2. Mira
two
Mira
Stop thinking about him.
Eighteen hundred square feet of bulletproof glass and reinforced steel. The kind of place you can only get through connections who deal in blood and silence.
Forty-seven laps since midnight. My feet throb against the cold concrete, but it's better than the heat between my legs that won't fucking stop.
You killed Antoine twelve hours ago. Focus on that.
But Antoine's death felt mechanical. Boring, even. Until I started thinking about blue-green eyes and came watching a man die.
What kind of monster—
I slam my palm against the kitchen counter. The pain blooms sharp and real. But better than the ache that's taken residence in my body since someone crashed into me with whiskey and called me perfect like the word was ripped from his soul.
The laptop glows from the desk. Alexei's operations mapped across three monitors—shipping manifests, racing venues circled in red, guard rotations for his safe houses.
This is why I'm here. To hunt the man who orchestrated everything that destroyed me. Not to think about strangers who stare like they're drowning and I'm their only lifeline.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I should be cross-referencing Alexei's latest shell companies. Tracking his money through the racing circuits.
I type: Jax Ryder Los Angeles
No. Delete it.
But I'm already hitting enter.
The results flood the screen. Too many. Jax Ryder Construction. Jax Ryder Photography. Jackson "Jax" Ryder Attorney. None of them with that barely contained energy that crashed into me.
Jax Ryder private security
Jax Ryder bodyguard
Jax Ryder driver Los Angeles
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Think. High-end bar. Expensive suit. Team of professionals. Black Amex.
Jax Ryder security firms Los Angeles
Still nothing. I lean back, frustrated. He's a ghost online, which either means he's very good at his job or—
Wait. The team. They were together. Military bearing.
Private security teams Los Angeles
I scroll through companies. Blackwater affiliates. Celebrity bodyguards. Then—Centurion Protection Group. "Elite Protection Services for Discerning Clients."
I click through to their team page. Corporate headshots arranged in a grid. I scan the names: Kade Mercer (CEO), Cole Tanaka, Asher Cross, Remy Vance, and...
Jax Ryder.
There he is. The face that's been burning behind my eyelids. Professional headshot, but I can still see that reckless energy barely contained by the corporate setting.
Transportation specialist. Former military—no, wait. No military record. Just private security training and... I click deeper into his bio.
"Jax brings unique expertise in high-speed operations and tactical driving, with background in professional racing before transitioning to security."
Racing. Of course. That barely-contained energy, the way he moved like he was always about to explode into motion.
He has access to secure buildings. Private events. The kind of places Alexei's people frequent.
That's what I tell myself as I dig deeper. Social media shows almost nothing—a few team photos, professional posts about security. But the racing forums from thirteen years ago tell a different story.
"Ryder and Malone tearing up the track again. Lynch Academy's golden boys."
"Kid's got natural talent. Both of them could go pro if they keep their heads."
"Lynch Racing Academy produces another pair of champions. Gideon must be proud."
Lynch Racing Academy. Gideon Lynch. My fingers pause on the keyboard.
I pull up Alexei's files on another monitor. Racing venues circled in red. Distribution points. And there—Gideon Lynch, running tomorrow night's races. Former trainer, current promoter of underground racing.
Jax trained under Gideon.
The connection forms in my mind. Alexei uses Lynch's races to move product. Jax trained at Lynch's academy. Former students might attend their mentor's events, especially ones with—
I find the article dated thirteen years ago: "Lynch Academy Tragedy: One Student Dead, One Critical."
Tommy Malone, seventeen. Died attempting a complex jump sequence during training. Fellow student Jax Ryder injured in the same session, trying to rescue Tommy. Both were star pupils of renowned trainer Gideon Lynch.
The funeral footage is someone's shaky phone video.
Jax as pallbearer, but he can barely stand.
A man, likely his father—shorter, graying, same strong jaw—literally holding him upright.
When they lower the coffin, Jax's knees buckle.
Even through terrible phone audio, I can hear him: "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Tommy, I'm so fucking sorry. "
Survivor's guilt. Trauma response. Never properly processed.
I watch the video again.
That can be used. Manipulated. Get under his skin through his guilt.
But I'm not thinking about manipulation as I replay the video. I'm thinking about how his hands shook on that coffin the same way they shook holding napkins towards my chest. How that broken seventeen-year-old became the man who crashed into me with desperate honesty.
I keep searching. Find a business article from six months ago: "Winchester Foundation Partners with Centurion Protection Group for Comprehensive Security Services."
The Winchester Foundation. Major philanthropic organization, the kind that hosts galas and art auctions.
The article includes a photo of the signing ceremony—Kade Mercer shaking hands with Mrs. Winchester while the team stands behind him.
Jax is on the left, looking uncomfortable in the formal setting.
They handle Winchester's security. High-profile client. Regular schedule.
My feet shift under the desk—heels together, toes apart, then sliding wider. A pattern my body knows but my mind isn't thinking about. I force them still.
The encrypted phone buzzes.
"Races are tomorrow night." Sasha's accent cuts through the quiet. "Sterling Black needs a companion."
"Send details."
"Already done."
Click. Brief and professional, the way all our exchanges are.
The races. Where Alexei's people move product. Where Gideon Lynch, who I now know is Jax's former mentor, runs the show. Where Lynch's former students sometimes appear, especially ones with money to burn.
He might be there.
I pull up Sterling Black's file on another monitor. Arms dealer, collector of beautiful things. The kind of man who brings trophy dates to illegal races while conducting business.
If he still has connections. If the guilt doesn't keep him away. If—
My fingers drum against the desk, a nervous habit I thought I'd trained out of myself years ago. The information about Tommy's accident plays on repeat in my mind. Jax trying to save his friend. Failing. Living with that weight.
Stop. This is about Alexei. Use tomorrow to identify his network.
But I'm already imagining it: Jax seeing me in burgundy silk on Sterling's arm. The way his jaw would clench. The way those blue-green eyes would darken.
You're losing control.
I pour vodka from the freezer, the bottle sweating in my grip. The alcohol burns, but not enough. Nothing burns enough to cauterize whatever he lit inside me.
I need to see him before tomorrow. Need to understand what I'm dealing with. Need to—
Stalk him. That's what you mean. You want to stalk him.
Downtown LA swallows me at noon. I dress forgettably. Black jeans, gray hoodie, sneakers that make no sound. Hair pulled back, no makeup.
Invisible.
The Winchester Foundation art auction is at the Museum of Contemporary Art. I scout the perimeter, identifying entry points, security positions, delivery areas. The loading dock on the side street. That's where they'll stage vehicles.
There's an office building across from the loading dock. Five stories, multiple businesses, including two that show "For Lease" signs in the windows. Third floor, corner unit. Perfect angle.
The building's security is laughable. One guard reading his phone. I wait until he goes for coffee, slip past his desk, take the stairs. The third-floor hallway is empty. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead.
The empty office suite still has furniture—dusty desks, dead plants, a printer with no paper. The corner office has floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the loading dock. I can see everything from here.
I pull out my compact binoculars from my bag. Military grade, bought years ago for a job in Beirut. The magnification is perfect. I can see individual faces, read lips if they're facing the right direction.
2:30. I settle into position, back against the wall, binoculars steady.
2:45. Movement below. Security sweep of the area.
2:55. Two black SUVs driving down the block in formation.
2:58. SUVs arrive like a military operation.
The lead SUV parks at an angle that provides cover. The driver's door opens and Cole Tanaka emerges, the Asian man with broad shoulders and defined arms, scarred hands visible even from here. He scans the area with professional thoroughness.
Passenger side—and my breath catches.
Fuck.
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.
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—paralytic agents 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.