Page 10 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
This is tactical surveillance. Nothing more.
My breathing synchronizes with the engine's rhythm, steady and controlled even as irritation builds. Unpredictability creates risk. Risk demands elimination.
A fantasy flashes—pulling alongside her at the next red light. Watching recognition dawn in those fierce green eyes. Seeing her realize she's been watched all along.
The light turns green before my thoughts can wander further.
She turns toward Gary Danko. Exclusive restaurant. High-end clientele. Limited exits. Valet parking that will record her arrival.
Who are you meeting?
I hang back as she pulls to the curb, calculating sight lines and cover positions. The BMW finds shadow between streetlights as I kill the engine, my body still humming with its vibration.
Alina steps from her car, passing her keys to the valet. She pauses, checking her reflection in the window. One hand smooths the black fabric over her hip. The other fluffs her hair—wild waves catching gold in the restaurant's exterior lighting.
The transformation is striking. From serious journalist to not just into someone comfortable at a five-star restaurant, but a woman who belongs there. She commands attention with every step toward the entrance, shoulders back, chin lifted. The dress hugs curves usually hidden under practical clothes.
I swing off my bike in one fluid motion, my body remembering what to do without thought. The helmet clicks into place on the motorcycle with the ease of someone who's done it thousands of times.
My feet hit the ground silently as I trail behind, keeping enough space between us while my eyes never wander from the target.
She walks with confident grace despite the heels. Shoulders back, chin high. Different posture than when she infiltrated our warehouse. Different woman entirely.
But the same threat.
At least that's what I keep telling myself.
I'm not following Alina Bennett because I can't get the feel of her body beneath mine out of my fucking head.
I'm not.
I slip from the shadow like a ghost—my namesake for a reason. The motorcycle's warmth clings to my thighs as Imove silently across the street. My tactical boots make no sound despite my size.
Two hundred seventy pounds of muscle shouldn't move this quietly, but silence is survival.
My leather jacket conceals both my weapon and the tension coiling through my body. The upscale neighborhood feels foreign. Soft laughter from restaurant patrons, the clink of expensive glasses, valet attendants in pressed uniforms—all a world away from warehouse concrete and gun oil.
I position myself behind a cluster of decorative trees, partially concealed by evening shadows but with perfect sightlines to the restaurant entrance. The contrast is jarring—me in combat boots and tactical gear, them in designer suits and cocktail dresses.
No one notices me. They never do until I want them to.
Alina stands beneath the restaurant's golden lighting, checking her phone every thirty seconds. She shifts her weight between heels, tucking a curl behind her ear.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth might crack.
Fucking beautiful. Dangerous.
The leather of my riding gloves creaks as my fists clench and unclench. I scan every approaching male—threat assessment automatic and immediate.
Gray suit. No weapon print. Soft hands. Not him.
Business type with date already. Not a threat.
Young valet. Too nervous around her. Not him.
I remain perfectly still, as years of practice have taught me how to disappear in plain sight. How to become nothing but watching eyes.
She pushes her hair behind her ear one more time, that anxious little habit stirring something raw and urgent within me. My cock hardens painfully against my tactical pants.
