Page 7 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Jax steps out, and the empty office suddenly feels too small. Even from three stories up, even through binoculars, his presence hits me like a physical force.

Different from the bar. No fumbling. No nervous energy. He moves with controlled violence, checking sectors, hand near his concealed weapon.

The second SUV opens. I recognize Asher Cross from the corporate photos, dark hair, intense eyes, angular jaw. He takes an overwatch position, while the man identified as Remy Vance, blonde, sharp cheekbones, lean build, moves to cover the perimeter.

Through the binoculars, I can see Jax's lips moving. "Blade in position."

Cole responds. I catch "confirmed" but miss the rest.

Asher's mouth: "Frost has overwatch."

Remy's: "Saint's got perimeter."

Then Jax, and I can read every word clearly: "Nitro ready to roll. Let's make this clean, boys."

Nitro. Like nitroglycerin. Explosive.

Mrs. Winchester emerges from the museum's side entrance with her personal security. Jax immediately positions himself between her and the street—textbook protection stance but with that edge of barely-contained energy that makes him fascinating to watch.

He guides her to the armored SUV, one hand hovering near the car door handle, the other ready to draw. His head never stops moving—checking windows, rooflines, pedestrians. Professional. Alert. Brilliant.

He could get you into secured buildings. Private events. High-value targets.

I adjust the binoculars, zooming in on his face. Even in professional mode, there's something almost vulnerable about the way he constantly scans for threats. Like he's carrying the weight of everyone's safety on his shoulders.

That's why you're wet. Because he's useful.

The convoy pulls out in perfect formation. I watch until they disappear around the corner, then sit in the empty office for another twenty minutes.

My hands are shaking. Not from adrenaline or fear. From want.

Liar. What the fuck is wrong with you?

I leave the building the way I came—invisible, forgettable. Take three different routes back to the safe house. But the new images of him moving like controlled violence have seared themselves into my brain, and I already know what I'll be doing when I get back.

Back at the condo, I strip and stand under scalding water.

Don't think about him.

But my hand is already between my legs, fingers finding the slick heat that has been one thought away since he crashed into me.

This is biology. Adrenaline response. Nothing more.

I work myself hard and fast, chasing release like it might cure me. My other hand braced against the tile, legs shaking, remembering the way he moved. Controlled. Dangerous. Professional.

Stop. Don't come thinking about him.

I edge myself once, brutal and punishing, right to the precipice, then force myself to stop. The denial makes it worse. Makes the ache deeper. Makes me want to hunt him down right now and—

And what? Tell him I'm stalking him? That I came thinking about him while Antoine died? That I'm here to kill the man who orchestrated my parents' murder?

He'd run. Any sane person would run.

I shut off the water and stand there dripping, skin flushed and sensitive. Everything feels like too much. The towel against my skin. The air on my neck. The ache between my legs that won't fucking stop.

The closet holds my armor. Thirty-seven designer dresses, each one selected for specific psychological impact. My fingers find the burgundy Roberto Cavalli—liquid fire with strategic seams that can tear away in three seconds flat. Backless, with a neckline that plunges to my navel. The kind of dress that stops conversations and starts wars.

Perfect for tomorrow. For being Sterling Black's arm candy. For hunting Alexei's network.