6. Mira
six
Mira
T he photograph would destroy Alexei's empire—proof of the money trail that connects his trafficking network to clean American dollars.
If I could just—
"What the fuck?"
The whispered curse behind me matches my exact thought. I spin, knife already sliding from my sleeve, and freeze.
Jax stares at me from three feet away, his own phone aimed at the same targets—Dmitri Morozov and Pavel Kruschev conducting business with Gideon Lynch thirty feet below our position. His mouth opens, closes, opens again.
"You're—why are you—what the fuck are you doing here?" His whisper cracks on the last word.
"Getting evidence." I pocket my phone, keeping the blade visible. "Leave. Now."
"Evidence of—wait." His eyes narrow, understanding flooding his face. "You're after Lynch's connections. The money laundering through the racing circuits."
He knows too much. One thrust between the ribs. Silent. Clean. Dead before he hits the ground.
My grip tightens on the knife, but his next words stop me cold.
"Dmitri's about to check his phone. Pattern behavior—every seven minutes." He doesn't even look at his watch. "Pavel will turn away in four seconds to light his cigarette. Three, two—"
Pavel turns. Dmitri checks his phone.
How the fuck does he know their patterns?
"I've been tracking Lynch for weeks." His grin flashes dangerously. "Same as you, apparently, princess."
Princess. The word should annoy me, not make heat coil low in my belly.
Stop it. Focus.
Movement below. Three guards converging on Lynch's position—not standard security. These men move like hunters.
"Блять," I breathe.
"Enhanced protocols," Jax mutters, fingers drumming a complex pattern against his thigh—mathematical, precise, anxious. "They know someone's here."
"Your fault. Too much electronic interference when you—"
"My fault? You're the one who—" He cuts off as footsteps echo on the metal stairs. "Shit. Move."
We move simultaneously, bodies flowing in opposite directions around the structural beam. Mirror images carving through shadows. The guard's flashlight beam passes through empty space where we'd stood.
Why do I know exactly where he'll go?
I shift left. He shifts right. No communication, no planning, but we clear the corner like we've rehearsed this for years.
Two guards block the next passage.
Jax's hand taps against his leg—three beats, pause, two beats.
Three seconds, then we move. How the hell do I understand his signals?
Three seconds later, we strike in flawless synchronization. My knife finds the guard's carotid artery while Jax drops his target with a blood choke. Both men crumple silently.
We stare at each other over the bodies.
"That was—"
"Don't," I snap, but my pulse races for reasons that have nothing to do with combat.
This shouldn't work. We shouldn't work.
Radio chatter erupts. "Sector seven, report. Sector seven—"
"Forty seconds until they investigate," Jax says, already moving. His hand hovers near my lower back, not touching but close enough that heat radiates through my jacket. "There's a shipping container—"
"I know."
Of course we're thinking the same thing. Of course.
We run together through the industrial labyrinth. His breathing syncs with mine, footfalls landing in exact rhythm. When I leap over a pipe, he's already ducking under the next obstruction. When he signals left, I'm already turning.
This is impossible. This kind of synchronization takes years of training together.
But my body moves with his like we're dancing, and something in my chest recognizes something in his.
Dangerous. This is dangerous.
"Here." He yanks open a container door.
We dive inside the cramped space, filled with racing equipment that leaves barely enough room to stand. Darkness swallows us whole.
The door clicks shut and I jam the lock with my knife. Silence except for our breathing.
"Don't move," I whisper. "Don't even breathe loud."
"Says the woman who's—" His voice cuts off as footsteps approach outside.
A flashlight beam pierces through the door gap. We press backward simultaneously, and suddenly his body cages mine against the wall.
Six feet of solid muscle pins me in place. The three-inch height difference means his breath warms my temple, my face level with his throat. His cock presses hard against my stomach through our clothes.
Твою мать. He's huge. And hard. For me.
Radio static outside. "Check every container. Someone's here."
The door handle rattles.
Jax's hand slides to my hip, holding me still. His thumb finds bare skin where my shirt has ridden up, and the touch sears like a brand. My nipples peak to painful points against his chest.
Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't think about how perfectly he'd fit inside me.
His cock throbs against me, thick and insistent. The height difference puts him right where I'd need him if I lifted onto my toes, if I wrapped my legs around his waist, if I let him fuck me against this wall while guards search outside.
Stop. Stop thinking about his cock. Stop imagining—
"Sector seven clear," someone radios. "Moving to eight."
His breathing turns ragged against my temple. I can feel his pulse hammering where his throat presses against my cheek, matching the frantic rhythm of my own heartbeat.
The footsteps fade, but neither of us moves.
"Mira." My name rumbles in his chest, vibrating against my breasts.
"Don't."
"Don't what? Don't mention that you're trembling? Don't—fuck—" His hips press forward involuntarily, grinding his erection against me.
He can feel me shaking. Feel how my body responds to his. How much I want this.
My hands fist in his shirt. To push him away or pull him closer, I don't know.
"We need to move," I manage, but my voice comes out breathy, wrecked.
"Yeah." He doesn't move. His thumb strokes that bare strip of skin, and my knees threaten to buckle. "Except I can't think when you—Fuck, you smell like—"
"Jasmine." The word slips out before I can stop it.
Why did I tell him that?
