17. Mira #2
"Has been for years. I've been hunting him since I killed Mikhail when I was twenty." I watch them process with rapid efficiency. "And now that we've been tracking his American operations through Viktor and Gideon..."
"He'll come for anyone you care about," Damian finishes, voice carrying anticipatory violence.
"Let him come." Jax's voice drops to something barely recognizable as his hands grip my shoulders harder. "I'll put a bullet between his eyes myself."
Cole clears his throat. "Jesus, Nitro. Breathe."
"This changes our approach," Kade says, already strategizing. "We can use this."
Damian's voice cuts through like a blade. "How do you want him to die?"
Not if they'll kill him. How .
The way he offers violence like a gift makes something warm and dangerous unfurl in my chest.
This is what having people means.
"Slowly," I answer. "Very slowly."
"That can be arranged," Damian says with satisfaction that makes Vanessa shiver visibly on screen.
"Tomorrow we strategize properly," Cole cuts in. "Tonight, we eat."
The team continues eating, conversation shifting back to lighter topics—Vanessa updating Asher on her latest tech equipment acquisition, Xander explaining mathematical beauty of controlled chaos theory between bites of egg.
I start gathering empty plates. Jax loads the dishwasher with sharp movements. Every time I pass behind him to clear dishes, he tenses. Tracks me. His reflection in the window shows his jaw working.
When Asher hands me his plate, Jax's grip on a glass tightens.
When Cole makes a joke about Russian grandmothers knowing their way around kitchens, Jax doesn't laugh.
Remy leans close—too close for casual conversation. His breath warms my ear as he drops his voice low enough that only I can hear.
Behind us, water runs over dishes.
"Miroslava Sokolov." The Russian pronunciation perfect. "I remember when your family disappeared from the society pages. People in certain circles noticed."
The tap turns off. Silence. He's listening.
"Your parents' foundation work was well-regarded," Remy continues, still too close, his cologne mixing with the scent of dinner. "Cultural investments, charitable galas. When families like that just... vanish, it leaves ripples."
"What happened to your family..." His hand hovers near my shoulder, not quite touching. "That kind of loss changes everything."
The recognition in his voice catches me off guard. Not pity—understanding. Like he knows what it's like to have your entire world ripped away.
A dish shatters against granite.
We both turn. Jax stands at the sink, blood dripping from his knuckles onto white porcelain.
For a moment, I think he's going to say something. Demand explanations or stake his claim.
But he sets the dish towel down with deliberate control and walks away.
Just walks away.
No confrontation. No possessive demands.
He just leaves.
I've never seen him walk away from anything before. He always fights, always pushes back. What the hell changed?
The kitchen suddenly feels too quiet. Remy steps back with a knowing look, disappearing to his room. Cole and Asher exchange glances before heading to the surveillance setup.
I'm left standing with broken ceramic and the echo of Jax's footsteps on stairs.
I should be relieved. No jealous confrontation means no complications.
The need hits unexpected and sharp. To chase after him, to demand he fight for me instead of walking away. The impulse makes no logical sense.
I'm supposed to be the one who walks away. I don't chase. I don't pursue.
But my feet are already moving toward the stairs, plates forgotten.
His door is cracked open, twenty feet down the hallway. Each step on hardwood sounds too loud.
I push it wider without knocking. He's at the floor-to-ceiling window, palm flat against glass, looking at ocean or his own reflection or nothing.
"Mira." His voice scrapes raw. He doesn't turn.
"You walked away."
He runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful style. "Yeah. I did."
"That's not... you don't just walk away." I step into his room, closing the door harder than necessary. "You fight for things. You push back."
"Maybe I'm tired of competing with ghosts."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means watching you with Remy—" He turns from the window. His fingers tap against his thigh—2-1-5, 2-1-5. Faster now. Almost frantic. "He's everything I'm not—polished, sophisticated, able to have conversations without stumbling over words like some hyperactive kid."
"You think I care about polish?"
"I think you notice the difference." His laugh sounds bitter. "I think when someone can speak your language—really speak it, not just fumble through—you notice."
"You're being irrational."
"Irrational?" Something snaps in his expression. He crosses the room in three strides, stops just out of reach. His whole body vibrates with restraint.
"You want to know what's irrational? Not being able to think straight when you're in the same room. Burning dinner because I can't concentrate when you brush against me. Wanting to put my fist through the wall every time another man looks at you like he understands something I don't."
He steps closer. Raw desperation floods his eyes.
"What's irrational is falling for someone who tests my reactions like I'm a science experiment. Who pushes my buttons just to see what happens. Who makes me want things I've never wanted before."
"I don't—"
"You do." His voice drops, something broken underneath. "And the hell of it is, I don't even care. Test me. Push me. See how far I'll go. But don't expect me to watch you light up for other men and pretend it doesn't gut me."
The confession hangs between us, raw and honest and terrifying.
"What do you want from me?" I whisper.
"Stop thinking for thirty seconds." He moves closer, hands hovering near my face but not touching. "And just... be here. With me."
"I don't know how to do that."
"Then learn." His voice cracks. "Because I can't keep pretending this is just professional. I can't keep pretending I don't want you so badly it's killing me."
Something in his broken honesty undoes me completely. Before I can stop myself, I'm moving. My hands hit his chest, shoving. He stumbles backward until his legs hit the bed's edge. Falls. I follow him down.
"You want me to stop thinking?" I straddle his hips, hands braced on his chest. His heart hammers against my palm, 140 bpm at least. "You want me to stop calculating?"
His pupils blow wide, hands flying to my waist. "Mira—"
"This is me not thinking." I lean down, my mouth hovering just above his. Close enough to feel his exhale. Taste the desperation.
And then I kiss him.