23. Mira
twenty-three
Mira
" V iktor Kazakov just entered the Wells Fargo building. Third time this week, same floor, northwest corner office."
"Financial patterns confirmed," Vanessa's voice crackles back. "These transactions are accelerating beyond projected timelines."
"Alexei's moving his assets." I track another black sedan through my viewfinder, forcing professional focus while my body screams for the man sitting three feet away.
My shoulders pull back into first position automatically, ballet training surfacing under stress.
"Timeline suggests final phase within seventy-two hours. "
Jax shifts in our surveillance position, his shoulder grazing mine. The contact sends electricity straight to my core, and I have to bite my tongue to suppress the sound that threatens to escape.
"Seventeen shell companies mapped across his network." Numbers become armor, each fact another desperate attempt at control. "Each one structured to—"
"You missed the delivery truck." His voice cuts through my analysis, rough and knowing. "Southwest entrance. You've been staring at the same window for ninety seconds."
Shit. He's right. I've been watching Viktor's shadow move across glass instead of tracking actual intelligence.
"Temporary visual obstruction." The lie tastes bitter.
"That what we're calling it?" His laugh is dark, amused. "Because from here it looks like you're calculating how many hours since I was inside you."
My thighs clench involuntarily, slickness coating silk that's already damp from proximity alone.
"Sixty-seven," I say before I can stop myself. "Sixty-seven hours, fourteen minutes."
The admission hangs between us like a loaded weapon. Professional distance shattered by four words.
"Fuck, Mira." His breathing changes, and when I glance over, his fingers are drumming that pattern against his thigh—4-4-2, 4-4-2. The rhythm that means he's fighting for control. "You can't say shit like that when we're on comms."
"Encrypted channel." But my voice has gone breathy, unprofessional. "Cole and Vanessa are monitoring different frequencies."
"That's not the point." He shifts closer, his body heat radiating against my skin. "The point is you've been counting."
Of course I've been counting. My body's been keeping score since the moment I walked away. Every hour another tally mark carved into my self-control.
"Target's moving." I force focus back to the building, tracking Viktor's Mercedes as it exits the parking structure. "Heading east toward the financial district."
We pack surveillance equipment in practiced silence, but I'm hyperaware of every movement he makes. The way his shirt pulls across his shoulders. How his hands, those hands that mapped every inch of me, handle delicate electronics with surprising gentleness.
"Remy mentioned you haven't been sleeping," he says suddenly, not looking at me. "Says he hears you pacing at night."
Because I lie awake twenty feet from your room, fighting the urge to crawl into your bed and beg you to make me forget everything but your name.
"Operational planning requires additional hours."
"Right." He closes the equipment case with unnecessary force. "Operational planning. Not the fact that you came apart under a pier and now you're trying to pretend it didn't change everything."
Heat slams through me, anger mixing with arousal until I can't separate them.
"What happened was stress relief between—"
"If you say 'consenting adults' I'm going to bend you over this equipment case and remind you exactly how much you consented." The threat in his voice makes me wet enough that I have to shift position. "How you begged. How you said you're mine."
"I was compromised." My hands shake as I shoulder the camera bag. "Fear response combined with adrenaline—"
"Bullshit." He moves closer, backing me against the brick wall of our observation position.
Not touching, but close enough that his body heat envelops me.
"You meant every word. Just like you mean it when you count the hours.
When you wear scarves to hide marks that are already fading because you can't stand the thought of them disappearing. "
My hand moves involuntarily to my throat where his fingerprints have gone from purple to yellow-green. Still visible to anyone who looks close enough. Asher noticed yesterday, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"We should reposition for the secondary surveillance point." My voice emerges steadier than expected. "Viktor's pattern suggests—"
"Look at me."
"I am monitoring the target's—"
"Mira." Just my name, but the command in it makes my body respond before my brain can intervene. I meet his eyes and immediately regret it.
He sees everything. The dark circles from three sleepless nights. The way my pupils dilate just from looking at him. How my chest rises and falls too quickly for someone at rest.
