Page 154 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
Thanks for readingShadowed Vows.Hope you enjoyed Kade and Alina's story! They missed Sunday dinner with Alina's family, but I have a special bonus chapter for you! (and yes, there's some more spice…)
Shadow Vows Bonus Scene
What happens when a deadlymercenary meets the family? Ghost thought infiltrating enemy compounds was hard—until he faced Nonna's interrogation and Alina's childhood bedroom.
Be sure to grab it here! https://author.emeryrowan.com/shadowed_vows_bonus
Want to read "Frost" Asher's story? Be sure to check it out in Shadowed Hearts: Frost– it will be available May 2025!
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xo Emery Rowan
Keep reading for a sneak peek!
Asher
"Tell me you're not sending me in there, Blade"
"I need eyes on this location. You're the nearest asset." Cole's voice is calm in my earpiece, the way it always is during an operation.
"At a coffee shop? This is a waste of resources." I swing my leg over my Ducati, the white bodywork gleaming inthe morning sun. My muscles protest—third surveillance op in as many days.
"Intelligence suggests our target frequents the location. We need confirmation."
I exhale sharply, scanning the street before removing my helmet. "Fine. But I'm logging this as misuse of tactical personnel."
Cole chuckles. "Noted."
The bell above the door announces my arrival at Temple Coffee Roasters. The scent hits first—rich espresso beans and something sweet—followed by the tactical assessment that's second nature after fifteen years of operations. Three exits: front door, kitchen access, fire escape through the bathroom window. Sixteen civilians present. Two baristas behind counter.
The line to order moves slowly, giving me time to catalog faces. Middle-aged businessman tapping impatiently at his watch. College student with textbooks spread over a four-person table. Elderly couple sharing a pastry.
Nothing unusual. Nothing threatening.
The calculated distance between myself and everyone else feels right. Comfortable. The way it's always been.
My attention shifts to the baristas. Male, early twenties, tattoos visible beneath rolled sleeves. Female, petite with dark hair gathered in a messy bun, pink streaks catching the light as she moves. She's working three machines at once, fingers flying over equipment with surprising precision. Her movements aren't just fast—they're efficient.
The line shuffles forward. I'm next. The female barista looks up, and unexpected brightness hits me—huge dark eyes set in a heart-shaped face that makes her look too young to be working here. But there's something in hergaze—a flicker of intelligence, of assessment—that doesn't match her cheerful demeanor.
"What can I get started for you?" Her voice is warm, animated. Something about her seems oddly familiar, though I'm certain we've never met.
I ignore the feeling. "Black coffee. Large."
"Just black? No room for cream?" She cocks her head, studying me like I'm a puzzle with missing pieces.
"Just black."
Her lips curve into a smile that seems to reach beyond the standard customer service mask. "Coming right up."
For a fraction of a second, I wonder what she sees when she looks at me. What anyone sees. Then I dismiss the thought. It doesn't matter. I'm not here to be seen.
I'm here to watch.
The barista turns away, dark hair swinging across her shoulders. She grabs a matte black cup, larger than the others lined up beneath the espresso machine. Her movements are economical but graceful. Professional yet distinct.
Not relevant to the mission. I redirect my focus to the door as another customer enters.
