Page 9 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
Security assessment, I remind myself. Again.
The BMW sits silently beneath me, like a sleek predator waiting to strike. The engine's cool now, but I can feel its potential energy coiled beneath the tank where my helmet rests. Perfect machine. Perfect weapon.
My leather-gloved finger swipes through surveillance photos on my tactical phone. Her patterns are almost disappointingly predictable.
5:45 AM: Coffee on her balcony, steam rising like her thoughts.
7:10 AM: Exit through side entrance, always scanning surroundings.
7:30 AM: Arrival at The Bay Herald. The womanmoves like clockwork.
My cock twitches at the memory of her pinned beneath me. The way she fought back, fierce and wild.
Fuck.
I flex my fingers, remembering the feel of her wrists in my grasp. How easy it would be to control her completely. My jaw clenches hard enough to ache.
Evenings are equally structured. Training with Carlos Martinez at 6:15 PM. The ex-Marine father of her dead friend. She's not just learning self-defense. She's preparing for war.
Asher's words echo.She's a liability. A security risk.
The rationalization sounds hollow even to me. I unconsciously twist the throttle, making the motorcycle shudder between my thighs. The connection is visceral. The bike responds to the slightest pressure, just as I imagine she would under my hands.
This is about the mission. Nothing more.
But when I close my eyes, I see her defiance. Feel her body struggling beneath mine. Taste her fear mixed with that unexpected spark of arousal.
The door to her place opens and I snap alert. My body goes rigid, every sense suddenly cranked to maximum.
What the fuck?
She emerges wearing a tight black dress that hugs every curve, hair falling loose instead of in her usual practical ponytail. Four-inch heels instead of running shoes. She's breaking pattern.
Blood rushes south so fast I grip the handlebar until my knuckles ache inside the leather gloves. My breathingaccelerates to match the rapid fire of my pulse. This isn't on the schedule. This changes everything.
I fire up my motorcycle, the engine's rumble coursing through my body like my own raw, animal instinct.
Where the hell are you going, Alina?
I merge into traffic fifty yards behind her car, maintaining perfect following distance. The BMW responds to my commands like an extension of my body—just enough throttle to close distance when needed, never enough to draw attention.
What the fuck is she playing at?
The Nob Hill direction throws me. Tuesday pattern should have her at Martinez's gym right now, learning how to break a man's hold. I know this because I've memorized every detail of her life since our warehouse encounter.
My visor gives me perfect clarity as I weave between cars. Her profile is visible through the rear window—chin tilted up, lipstick darker than she normally wears.
