Page 2 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

two

Kade

F uck.

The hood falls back, revealing a woman beneath me. Long brown waves spill across the dusty concrete floor. My grip on her throat loosens slightly, but I maintain control.

Years of training keep my expression neutral despite the surprise—and something else I refuse to acknowledge.

Her pulse races beneath my thumb, a rapid flutter like a trapped bird.

Clear green eyes stare up at me, defiant despite the fear I can sense. I keep my weight distributed precisely—enough to immobilize without crushing her.

A subtle scent rises between us—peony and delicate rose—so unexpected in this industrial setting that it momentarily disrupts my focus .

Not the generic fragrances, which most operatives would avoid. Something deliberately feminine, almost... distracting.

"Who are you?" I repeat, my voice low, controlled.

Her body shifts beneath mine—testing boundaries, seeking weakness. The friction of her hips against me sends an unwanted jolt through my system. I adjust my stance, creating enough distance to neutralize that particular... complication.

She's civilian. The realization hits with certainty. Her technique is textbook self-defense class, not professional training. But her eyes... they're scanning, analyzing. Intelligence there. Dangerous intelligence.

"I got lost," she gasps, voice strained against my hold. "Wrong building. I'm supposed to meet the property manager at Bayside Storage. This looked similar..."

My jaw tightens. An experienced lie. She delivers it well—voice modulated to convey the right balance of fear and confusion. But her eyes never stop assessing me, cataloging details. Not the behavior of someone who took a wrong turn.

"The property manager. At 9:30 at night. In a secured facility." The words drop between us like stones. "Try again."

She attempts another shift, creating another surge of unwanted contact. I lock my knees against her hips, immobilizing her lower body completely. Her breathing changes—shallow, rapid. Mine remains measured, controlled.

"Security check," she whispers. "I work for the owner. They wanted to test the system."

Better lie. Still bullshit .

I lean closer, letting her feel the full implication of our power imbalance. Her pulse jumps wildly against my fingertips—fear, adrenaline, and something else entirely.

"Final chance." I increase pressure just enough to emphasize the point. "The truth. Who are you and what are you doing in a building that officially doesn't exist?"

She blinks, those clear green eyes calculating. Assessing risk. I know that look—the rapid reassessment when primary strategies fail.

"You'd never believe me anyway."

I apply slight pressure to her throat, just enough to let her know who is in control. "I know this building's been dark for eighteen months. I know Chimera Tech cleared out after the merger fell through. And I know their real estate holdings should be empty."

Her eyes widen slightly. Good. Let her know I'm not fumbling in the dark.

"Yet here you are." I lean in, my voice dropping. "So, I'll ask again—what are you looking for in a building with active security but no official occupants?"

Something shifts in her expression. The fear recedes, replaced by calculation.

"I'm a journalist."

A journalist. Right. And I am a kindergarten teacher in my spare time. The admission surprises me, though I keep my face neutral. Not what I expected. The woman has nerve, I'll admit that.

"Investigating what?" I press, testing her.

"Property holdings. Corporate shell games." Her chin lifts slightly. "Public records show this building sitting empty while using enough electricity to power a small neighborhood. "

Half-truth. I can feel it. She's giving just enough information to sound credible while hiding something crucial.

"Which publication?"

She hesitates. I increase pressure again, not enough to hurt but enough to remind her of her vulnerable position.

"Freelance," she finally answers. Another partial truth.

Interesting. A civilian journalist willing to break into a secured location alone. Either stupidly brave or desperately chasing something. Maybe both.

The sudden movement catches me off-guard—not from inexperience but sheer surprise at her audacity. She twists her hips sharply while driving the heel of her palm toward my solar plexus. A textbook countermove, executed with surprising precision.

I redirect her strike with minimal effort, capturing her wrist and pinning her arm above her head. The movement brings our faces closer, her breath warm against my jaw.

"Nice try," I murmur. "Whoever taught you that move forgot to mention it doesn't work against someone with actual training."

Something flickers across her face—not defeat but determination. Fascinating.

She writhes beneath me like a wildcat. If the situation weren't so serious, I might be impressed by her sheer audacity. Most people confronted by someone my size would be sobbing or begging by now.

