Page 97 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

"Target's moving." I force focus back to the building, tracking Viktor's Mercedes as it exits the parking structure. "Heading east toward the financial district."

We pack surveillance equipment in practiced silence, but I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. How his hands, those hands that mapped every inch of me, handle delicate electronics with surprising gentleness.

"Remy mentioned you haven't been sleeping," he says suddenly, not looking at me. "Says he hears you pacing at night."

Because I lie awake twenty feet from your room, fighting the urge to crawl into your bed and beg you to make me forget everything but your name.

"Operational planning requires additional hours."

"Right." He closes the equipment case with unnecessary force. "Operational planning. Not the fact that you came apart under a pier and now you're trying to pretend it didn't change everything."

Heat slams through me, anger mixing with arousal until I can't separate them.

"What happened was stress relief between—"

"If you say 'consenting adults' I'm going to bend you over this equipment case and remind you exactly how much you consented." The threat in his voice makes me wet enough that I have to shift position. "How you begged. How you said you're mine."

"I was compromised." My hands shake as I shoulder the camera bag. "Fear response combined with adrenaline—"

"Bullshit." He moves closer, backing me against the brick wall of our observation position. Not touching, but close enoughthat his body heat envelops me. "You meant every word. Just like you mean it when you count the hours. When you wear scarves to hide marks that are already fading because you can't stand the thought of them disappearing."

My hand moves involuntarily to my throat where his fingerprints have gone from purple to yellow-green. Still visible to anyone who looks close enough. Asher noticed yesterday, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"We should reposition for the secondary surveillance point." My voice emerges steadier than expected. "Viktor's pattern suggests—"

"Look at me."

"I am monitoring the target's—"

"Mira." Just my name, but the command in it makes my body respond before my brain can intervene. I meet his eyes and immediately regret it.

He sees everything. The dark circles from three sleepless nights. The way my pupils dilate just from looking at him. How my chest rises and falls too quickly for someone at rest.

"There she is," he murmurs, satisfaction evident. "The woman who counted every hour. Who keeps a stuffed tiger on her nightstand even though it's evidence of losing control."

My breath catches. "How did you—"

"Saw it when I passed your open door this morning. Right there in plain sight, like you want someone to ask about it."

The observation hits too close to truth. I have been leaving it visible, some self-destructive part wanting to be caught, wanting him to see I kept it.

"It's tactical evidence of operational—"

He laughs, cutting off my desperate deflection. "You're unbelievable. Three days of drowning yourself in surveillance work, building walls with spreadsheets and shell companyanalysis, and that tiger sits on your nightstand like a confession you can't quite make."

We move through downtown crowds, maintaining professional distance that feels like agony. Close enough for operational cover, far enough that I can't sense his warmth anymore. The loss makes my skin ache.

"Alexei's selection patterns follow predictable psychological profiles." I force focus back to intelligence that matters. "Wealthy families, international connections, children educated abroad. I understand his methodology because I was trained in parallel techniques."

"How many?" His voice has gone quiet, dangerous.

"Fourteen confirmed eliminations." The number rolls off my tongue like discussing weather patterns. "All men who believed they were seducing a naive art dealer."

We pause at a crosswalk, waiting for the light. Around us, normal people living normal lives, unaware they're standing next to a killer who got off on watching her targets die.

"Tell me about them." Not a request. A command that makes my spine straighten automatically.

"You want operational details?"