Page 26 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

He's looking back.

He's not watching the door. He's not tracking the boots in the hallway. His gray eyes are locked on my reflection, tracking every flutter of my pulse, every ragged breath I draw.

We're trapped in a glass cage, surrounded by endless reflections of our tangled bodies. The red neon bleeding in from the bedroom casts shadows over the scars on his back. Every ridge of scar tissue is a story of violence and survival.

He's consumed by the sight of us. The operator who relies on distance has trapped himself in a mirrored box.

The war behind his eyes is visible in the reflection—discipline shattering against attraction.

His breathing turns ragged. A muscle ticks along the hard angle of his cheek.

He doesn't look away.

The doorknob rattles again, harder. A fist pounds against the wood.

"Locked." A frustrated grunt in Thai.

"Kick it."

My heart stops.

He shifts his weight, angling his body to shield me from the doorway, his right hand tightening around the 9mm. He's going to execute everyone in that hallway to keep me alive.

Before the first blow lands, the wail of police sirens bleeds through the rain, rising fast. Tires screech onto the main avenue outside, the sound carrying through the thin walls.

"Police." A second voice, sharper, cuts through the noise. "They're locking down the block. We're out of time. Abandon the sweep. Move."

The footsteps recede in a rush, fading down the hall toward the stairwell as the muscle scrambles to evade the incoming police.

Silence returns to the small bathroom, thick, dominated by the ragged sound of our breathing.

He doesn't move. He keeps me pressed against the glass, his eyes still locked on my reflection. The danger has passed, but the tension in the stall has transformed—terror into pure desire.

He lowers his head, his lips brushing the sensitive skin just below my ear.

Every nerve ending below my ear wakes up.

"They're gone." My voice is a ragged whisper, stripped of the confidence I projected in the main room.

"This location is compromised." He pulls back, breaking the contact, turning his gaze from the mirror. The absence of his heat leaves me cold. "They missed us on the first pass. They'll realize the error. They'll come back heavier."

He pushes the shower door open and steps out into the bathroom. The operator reasserts control.

"We're leaving." He retrieves his plate carrier from the main room, hauls it over his head, and secures the straps against bare skin. His ruined shirt stays in the bathroom sink, too soaked with blood to salvage.

"Where?" I follow him out, grabbing my canvas gym bag from the floor.

"Off the grid." He moves to the window and throws the velvet curtains open. He unlatches the rusted lock and shoves the pane up. Rain floods in, soaking the red velvet and the black satin sheets.

He climbs through the window onto the rain-slicked iron grate of the fire escape.

He turns back and extends his hand toward me.

The neon of the Bangkok underbelly casts a violent glow over his features. He's a killer. A man detached from the civilized world.

I reach out and lock my fingers around his.

I don't even know his name.