"And danger." His lips brush my ear, not quite a kiss. "You smell like you could kill me, and fuck if that doesn't make me—" He cuts himself off, breathing hard. "Sorry. Shit. My brain just—when you're this close, I can't—words happen and—"
"Your words always happen." But there's no bite to it. Not when I can feel his control shredding, feel him fighting not to grind against me, feel my own control dissolving.
I want him to lose control. Want him desperate. Begging.
Voices outside, distant but approaching again.
"We run on three," I whisper.
His hand tightens on my hip. "Together or separate?"
Separate. Say separate.
"Together. Until we clear the perimeter."
His exhale shudders against my neck. "Good. Because I'm not—I mean, tactically it makes sense, but also I just—fuck, I need to stop talking."
"Yes."
"Right. Shutting up. Three?"
"Three."
We burst from the container in unison. The transition from his heat to the cool air makes me gasp, but my body moves on instinct, muscle memory taking over.
Ten-foot drop to the next level. I leap without hesitation, body rotating mid-air, arms extending in flawless port de bras. The landing flows into fifth position, knees barely bending, silent as snowfall.
Shit. Too much. He'll notice.
"Holy shit." Jax lands beside me, louder, messier, staring. "That's not—people don't move like that."
"People don't do lots of things." The admission tears from me before I can stop it.
Careless. Stupid. He's making me careless.
His eyes search my face in the industrial lighting. Looking for secrets, finding too many.
"Забудь," I mutter.
"I don't know what that means, but if you're telling me to forget—" He runs a hand through his hair, agitated. "Not happening."
Searchlight sweeps across our position. We dive behind a container stack, bodies colliding again. His hand catches my waist, steadying me, and the connection scorches through every layer of defense.
"Stop touching me."
Don't stop. Never stop.
"Stop running into me."
"I'm not—"
"Both of you shut the fuck up," a voice says above us.
We freeze. A guard stands on the container, radio in hand.
"Control, I've got two—"
I move. Pure instinct, pure training. Leap, twist, strike. The guard crumples, but his radio clatters down the metal siding.
Jax catches it before it hits ground. "Nice."
"Necessary." But warmth spreads through my chest at the approval.
Since when do I care about his approval?
We run again, navigating the final stretch. Every time we move through tight spaces, his scent wraps around me—cologne and sweat and male heat.
I want to taste his skin. Want to bite that throat. Mark him.
The perimeter fence appears ahead. Freedom. Separation. Safety from whatever this is between us.
"After you." He gestures to a gap in the chain link.
"No, after you."
"Seriously? We're doing polite criminal etiquette now?"
"Just go!"
"Oh for fuck's sake—" He dives through the gap, turning immediately to watch my exit.
I slip through, and his hand extends to help me up. I don't need it. Take it anyway. His fingers close around mine, rough and warm and steadying.
Let go. Let go before you do something stupid.
We stand there, hands clasped, both breathing hard.
"So," he says, fingers drumming against my palm. "See you tomorrow?"
"This was a one-time—"
"Bullshit." His thumb traces my wrist, finding my racing pulse. "You need intel on Lynch. I need someone who moves like you do. We both want—" He stops, jaw clenching.
"What? What do we both want?"
His eyes drop to my mouth. "Things that'll get us killed."
Yes. God, yes.
Truth burns between us, undeniable.
I pull my hand free. "There's another event tomorrow. Private gathering."
"The warehouse on Pier 47." He grins at my surprise. "Told you. Watching the same targets."
He's been tracking them as long as I have. Who the fuck is he?
"Fine. Tomorrow. But—"
"Business. I know." He backs away, still watching me. "Though, for the record? That thing you did in the air? That was fucking beautiful."
Heat floods my cheeks.
When's the last time I blushed? When's the last time anyone made me—
"Go."
"Going. Definitely going. Just... yeah, going." He turns, walks backward, nearly trips over a parking barrier. "Shit. Smooth, Jax. Real smooth."
I watch him disappear into shadows, spinning his keys in increasingly complex patterns. The nervous energy radiates off him even from distance.
I want to chase him down. Pin him against a wall. Make him shut up with my mouth.
Сука. This is going to be a problem.
I head for my bike, forcing my breathing steady. Mission successful. Intelligence gathered. Evidence documented.
No, he's going to be useful. That's all. Just another tool.
So why do my hands shake?
Because you want him. Because for the first time in thirteen years, you want someone to survive.
My phone buzzes as I reach the Ducati.
Unknown Number: You're playing dangerous games with dangerous people, little swan. Did you think I wouldn't notice? - A
My eyes scan the empty lot, searching shadows. Is Jax working for him? Was tonight a test? A trap?
No. The surprise on Jax's face was real. The synchronization between us, unplanned. The way his control shattered when we were pressed together—that can't be faked.
But Alexei knows. Which means Jax is in danger too.
Good. Let him be in danger. Let him—
I should warn him. Should text the number I already programmed in my phone.
Don't care. Don't you dare care.
But warning him means admitting I care if Alexei kills him.
And I can't afford to care.
Liar. You already care. You're already compromised.
For the first time in thirteen years, I want someone to survive me.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's not a text.
It's a reservation confirmation. Oceanview Restaurant. Tomorrow. 8 PM. Table for two under "Ryder."
My blood freezes. I never gave Jax my number. Never told him where to find me.
Another message appears: The boy learns fast. See how pretty he looks through a scope? Don't get too attached, little swan. You're still mine. - A