This one is calculating angles for her next attack, like a chess player who refuses to acknowledge checkmate.

"You going to kill me now?" she challenges, no tremor in her voice despite her racing pulse beneath my fingers.

Christ. This woman has a death wish .

"If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation." I ease back slightly, maintaining control without risking bruising her windpipe. "But whoever owns these servers won't be as forgiving. Do you have any idea what kind of hornet's nest you just kicked?"

Her lips curve into something almost resembling a smile. "That's exactly what I came to find out."

The quiet confidence in her voice sends an unexpected current through my system. Dangerous. Not the mission threat—her. This unknown woman with more courage than sense, pinned beneath me, yet I have the strange feeling that I'm the one being evaluated.

I shift position, using minimal force to flip our positions entirely. Now she's on top, straddling me, but my hands still control her wrists, and my core strength keeps her completely immobilized despite the apparent advantage.

"See the difference?" Our faces are inches apart now, her hair falling around us like a curtain. "Position doesn't matter when the strength gap is this wide."

Something flickers in her eyes—not fear but recognition. And beneath that, something that mirrors my own unwanted response.

"Last chance." My voice is rougher than intended. "Walk away. Forget what you saw here."

Her eyes narrow. "Or what?"

I ease my grip incrementally on her wrists—not enough for her to break free, but enough to give her hope.

"Or I call this in."

She tests my loosened grip, and I let her feel progress. She doesn't know I've already made my decision. Against protocol. Against better judgment. I'm going to let this fearless, foolish woman walk out of here.

This is a mistake.

But something about her won't let me make the call.

I ease my grip on her wrists further, giving her just enough slack to believe she might break free. The subtle relaxation in my hands is calculated—minimal, barely perceptible to anyone without training, but enough for her to feel opportunity.

Let's see what you do with this opening, journalist.

Her reaction is immediate. She twists her right wrist with surprising strength while simultaneously driving her knee upward. The movement is predictable but executed with impressive speed.

I could counter it effortlessly. Instead, I allow her knee to graze my ribs—controlling the impact so it produces sound without damage—while letting my grip slip from her left wrist entirely. The flash of triumph in her eyes is almost worth the breach in protocol.

"Fuck!" I grunt, feigning pain as I roll slightly to accommodate her momentum.

She seizes the advantage, wrenching her other hand free and scrambling backward. I make a show of recovering, letting her believe she's genuinely stunned me. The concrete floor is cold against my palm as I push myself to a seated position, watching her retreat with calculated patience.

Her breathing comes in controlled bursts as she backs away, eyes never leaving mine. Smart. She grabs her messenger bag and camera from the floor, movements efficient despite her obvious adrenaline surge. The faint tremor in her hands is the only sign she's rattled .

I remain still, a predator allowing my prey the illusion of escape. My muscles coil with instinctive readiness, but I keep myself in check. The urge to pursue challenges my discipline, but I suppress it, savoring the extended game.

As she edges toward the window, bag clutched to her chest like a shield, I appreciate the determined set of her jaw. The intelligence in those calculating eyes. The fluid economy of movement as she navigates backward, refusing to turn her back on a threat.

My earpiece comes to life.

"Status report. Do we have a breach?" Cole's voice is terse with concern.

I press my finger to my ear without breaking eye contact with my escaping journalist. "Negative. Situation contained."

She freezes at the sound of my voice, those green eyes widening slightly. I allow myself the barest hint of a smile, enjoying the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her face.

"Sensors show movement toward the south exit. Do you need backup?"

"Negative. False alarm. Resuming patrol."

Her back hits the wall beside the window she entered through. She's poised for flight, one leg already hooking over the sill, but her eyes remain locked with mine. Challenging. Defiant despite her retreat.

"This isn't over," she whispers, voice barely audible across the space between us.

No, it isn't.

I rise slowly to my feet, deliberately unthreatening, though we both know I could cross the distance between us before she cleared the window. Her breathing picks up as I straighten to my full height .

I maintain my position, letting her see my choice not to pursue. Confusion flickers across her face, followed by suspicion. Still, she doesn't waste the opportunity, sliding through the window with surprising grace.