Page 8 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

For Jax to see you in.

I spread weapons across the bed with practiced ease. Ceramic blade for the thigh holster—undetectable by metal detectors. Poison capsules modified into jewelry—paralyticagents that work in seconds. Garrote wire that could double as a bracelet.

Tools of my real trade. What I am under the designer dresses and perfect control.

He'd be horrified if he knew what you really are.

I test the ceramic blade's balance between my fingers. The weight is perfect, familiar. Seven years of kills, and this weapon has never failed me.

Good. Use that response too. Use him. That's all this is. Using an asset.

I'm putting the weapons away when my phone notifies me of a new message.

Unknown number:Welcome to Los Angeles, little swan. Your performance last night was... distracted. The races tomorrow should be interesting. Let's see if you can focus better without whiskey on your dress. Though I doubt that's what had you looking back. -A

Little swan. The nickname he gave me during those four years of hell. When he'd make me dance before teaching me to kill.

He's watching. Has been watching.

three

Jax

Nineteen hours, forty-three minutes. That's how long I've been hard.

My fourth espresso tastes like ash and metal. The same sick taste that's been coating my tongue since she walked away. The coffee machine hisses behind me, steam curling up like smoke signals of my desperation.

I stare at the monitor displaying Lynch Racing Academy schematics, but the blueprints blur into nothing. The blue light from the screens burns my retinas.

Focus, you fucking wreck.

My leg bounces under the kitchen island that's doubling as a display table—granite cold against my forearms where I'm leaning. Constant motion.

I've been vibrating like a tuning fork since the Onyx Room. Roman would take one look at me and know exactly what's happening. The spiral. The obsession kicking in like a drug withdrawal.

She froze. Actually fucking froze when we collided.

I shift on the leather stool, trying to find a position that doesn't make it worse. Every movement sends blood rushing south again. I've been adjusting myself so much my cock's raw against my jeans.

The news feeds scroll past with soft electronic chirps. Import executive found dead. Heart attack. Antoine Marchand. The Fairmont Hotel catches my eye—not because I care about dead businessmen, but the hotel makes me think of her walking away. That dress, and those eyes.

Eighteen-year-old Macallan exploding across her chest.

The memory slams into me. Amber liquid streaming down black silk. The fabric clinging to every curve. Her nipples hardening instantly against the wet material. I could see the exact moment, the way they peaked.

That devastating moment when she looked at me as if I'd just knocked the breath out of her lungs.

Because you fucking did. Just like she destroyed you.

My fingers drum against cold granite—complex engine timing patterns that usually calm me down. Four-stroke, eight-cylinder, 7000 RPM redline. The counter vibrates slightly with each tap.

Except nothing's working. Haven't slept. Can't eat. Every nerve ending feels exposed, like she peeled my skin off with that look. The air conditioning blows directly on my neck, making me shiver despite burning up inside.

I pull up the race route maps—tomorrow's street circuit through Long Beach. Force myself to memorize the turns, the straightaways, the escape routes. Professional work while my brain runs sick fantasies about a woman whose name I don't even know.

I can still feel where our hands almost touched when I offered her the napkin—the ghost of heat from her fingers. Theway she said my name. Rolled it around in her mouth like expensive wine.

Jax.