truth. "That's what caring costs."

Jax leans against the railing beside me, close enough that our arms brush. Even that minimal contact makes my skin burn.

"So, we're just supposed to pretend this doesn't exist?"

Yes. That's exactly what we're supposed to do.

But watching him process my withdrawal, seeing disappointment flicker across his features before he carefully schools them neutral, creates an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with physical desire.

I want to give him everything. That's the problem.

"I don't know how to do this without someone getting hurt." The admission tears out. "Everyone I've ever cared about..."

Stop talking. Stop giving him ammunition.

But he doesn't lean forward hungrily for details. Doesn't probe for the story behind the pain. Just takes my hand, fingers interlacing with mine again.

"So, we figure it out as we go."

He makes it sound simple. Like caring doesn't have to equate to destruction.