Page 68 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Coffee counts as food, right?" The joke falls flat. Truth is, even water makes me queasy. Eighteen days of wanting her has my body eating itself from the inside.

We move deeper into the facility, my fingers trailing along the corrugated metal for balance. The concrete reeks of diesel and something darker—desperation, fear.

"Impressive logistics coordination." My voice comes out rough, but at least I sound functional.

Through my earpiece, Mira's voice slides like silk. "Good boy, stay focused."

My knees buckle. Gideon catches me as my cock goes instantly, painfully hard. The praise hits like mainlining heroin after days of withdrawal. A whimper escapes before I can stop it.

"Shit," Cole mutters through comms. "Heart rate at 152. Did you keep breakfast down?"

"Nitro, you need to eat something," Remy's voice carries genuine concern now. "You're shaking on camera."

"His vitals are concerning," Asher interjects with clinical precision. "Elevated heart rate, visible tremors. Classic signs of hypoglycemia."

"We can abort if you need—" Cole starts.

"I'm fine," I mutter, cutting him off, though my hands shake as I adjust my jacket and try to look casual.

Three containers retrofitted for human cargo loom against the industrial skyline. The morning wind carries salt from the harbor, mixing with machine oil and rust.

Air circulation systems hum, a mechanical heartbeat keeping future victims alive. Padded walls muffle screams. Restraint points bolted to floors where people will beg.

My stomach lurches. Bile rises, acidic and burning. I press my palm flat against corrugated steel, letting the cold ridges bite into skin, anchoring myself before I vomit on Gideon's shoes.

Through the maze of metal, footsteps echo on wet concrete. Viktor Kazakov emerges from shadows between containers, pale eyes noting my deterioration. His Armani suit looks wrong here, too clean for this graveyard of shipping containers.

"Mr. Ryder." His accent makes my name sound like a diagnosis. "You seem... unwell today."

"Haven't been sleeping." Understatement of the fucking century. My fingers drum against my thigh, not engine timing now but morse code for help I'll never send.

"Ah. Your woman?" His knowing smile makes my skin crawl like insects under the surface.

Through comms, Mira's breath hitches—a sound that shoots straight to my groin. "Tell him yes."

"Something like that." The words scrape out, raw.

"Exactly what I want to hear," she breathes into my ear, and Christ, there's honey in her voice now, thick and golden and—

My knee buckles. I catch myself against the container's edge, metal leaving rust stains on my palms. Her approval hits my bloodstream like pure cocaine. My cock jerks, flooding my boxers with precum that's absolutely going to soak through denim soon.

"The next operation coordinates with the Long Beach Grand Prix." Viktor's words float past me as I struggle to focus. "Maximum distraction, optimal timing."

"Smart cover." My voice cracks on both words.

Through comms, I can hear Cole's worried exhale, but no one speaks. They've already said what needs saying.

"You're being such a good boy for me, sweet boy."

The double praise destroys me. My vision grays at the edges as I drop to one knee, pretending to tie my shoe while the world spins. The concrete is cold and gritty under my palm, and I can feel sweat soaking through my shirt despite the morning chill.

"Perhaps we should continue this later," Viktor suggests. "When you're more... stable."

"I'm fine." But I'm not. My shirt sticks to my back with sweat, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my temples.

"The connection to Alexei Petrov," I manage, remembering why I'm here through the haze of want. "Gideon mentioned Eastern European expansion."

Viktor's eyes sharpen. "Alexei appreciates ambitious young men. Perhaps you'll meet him soon."