23. Mira #2
"You want honesty?" The words come out desperate, angry.
"Fine. I haven't slept in three days because every time I close my eyes, I'm back under that pier.
I count the hours because my body's keeping score of how long I've been empty.
That tiger sits on my nightstand because it's the only thing that makes the ache bearable. "
"Mira—"
"Vanessa, cross-reference those financial transfers with the victim profiles Mira identified." Jax's voice suddenly fills our earpieces, professional mask slamming back into place. "Cole, her psychological expertise just revealed Alexei's targeting methodology."
Right. The mission. The reason we're here instead of tearing each other apart in this alley.
Movement across the street catches my attention. Viktor Kazakov exiting with two associates, body language suggesting urgency.
"Target's mobile," I manage, raising the camera with unsteady hands. "Heading north toward the port district."
We follow at a careful distance, maintaining surveillance while my body screams for contact. Every brush of shoulders in the crowd sends electricity through me. Every accidental touch makes my core clench with need.
"Tomorrow's briefing will require explaining these psychological insights." My voice sounds almost normal. "I'll provide tactical intelligence. Nothing more."
"You just told me you came thinking about me while killing someone." His voice stays conversational, but I hear the edge underneath. "That's a hell of a lot more than tactical intelligence."
The sun sets behind glass towers, painting everything gold and shadow. Evening means returning to the safehouse. To thin walls and knowing looks from the team. To that tiger on my nightstand, watching me pretend I haven't already surrendered completely.
"You've been running defense since the pier."
His observation stops me mid-step.
"Using investigation work to rebuild walls I tore down." He studies me with uncomfortable accuracy. "Except it's not working, is it? You're falling apart worse than before."
"Investigation urgency created operational necessity—"
"Asher says you've been in the gym at 4am every morning.
Cole mentioned you've reorganized the entire intelligence database twice.
Asked if we need 'protocols,' like we're a mission parameter to manage.
Remy bought noise-canceling headphones after walking past your door at 3am when we were both pretending to get water. "
Heat crawls up my neck. They all see it. All know exactly how badly I'm failing at professional distance.
"Vanessa asked if she should hack the hotel reservations, get us rooms on different floors for the next safehouse," he continues.
"Even Kade, before he left, mentioned something about 'maintaining operational efficiency despite personal dynamics.
' Translation: stop eye-fucking each other during briefings. "
"Tomorrow's briefing—"
"Tomorrow's briefing won't change anything.
" He moves closer, voice dropping low enough that only I can hear.
"You'll sit across from me in that conference room, wearing another scarf to hide marks that are almost gone, that tiger hidden in your room like a dirty secret, and we'll both pretend this is sustainable. "
"It has to be."
"Why?" The simple question destroys every defense I've built.
"Because the alternative is admitting I need you." The words escape before I can stop them. "That three nights ago fundamentally broke something in me that can't be fixed. That I'm yours in ways that terrify me."
His pupils dilate, and I can see him fighting the urge to grab me right here on the street.
"Mira—"
"Mission parameters don't include personal complications." I force myself to step back, to rebuild distance that feels like agony. "Roman's rescue requires focus."
"Roman's rescue requires us functional." His jaw tightens. "And you haven't been functional for three days."
He's right. I've been spiraling, drowning in work to avoid drowning in him. But it's not working. Nothing's working.
"I should go." I turn toward the safehouse. "Process today's intelligence. Update the target matrices."
"Run away, you mean." His voice follows me. "Just like the pier."
I stop but don't turn around. "I'm protecting us both."
"From what?"
From the truth that I'm already yours. Have been since that first night. Will be until this destroys us both.
"From me," I say simply, and walk away before he can respond.
The safehouse is quiet when I return. Cole nods from his computer station. Asher glances up from cleaning his weapon, expression knowing. Remy's door is closed but I hear music, he's giving me space to pass without interaction.
They all know. Can probably smell him on me even though we haven't touched in three days.
My room feels too small, too warm. The tiger stares at me from the nightstand, synthetic fur catching lamplight. Evidence of surrender I can't quite hide, can't quite display.
I pick it up, run my fingers through rough orange stripes. It still smells faintly of salt air and pier wood. Of the night I discovered I get off on vulnerability. On being owned.
A knock at my door makes me jump.
"It's open."
Jax enters, closes the door behind him with quiet finality.
"You can't be here." But I don't move from the bed, don't put down the tiger.
"Your confession earlier. About Antoine." He stays by the door, maintaining distance that feels like consideration rather than rejection. "You were thinking of me before we even started this."
"Yes."
"Why tell me?"
The question hangs between us, demanding honesty I'm not sure I can give.
"Because I needed you to know the timeline." My fingers tighten on synthetic fur, toes pointing into relevé involuntarily, the way they always do when I'm cornered. "That this isn't just proximity or mission stress. I was compromised before you ever touched me."
"And now?"
"Now I'm destroyed." The admission comes out steady, factual. "Completely, irreversibly destroyed."
He moves closer, slow enough that I could stop him. I don't.
"The team knows," he says quietly. "Cole asked if we need intervention. Asher offered to reassign surveillance pairs. Remy just bought noise-canceling headphones."
"Because we're that obvious?"
"Because you haven't been subtle about falling apart.
" He sits on the bed, careful not to touch me.
"And because I've been just as bad. Did you know I've walked past your door seventeen times in the last three nights?
That I can't focus on intelligence briefings because I'm calculating how many hours since I tasted you? "
The parallel to my own counting makes my chest tight.
"This isn't sustainable," I whisper.
"No," he agrees. "It's not."
"So what do we do?"
He reaches out, fingers ghosting over the tiger in my hands. Not quite touching me, but close enough that I sense the heat.
"We stop pretending it's just physical." His eyes meet mine, vulnerability cracking through his usual confidence. "Stop running from what this actually is."
"Which is?"
"Inevitable."
The word settles between us like prophecy. Like doom.
"Tomorrow's briefing—" I start.
"Will happen whether we're fighting this or not." He stands, moves toward the door. "But Mira? That tiger on your nightstand isn't evidence of weakness. It's proof that you're brave enough to want something beyond control."
He leaves before I can respond, closing the door with the same quiet finality.
I lie back on the bed, tiger clutched against my chest, and stare at the ceiling. Three doors down, he's probably doing the same thing. Both of us pretending these walls between us mean anything.
They don't.
They never did.
Tomorrow I'll sit in that briefing, scarf around my throat, and pretend I'm rebuilding professional distance. He'll drum his fingers in that pattern that means he's fighting for control. The team will watch us circle each other like wounded animals.
But tonight, I hold synthetic fur and count the hours.
Sixty-eight and climbing.