33. Mira
thirty-three
Mira
"You could have died!"
Asher's calm response follows us down. "Takes more than that, little bunny."
Two days since Baltimore. Two days since we dragged Alexei Petrov back here in chains. Two days of Damian working him over in ways that would make normal people vomit.
But not us. We're not normal people.
Jax's hand finds the small of my back, warm and steady through tactical fabric.
The bruises from Thursday's warehouse fight still ache across my ribs, but his touch grounds me in ways I'm still learning to accept.
Four days of recovery. Four days of having people who actually give a shit whether I live or die.
Seven years alone, and now Vanessa checks my wounds like they matter. Like I matter.
"Two days we've had him. Two days of Damian's special attention."
My voice echoes off concrete walls as the elevator shudders to a stop. The B5 doors slide open revealing harsh fluorescent lighting and the antiseptic smell of controlled violence.
This is our domain. Our rules. No federal oversight, no cameras that matter, no one watching except us.
I check my Glock automatically, feeling the familiar weight against my hip.
The safety clicks off with that soft metallic whisper that makes Jax's breathing change behind me.
His pupils dilate as I holster the weapon, and I catch the subtle shift in his posture.
Even now, heading toward the man who destroyed my childhood, Jax can't hide his physical response to my lethal efficiency.
He's hard just from watching me check my weapon. Fuck, that shouldn't make me wet, but it does.
"Whatever you choose, I'm here."
The words carry thirteen years of understanding. He won't try to talk me out of revenge. Won't push me toward mercy. He'll just exist in whatever space I need him to fill.
"I know. That's why I can choose."
Because for the first time, someone wants me exactly as I am. Killer, survivor, broken thing trying to become human again.
We walk down the narrow hallway, our boots echoing against polished concrete. Damian emerges from the observation room, rolling his shoulders like he's been working out tension for hours.
"He's ready for you."
Blood stains his knuckles, but his expression remains neutral. Two days of systematic pressure. Breaking down Alexei's resistance piece by piece, not for enjoyment but for results.
Damian's good at what he does. No judgment, just efficiency.
"Holden arranged transport tomorrow," Jax says, matching my pace as we approach the interrogation room door.
His fingers already starting that nervous drumming against his thigh.
"Found some ambitious junior analyst—Johnson, ex-military, someone he trusts.
Kid gets to claim he tracked Petrov through financial records, gets his promotion. "
"And Johnson keeps his mouth shut?"
"Holden says the kid owes him from Kabul. Plus ambitious people know when to stay quiet about how they really caught their big fish."
Everything we do exists in shadows, even our victories.
Through the one-way glass, I see him. Alexei Petrov sits handcuffed to a metal chair, his expensive suit torn and bloodied. The distinguished silver-haired monster from my nightmares reduced to meat and bruises.
Thirteen years of nightmares sitting right there. Helpless.
Jax's hand slides down my arm, fingers intertwining with mine. The contact sends heat through my chest, mixing with the cold calculation I've carried for seven years.
"Time to face him."
The door handle turns under my palm, heavy and final as a gunshot.
The interrogation room feels smaller than it looked through the glass. Concrete walls press close, creating a box where only truth can survive.
Alexei Petrov looks up as I enter, his face a map of Damian's handiwork. Purple bruises bloom across his cheekbones, and his nose sits at an angle that wasn't there before my fist broke it Thursday. Blood has dried in dark streaks down his chin.
"Little Miroslava. Still my swan after all these years."
That voice. The same one that read me bedtime stories. The same one that ordered my parents' deaths.
His accent wraps around the words, honey over broken glass.
I pull out the metal chair across from him, its legs scraping against concrete. "I was never yours. Just a child you groomed."
Behind me, Jax positions himself against the wall where I can feel his presence. His body radiates controlled violence, ready to unleash hell if Petrov so much as breathes wrong. That golden retriever brightness everyone loves turned lethal for me.
The shift makes my pulse spike. Makes me want things I shouldn't want in this room.
"Groomed?" Petrov's laugh bubbles with blood. "Such an ugly word for beautiful work. Every lesson perfectly designed."
My hand finds my Glock, drawing it slowly. The weight feels perfect in my palm as I place it on the table between us. Petrov's eyes follow the movement, but he doesn't flinch.
