Page 6 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
"If I wanted you dead, we wouldn't be having this conversation." I ease back slightly, maintaining control without risking bruising her windpipe. "But whoever owns these servers won't be as forgiving. Do you have any idea what kind of hornet's nest you just kicked?"
Her lips curve into something almost resembling a smile. "That's exactly what I came to find out."
The quiet confidence in her voice sends an unexpected current through my system.Dangerous.Not the mission threat—her. This unknown woman with more courage than sense, pinned beneath me, yet I have the strange feeling that I'm the one being evaluated.
I shift position, using minimal force to flip our positions entirely. Now she's on top, straddling me, but my hands still control her wrists, and my core strength keeps her completely immobilized despite the apparent advantage.
"See the difference?" Our faces are inches apart now, her hair falling around us like a curtain. "Position doesn't matter when the strength gap is this wide."
Something flickers in her eyes—not fear but recognition. And beneath that, something that mirrors my own unwanted response.
"Last chance." My voice is rougher than intended. "Walk away. Forget what you saw here."
Her eyes narrow. "Or what?"
I ease my grip incrementally on her wrists—not enough for her to break free, but enough to give her hope.
"Or I call this in."
She tests my loosened grip, and I let her feel progress. She doesn't know I've already made my decision. Againstprotocol. Against better judgment. I'm going to let this fearless, foolish woman walk out of here.
This is a mistake.
But something about her won't let me make the call.
I ease my grip on her wrists further, giving her just enough slack to believe she might break free. The subtle relaxation in my hands is calculated—minimal, barely perceptible to anyone without training, but enough for her to feel opportunity.
Let's see what you do with this opening, journalist.
Her reaction is immediate. She twists her right wrist with surprising strength while simultaneously driving her knee upward. The movement is predictable but executed with impressive speed.
I could counter it effortlessly. Instead, I allow her knee to graze my ribs—controlling the impact so it produces sound without damage—while letting my grip slip from her left wrist entirely. The flash of triumph in her eyes is almost worth the breach in protocol.
"Fuck!" I grunt, feigning pain as I roll slightly to accommodate her momentum.
She seizes the advantage, wrenching her other hand free and scrambling backward. I make a show of recovering, letting her believe she's genuinely stunned me. The concrete floor is cold against my palm as I push myself to a seated position, watching her retreat with calculated patience.
Her breathing comes in controlled bursts as she backs away, eyes never leaving mine. Smart. She grabs her messenger bag and camera from the floor, movements efficient despite her obvious adrenaline surge. The faint tremor in her hands is the only sign she's rattled.
I remain still, a predator allowing my prey the illusion of escape. My muscles coil with instinctive readiness, but I keep myself in check. The urge to pursue challenges my discipline, but I suppress it, savoring the extended game.
As she edges toward the window, bag clutched to her chest like a shield, I appreciate the determined set of her jaw. The intelligence in those calculating eyes. The fluid economy of movement as she navigates backward, refusing to turn her back on a threat.
My earpiece comes to life.
"Status report. Do we have a breach?" Cole's voice is terse with concern.
I press my finger to my ear without breaking eye contact with my escaping journalist. "Negative. Situation contained."
She freezes at the sound of my voice, those green eyes widening slightly. I allow myself the barest hint of a smile, enjoying the flicker of uncertainty that crosses her face.
"Sensors show movement toward the south exit. Do you need backup?"
"Negative. False alarm. Resuming patrol."
Her back hits the wall beside the window she entered through. She's poised for flight, one leg already hooking over the sill, but her eyes remain locked with mine. Challenging. Defiant despite her retreat.
"This isn't over," she whispers, voice barely audible across the space between us.