"There she is," he murmurs, satisfaction evident. "The woman who counted every hour. Who keeps a stuffed tiger on her nightstand even though it's evidence of losing control."
My breath catches. "How did you—"
"Saw it when I passed your open door this morning. Right there in plain sight, like you want someone to ask about it."
The observation hits too close to truth. I have been leaving it visible, some self-destructive part wanting to be caught, wanting him to see I kept it.
"It's tactical evidence of operational—"
He laughs, cutting off my desperate deflection. "You're unbelievable. Three days of drowning yourself in surveillance work, building walls with spreadsheets and shell company analysis, and that tiger sits on your nightstand like a confession you can't quite make."
We move through downtown crowds, maintaining professional distance that feels like agony. Close enough for operational cover, far enough that I can't sense his warmth anymore. The loss makes my skin ache.
"Alexei's selection patterns follow predictable psychological profiles." I force focus back to intelligence that matters. "Wealthy families, international connections, children educated abroad. I understand his methodology because I was trained in parallel techniques."
"How many?" His voice has gone quiet, dangerous.
"Fourteen confirmed eliminations." The number rolls off my tongue like discussing weather patterns. "All men who believed they were seducing a naive art dealer."
We pause at a crosswalk, waiting for the light. Around us, normal people living normal lives, unaware they're standing next to a killer who got off on watching her targets die.
"Tell me about them." Not a request. A command that makes my spine straighten automatically.
"You want operational details?"
"I want the truth." His fingers drum against his thigh again—4-4-2, 4-4-2. "The real truth. Not the sanitized version you feed the team."
The financial district crowds thin as we slip into an alley between office buildings. Perfect sight lines to monitor the Wells Fargo entrance, complete privacy for confessions that could destroy us both.
"Marcus Delacroix was first." The words emerge without conscious decision. "French shipping magnate, sixty-two, grandfather of seven. Spent two months becoming his perfect fantasy. Young, grief-stricken, desperate for protection."
Jax leans against the brick wall, those blue-green eyes never leaving my face. His complete attention makes my skin burn.
"The night I killed him, I made him watch me delete photos of his grandchildren from his phone. One by one. His tears mixed with the wine he'd poured to celebrate what he thought would be our first night together."
My voice stays clinically detached, but between my legs, I'm throbbing with remembered power.
"I came while he died. Slipped my hand under my dress and touched myself while he choked on his own blood. It was the first time I'd orgasmed from killing, and I knew I was completely lost."
His breathing has gone silent. Not horror. Something darker, hungrier.
"Then came Antonio Rossini, Stefan Mueller, David Chen. Each one selected for maximum psychological impact. The bigger their ego, the more beautiful their destruction." Heat spreads through my chest at the memories. "But Antoine Beaumont was different."
"Different how?"
"Because I was thinking of you when I killed him."
The confession hangs between us like a blade. Jax goes completely still.
"Three weeks ago. That pharmaceutical executive who died in his penthouse. The news said suicide but the details never quite fit." His voice is barely above a whisper. "That was you."
"I was supposed to seduce him. Get close, gather intelligence, make him trust me completely." My hands tremble with the memory. "But every time he touched me, I thought about your hands. Every time he kissed me, I tasted you instead."
"Christ."
"I killed him ahead of schedule because I couldn't stand another night of him when I wanted you. And when I came, when I touched myself while he died, I was imagining you inside me. Imagining how you'd feel, how you'd sound, how you'd make me lose control completely."
"That was three weeks ago." His voice has gone rough, calculating. "Before the warehouse. Before you knew—"
"I knew the moment I walked into that garage." The admission tears from my throat. "Knew you'd destroy everything I'd built to protect myself. And I was right, weren't I? Three nights ago I let you fuck me where anyone could see. Let you own me completely."
He pushes off the wall, moving closer with predatory intent. "You said you're mine."
"I was compromised."
"You were honest." He cages me against the brick, hands braced on either side of my head. "For once in your life, you were completely honest."