The familiar heat spreads between my legs as I lift the gun, pressing the barrel to his temple. That dark, wet arousal that comes from having complete power over someone who destroyed me. Behind me, Jax shifts—his breathing changes, and I know without looking that he's hard.
Violence makes us both wet and wanting. We're so fucked up. Perfect for each other.
"You made me into this."
"I made you perfect." His pale blue eyes gleam with pride despite the pain. "A weapon disguised as a woman. Art in motion. Death wrapped in silk."
My knuckles go white around the gun's grip. Behind me, Jax shifts forward half a step. His hand finds my hip, fingers pressing against the tactical vest with just enough pressure to ground me without restraining.
He knows exactly what I need without asking. How does he always know?
"Tell me about Mikhail," I say, voice steady despite the rage clawing up my throat.
Petrov's smile widens, pulling at split lips. "Mikhail Volkov. My greatest collaboration. He took my broken little bird and taught her to fly."
"He was your partner."
"He was my masterpiece. Just like you." Blood spatters the table as he speaks. "Every manipulation, every technique he used to break you down and rebuild you—all mine. Your escape at twenty? Orchestrated. Killing him? Expected. You followed my script perfectly."
No. No, that can't be—everything I thought was freedom was just another cage.
The room spins for a moment. Everything about my training, my escape, my revenge against Mikhail—all choreographed by this monster.
"Your mother begged so prettily at the end," Petrov continues, leaning forward despite his restraints. "She kept saying your name. Over and over. 'Mira, Mira, Mira.' Like a prayer that wouldn't be answered."
My hand moves toward the trigger. Jax's fingers tighten on my hip, not stopping me but steadying me. His warmth spreads through the tactical fabric, reminding me that I'm not alone in this room.
I have a choice. For the first time in my life, I get to choose.
The Glock feels perfect in my hand as I keep it pressed to his temple, safety off with that familiar metallic whisper. One trigger pull ends everything.
"Nine years I've hunted you. Since I learned the truth about what you did to my parents."
The weight of the decision presses against my chest, heavier than the weapon. For seven years, this moment lived in my dreams. The perfect shot. Perfect revenge. Perfect ending to the nightmare he created.
"Do it." Petrov's voice carries desperate hunger. "Prove you're exactly what I created. My perfect little killer."
My finger finds the trigger, applying the first pressure. Just a few more pounds and his brains paint the concrete wall behind him.
Justice served with hot lead. So easy. So final.
But that's what he wants. What he's always wanted. To prove I'm nothing more than his weapon.
Behind me, Jax moves closer. Not to stop me, but to support whatever choice I make. His breathing stays steady, controlled, like the loyal man who found me in that casino and refused to let me disappear.
"You're not his creation," Jax whispers, voice low enough that only I can hear. "You're mine. Ours. The team's. You choose who you become."
The team. My family. People who want me alive, not just useful.
His words anchor me to something bigger than revenge.
The gun wavers slightly as understanding floods through me. Killing Petrov gives him exactly what he wants—proof that his conditioning worked. That I'm still the broken sixteen-year-old he tried to forge into his perfect weapon.
Death is mercy. Quick, clean, over in seconds. He deserves none of that.
"International Criminal Court," I say, lowering the weapon slowly. "Decades in a cage, forgotten by history. No martyrdom. No legend. Just an aging criminal dying alone while his victims get justice."
Petrov's face twists with rage, the mask finally dropping. "Weak! Just like your pathetic moth—"
My fist connects with his already broken nose before he finishes. Bone cracks under my knuckles, cartilage shifting to a new angle. His head snaps back, chair tipping dangerously.
Blood spatters across my knuckles and my cunt clenches. The physical release of violence sends arousal flooding through me, soaking my underwear. Behind me, Jax makes a sound—half growl, half moan—fighting not to press against me, not to let Petrov see how violence affects us both.
God, I want him to bend me over this table right now. Show Petrov who really owns me.
"Don't." I lean forward until we're inches apart. "Ever. Speak of her again."
Jax's hands find my shoulders, pulling me back gently but firmly. His touch burns through the tactical fabric, his erection pressing against my back for just a moment before he steps away.
He knows exactly when to touch, when to pull back.
"Done here," I say, holstering the Glock with deliberate precision. "Get him processed for transfer."
The choice is made. Not his version of justice. Mine.