Page 4 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

three

Kade

I 've spent two weeks watching her. Two weeks of calculating, planning, justifying.

Security assessment , I remind myself. Again.

The BMW sits silently beneath me, like a sleek predator waiting to strike. The engine's cool now, but I can feel its potential energy coiled beneath the tank where my helmet rests. Perfect machine. Perfect weapon.

My leather-gloved finger swipes through surveillance photos on my tactical phone. Her patterns are almost disappointingly predictable.

5:45 AM: Coffee on her balcony, steam rising like her thoughts.

7:10 AM: Exit through side entrance, always scanning surroundings.

7:30 AM: Arrival at The Bay Herald. The woman moves like clockwork.

My cock twitches at the memory of her pinned beneath me. The way she fought back, fierce and wild.

Fuck .

I flex my fingers, remembering the feel of her wrists in my grasp. How easy it would be to control her completely. My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.

Evenings are equally structured. Training with Carlos Martinez at 6:15 PM. The ex-Marine father of her dead friend. She's not just learning self-defense. She's preparing for war.

Asher's words echo. She's a liability. A security risk.

The rationalization sounds hollow even to me. I unconsciously twist the throttle, making the motorcycle shudder between my thighs. The connection is visceral. The bike responds to the slightest pressure, just as I imagine she would under my hands.

This is about the mission. Nothing more.

But when I close my eyes, I see her defiance. Feel her body struggling beneath mine. Taste her fear mixed with that unexpected spark of arousal.

The door to her place opens and I snap alert. My body goes rigid, every sense suddenly cranked to maximum.

What the fuck?

She emerges wearing a tight black dress that hugs every curve, hair falling loose instead of in her usual practical ponytail. Four-inch heels instead of running shoes. She's breaking pattern.

Blood rushes south so fast I grip the handlebar until my knuckles ache inside the leather gloves. My breathing accelerates to match the rapid fire of my pulse. This isn't on the schedule. This changes everything.

I fire up my motorcycle, the engine's rumble coursing through my body like my own raw, animal instinct.

Where the hell are you going, Alina?

I merge into traffic fifty yards behind her car, maintaining perfect following distance. The BMW responds to my commands like an extension of my body—just enough throttle to close distance when needed, never enough to draw attention.

What the fuck is she playing at?

The Nob Hill direction throws me. Tuesday pattern should have her at Martinez's gym right now, learning how to break a man's hold. I know this because I've memorized every detail of her life since our warehouse encounter.

My visor gives me perfect clarity as I weave between cars. Her profile is visible through the rear window—chin tilted up, lipstick darker than she normally wears.

This is tactical surveillance. Nothing more.

My breathing synchronizes with the engine's rhythm, steady and controlled even as irritation builds. Unpredictability creates risk. Risk demands elimination.

A fantasy flashes—pulling alongside her at the next red light. Watching recognition dawn in those fierce green eyes. Seeing her realize she's been watched all along.

The light turns green before my thoughts can wander further.

She turns toward Gary Danko. Exclusive restaurant. High-end clientele. Limited exits. Valet parking that will record her arrival.

Who are you meeting ?

I hang back as she pulls to the curb, calculating sight lines and cover positions. The BMW finds shadow between streetlights as I kill the engine, my body still humming with its vibration.

Alina steps from her car, passing her keys to the valet. She pauses, checking her reflection in the window. One hand smooths the black fabric over her hip. The other fluffs her hair—wild waves catching gold in the restaurant's exterior lighting.

The transformation is striking. From serious journalist to not just into someone comfortable at a five-star restaurant, but a woman who belongs there.

She commands attention with every step toward the entrance, shoulders back, chin lifted.

The dress hugs curves usually hidden under practical clothes.

I swing off my bike in one fluid motion, my body remembering what to do without thought. The helmet clicks into place on the motorcycle with the ease of someone who's done it thousands of times.

My feet hit the ground silently as I trail behind, keeping enough space between us while my eyes never wander from the target.

She walks with confident grace despite the heels. Shoulders back, chin high. Different posture than when she infiltrated our warehouse. Different woman entirely.

But the same threat.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

I'm not following Alina Bennett because I can't get the feel of her body beneath mine out of my fucking head.

I'm not.

I slip from the shadow like a ghost—my namesake for a reason. The motorcycle's warmth clings to my thighs as I move silently across the street. My tactical boots make no sound despite my size.

Two hundred seventy pounds of muscle shouldn't move this quietly, but silence is survival.

My leather jacket conceals both my weapon and the tension coiling through my body. The upscale neighborhood feels foreign. Soft laughter from restaurant patrons, the clink of expensive glasses, valet attendants in pressed uniforms—all a world away from warehouse concrete and gun oil.

