Page 11 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
I could take her right now.
The thought crashes through my defenses before I can stop it. Two seconds to cross the street. Three more to reach her. One to cover her mouth before she could scream.
My hand drifts unconsciously toward my concealed weapon when she glances at her watch, looking suddenly vulnerable.
This is what happens when prey strays from safe patterns.
Everything in my training says to remain undetected.Observe. Report.But everything in my body demands immediate action.To claim. To possess.
A man in an expensive charcoal suit approaches from the north, his confident stride and easy smile making Alina's face light up. My weight shifts forward automatically, muscles coiling for attack.
When he reaches to embrace her, my hand moves to my weapon reflexively, leather glove brushing against metal.
Mine.
The possessive thought thunders through me with such force I nearly step from the shadows.
I force myself to remain still, watching with predatory intensity as this stranger's hands touch what I've claimed as mine.
From my hidden position, I zero in on every movement, tracking each person's position with the calculatedprecision of a marksman. He's holding her too long. Three-second standard greeting, but he's at seven.
His palm lingering on her upper arm, thumb brushing bare skin. Her body language welcomes his touch—relaxed shoulders, maintained eye contact, lips curved in genuine smile.
Categorize. Analyze. Control.
"David!" Her voice carries down the street to me. First name basis. Familiar. Comfortable. Probably business.
My teeth grind together, jaw muscles bunching beneath skin.
He guides her toward the restaurant entrance, hand sliding to the small of her back. Possessive. Claiming. My vision narrows, zeroing in on that single point of contact between them.
Five pressure points to disable him. Three seconds maximum.
The suit can't hide his weaknesses. Slight hitch in his left knee—old injury, probably ACL tear. Carries tension in his right shoulder. Neck mobility limited on same side. Probably works at a desk. Soft hands, expensive watch. Pampered. Protected.
They disappear inside. Decision made in an instant—I follow.
The hostess's greeting dies on her lips when she meets my eyes.
"Bar." My voice comes out rougher than intended.
She points wordlessly. I move through the space, scanning exits, cataloging threats, positioning myself at the perfect angle.
There. Corner booth. Intimate lighting. Her back to the wall—smart girl, never exposing herself to the room.
I claim the barstool with the clearest sightline, but not obviously in hers. "Whiskey. Neat."
The bartender sets it before me without comment. I wrap my hand around the glass, the amber liquid untouched. My attention stays locked in.
They're talking, heads tilted toward each other. Her hands animate her words, those same hands that fought against my restraint two weeks ago. She's relaxed here. Open. Her laughter carries across the room, musical and free.
This isn't business. This is pleasure.
The realization hits like a round to the chest.
She's on a fucking date.
Alina leans forward, saying something that makes him laugh. Their fingers touch across the table. My knuckles whiten around the glass.
