21. Jax
twenty-one
Jax
T he bruises on my throat pulse with my heartbeat as I adjust my bow tie in the Mercedes' mirror. Twelve hours since the Observatory. Six since Mira proved exactly how much she owns me. Zero hours of actual sleep.
"Stop touching them." Mira's voice carries across the car, professional but with an edge. "You're broadcasting what we did last night."
She's right. My fingers keep finding the marks she left, tracing them like proof. The one just above my collar is going to be visible all night. Part of me wants everyone to see—wants them to know she marked me as hers.
"Can't help it." I glance at her in the passenger seat, cataloging the slight stiffness in her movements. "You're walking like you're sore."
"I'm walking like a professional." But color rises in her cheeks. The bite mark on her shoulder is barely hidden by her dress strap.
The Queen Mary looms ahead, transformed into a floating palace for tonight's Grand Prix Victory Gala. Every racing elite and criminal using the sport as cover will be here. Including Viktor. Including Alexei, if Mira's intel is right.
"Remember," Cole's voice crackles through comms, "we're gathering final logistics only. No heroics."
"Copy that," I respond, but my hand finds Mira's across the center console. She doesn't pull away.
Professional distance lasted exactly zero seconds.
The ballroom hits like a fever dream of wealth and corruption. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, people worth more than small nations mingling with monsters who traffic human beings. The metallic taste of excessive wealth coats my tongue.
Mira works the room with elegant precision, but I catch the tiny adjustments—how she shifts to keep pressure off her left hip where I gripped too hard, how her hand ghosts over her ribs where my mouth left marks.
"Champagne?" A waiter appears.
"Thanks." I take two glasses, handing one to Mira. Our fingers brush and electricity shoots straight to my cock.
"Vitals spiking already," Asher notes dryly through comms. "It's been thirty seconds."
Viktor approaches across the marble, Gideon at his side. "Mr. Ryder! Ms. Knight! So pleased you could attend."
We shake hands like civilized people, not like we're planning to destroy their entire operation. Viktor's eyes linger on the bruise visible above my collar, and his smile turns knowing.
"Eventful evening yesterday?" His tone carries amusement.
"Tactical preparations," Mira responds smoothly, but her fingers tighten on her champagne flute.
The betting windows call to me from across the ballroom—high-stakes wagering on tomorrow's race because rich people need to gamble on everything. The familiar itch starts under my skin as I watch money change hands.
My feet move toward them without conscious thought.
"Jax." Mira's voice in my ear, but she's across the room talking to some shipping executive.
"Just looking." The lie tastes sour. I'm already calculating odds, reading the betting patterns.
"The organizational efficiency here is genuinely fascinating," she says, appearing at my elbow with that predatory grace. Her hand settles on my forearm—not gentle, but possessive. "Perhaps we should examine the silent auction instead."
She guides me away from temptation, but I catch something in her voice. Distraction. Her attention isn't fully on me, keeps drifting toward the harbor-view windows.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." But her pulse jumps at her throat. "Viktor's assistant has interesting documentation on his tablet. Container manifests."
I follow her gaze. The assistant stands near the windows, scrolling through shipping data. TCX-7749, KLM-8832, PLK-9901 visible on the screen.
"I can get closer—"
Her entire body goes rigid. Not professional stillness—complete paralysis. The champagne glass trembles in her hand, and her face drains of color so fast I'm afraid she might faint.
"Mira?"
She doesn't answer. Her hand moves slowly toward her thigh where her blade is holstered. Every line of her body shifts from elegant socialite to predator about to strike.
"Who is that?" I follow her gaze to a man near the windows. Silver hair, expensive suit, the kind of presence that commands attention. He's watching us—no, watching HER—with a slight smile that makes my skin crawl.
"Alexei." The name comes out like broken glass.
The man who killed her parents. Who destroyed her life. He's here, thirty feet away, raising his champagne glass toward us in a mock toast. But his eyes aren't on her anymore—they're on me. Studying me like I'm something interesting he might collect.
Or destroy.
"I'm going to kill him." Her voice is perfectly calm, which is terrifying. "Right here. Right now."
"No, you're not."
"Watch me."
Her weight shifts forward, muscles coiling to move. I catch her wrist, gentle but firm.
"If you kill him here, we lose everything," I murmur against her ear. "The trafficking intel, the victims we can save, all of it."
"He's right there. Ten seconds and he's dead."
"And so is our cover. So is our chance to save those people in the containers."
Her body vibrates with barely contained violence. I can feel her calculating angles, counting security, measuring distances.
"Mira. Look at me."
She does, and her eyes are wild. Dark blue turned almost black with rage.
"We're leaving," I decide. "Right now."
"Ghost, we have the container numbers and confirmation of tomorrow's transport," I say into comms, already steering Mira toward the exit. "But we need to extract. Now."
"What's wrong?" Cole's voice sharpens.
"Alexei Petrov is here. If I don't get Siren out in the next thirty seconds, she's going to kill him in front of three hundred witnesses."
Silence on comms. Then Kade: "Go. We'll handle the rest."
The valet takes forever to bring my car. Every second, I can feel Mira pulling against my grip, wanting to go back. Alexei watches us from the windows, that satisfied smile never wavering.
The drive starts in complete silence. She stares out the window, body coiled so tight I'm afraid she might shatter. I don't have a destination in mind, just driving to put distance between her and Alexei.
Ten minutes pass. Fifteen. Finally, she speaks.
"He looked at you." Her voice cracks slightly. "He was studying you like—like he's already planning how to use you against me."
"Let him try."
"You don't understand. Everyone I've ever—he kills them. Or worse."
"I'm not everyone." I reach over, take her hand. "And he's a dead man walking. When the time comes, I'll hold him down while you take him apart. But tonight wasn't the time."
She turns to look at me, and something shifts in her expression. "You stopped me."
"You stopped me from gambling. We're even."
"I was going to blow our entire operation."
"And I was about to bet mission funds on race odds." I squeeze her hand. "We're both fucked up, Mira. That's why we work."
She's quiet for another mile, then: "Take the next exit."
"Where are we going?"
"Operational preparation." Her voice carries that controlled tone that means she's planning something. "Somewhere public. Somewhere neither of us can do something stupid."
"Mira—"
"Santa Monica Pier. Take the 10 West."
"The pier? That's forty minutes away."
"Exactly. Public enough that I can't kill anyone. No real gambling to tempt you." She's regaining control, turning the chaos into something tactical. "We need to decompress before tomorrow's operation."
"By playing carnival games?"
"By being somewhere normal people go. Doing normal things." Her laugh is dark. "Or at least pretending we know how."