I position myself behind a cluster of decorative trees, partially concealed by evening shadows but with perfect sightlines to the restaurant entrance. The contrast is jarring—me in combat boots and tactical gear, them in designer suits and cocktail dresses.

No one notices me. They never do until I want them to.

Alina stands beneath the restaurant's golden lighting, checking her phone every thirty seconds. She shifts her weight between heels, tucking a curl behind her ear.

My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack.

Fucking beautiful. Dangerous.

The leather of my riding gloves creaks as my fists clench and unclench. I scan every approaching male—threat assessment automatic and immediate.

Gray suit. No weapon print. Soft hands. Not him.

Business type with date already. Not a threat.

Young valet. Too nervous around her. Not him.

I remain perfectly still, as years of practice have taught me how to disappear in plain sight. How to become nothing but watching eyes .

She pushes her hair behind her ear one more time, that anxious little habit stirring something raw and urgent within me. My cock hardens painfully against my tactical pants.

I could take her right now.

The thought crashes through my defenses before I can stop it. Two seconds to cross the street. Three more to reach her. One to cover her mouth before she could scream.

My hand drifts unconsciously toward my concealed weapon when she glances at her watch, looking suddenly vulnerable.

This is what happens when prey strays from safe patterns.

Everything in my training says to remain undetected. Observe. Report. But everything in my body demands immediate action. To claim. To possess.

A man in an expensive charcoal suit approaches from the north, his confident stride and easy smile making Alina's face light up. My weight shifts forward automatically, muscles coiling for attack.

When he reaches to embrace her, my hand moves to my weapon reflexively, leather glove brushing against metal.

Mine.

The possessive thought thunders through me with such force I nearly step from the shadows.

I force myself to remain still, watching with predatory intensity as this stranger's hands touch what I've claimed as mine.

From my hidden position, I zero in on every movement, tracking each person's position with the calculated precision of a marksman. He's holding her too long. Three-second standard greeting, but he's at seven.

His palm lingering on her upper arm, thumb brushing bare skin. Her body language welcomes his touch—relaxed shoulders, maintained eye contact, lips curved in genuine smile.

Categorize. Analyze. Control.

"David!" Her voice carries down the street to me. First name basis. Familiar. Comfortable. Probably business.

My teeth grind together, jaw muscles bunching beneath skin.

He guides her toward the restaurant entrance, hand sliding to the small of her back. Possessive. Claiming. My vision narrows, zeroing in on that single point of contact between them.

Five pressure points to disable him. Three seconds maximum.

The suit can't hide his weaknesses. Slight hitch in his left knee—old injury, probably ACL tear. Carries tension in his right shoulder. Neck mobility limited on same side. Probably works at a desk. Soft hands, expensive watch. Pampered. Protected.

They disappear inside. Decision made in an instant—I follow.

The hostess's greeting dies on her lips when she meets my eyes.

"Bar." My voice comes out rougher than intended.

She points wordlessly. I move through the space, scanning exits, cataloging threats, positioning myself at the perfect angle.

There. Corner booth. Intimate lighting. Her back to the wall—smart girl, never exposing herself to the room .

I claim the barstool with the clearest sightline, but not obviously in hers. "Whiskey. Neat."

The bartender sets it before me without comment. I wrap my hand around the glass, the amber liquid untouched. My attention stays locked in.

They're talking, heads tilted toward each other. Her hands animate her words, those same hands that fought against my restraint two weeks ago. She's relaxed here. Open. Her laughter carries across the room, musical and free.

This isn't business. This is pleasure.

The realization hits like a round to the chest.

She's on a fucking date.

Alina leans forward, saying something that makes him laugh. Their fingers touch across the table. My knuckles whiten around the glass.

Her date reaches across, brushing a curl from her face. My body shifts forward, instinct taking over like a switch being flipped. Every muscle in my body goes taut, ready to launch across the room. My focus narrows, the room falling away until all I see is her—and his fucking hand on her face.

I imagine her underneath my body again. Not fighting this time. Surrendering. Acknowledging what we both felt in that warehouse.

A waiter approaches their table with champagne. Expensive bottle. Special occasion. The man takes her hand across the table as glasses are poured. He raises his in a toast, leaning closer, eyes fixed on her lips.

Something dangerous uncoils in my chest. Hot. Violent. Absolute.

My phone buzzes. Team alert. Priority one .

For the first time in fifteen years, the mission waits.

I set down the untouched whiskey, deadly calm settling over me like a second skin.

"No one touches what's mine," I whisper, rising from my seat like a predator.