Novels by miww

The marble pillar groaned as another high-velocity round chewed into its polished surface. Zayyan didn't flinch, his body pressed firmly against Keisha’s, shielding her from the spray of stone dust."You realize how much it costs to dry-clean blood out of Italian silk?" Zayyan whispered, his eyes scanning the tech booth fifty feet above the ballroom floor."Zayyan! This is not the time to worry about the deposit on your tuxedo!" Keisha’s voice was a jagged edge of panic, her fingers digging into his forearms. "There is a sniper! A literal sniper in the tech booth!""I know. He’s ruining the vibe. And honestly? His aim is a two-star experience at best. He’s missed me three times now. It’s embarrassing for the profession.""You have a gun, Zayyan! Do something!""I’m waiting for the reload. High-capacity mags take about four seconds to swap if you’re clumsy. And judging by how he handled that last volley, our friend up there is very clumsy."Click. Clack.The mechanical sound echoed thr

"I’ve decided. This isn't a suit, Keisha. It’s a sophisticated torture device designed by people who hate breathing."Zayyan stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling mirror in the Villareal penthouse, tugging violently at the silk bowtie that felt like a velvet garrote. The black tuxedo was hand-tailored, Italian, and cost more than his last three motorbikes combined, but to Zayyan, it was just a very expensive straightjacket."Stop fidgeting, Zayyan. You’re going to fray the silk," Keisha’s voice drifted from the dressing room, followed by the rhythmic click-clack of her heels."Fray the silk? I’m more worried about it fraying my soul! How do rich people do this every night? Is there a secret breathing technique? Do I need to join a cult?""It’s called 'posture,' Zayyan. Something you’d know about if you didn't spend your life hunched over a pair of handlebars."Keisha stepped into the living room, and Zayyan’s complaint died in his throat. She was wearing a floor-length gown the color

The camera flashes were like physical blows, white-hot and relentless, turning the grimy alleyway into a surreal, flickering nightmare. Zayyan felt Keisha’s fingers dig into the meat of his arm, her breathing coming in sharp, jagged hitches."Step back! I said back off!" Zayyan’s voice cracked like a whip, his body shielding Keisha from a particularly aggressive photographer who was trying to shove a lens under her cap."Is he the one, Keisha?" the reporter shrieked, her voice cutting through the din. "Did you trade your board of directors for a street racer?""Don't say a word," Zayyan whispered into Keisha’s ear. He didn't wait for her to respond. He swung his leg over the Ducati, hauled her onto the back, and kicked the engine into a deafening roar. "Hold on. We’re splitting the pack."He didn't give the paparazzi time to clear out. He popped the clutch, the front wheel skimming the pavement as the bike surged forward. Reporters scrambled, cameras clattered, and within ten seconds,

Zayyan stood on the edge of the balcony, the burner phone a cold, dead weight in his hand before he dropped it into the trash. The sun was a bruised purple-orange, bleeding over the Jakarta skyline, but all he could see was the "cage" Malik had mentioned.He took a deep breath, smoothing his expression into the trademark smirk that had served as his armor for years. He couldn't let her see the ghost. Not yet.He stepped back through the sliding glass doors. The penthouse was silent, save for the soft, rhythmic breathing of the woman in the bed."You're awake," Zayyan said softly, leaning against the doorframe as Keisha stirred.Keisha pushed her hair back, looking remarkably composed for someone who had just spent the night with a 'delivery boy.' She blinked at him, her eyes tracking the scars on his chest before meeting his gaze. "You’re up early. Checking the perimeter, Head of Special Ops?""Habit," Zayyan lied easily, tossing a clean t-shirt over his head. "And I figured if I didn

The elevator ride up to the Villareal penthouse was the quietest thirty seconds of Zayyan’s life. The only sound was the faint hum of the high-speed motor and the frantic, rhythmic ticking of his own heart.The doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing a space that looked more like a gallery than a home. Floor-to-ceiling glass overlooked the city, the lights of Jakarta sprawling out like a carpet of fallen stars."Sit," Keisha commanded, gesturing toward a white leather sofa that looked like it had never been sat upon by anyone wearing denim."You know, for someone who just survived a pineapple massacre, you’re still awfully bossy," Zayyan said, though he gingerly lowered himself onto the edge of the cushion. He winced, a sharp hiss escaping his teeth as his jacket rubbed against his shoulder.Keisha stopped in the middle of the room, her trench coat already discarded on a chair. She turned, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto the dark stain blooming through the shoulder of his

Zayyan watched Keisha march toward the bike, her silhouette framed by the amber glow of the kitchen’s service lights. He shook his head, a lingering chill still dancing on his skin, but his heart was doing a completely different kind of shivering."You’re really serious about that sidecar, aren't you?" Keisha asked, pausing by the Ducati. She looked back at him over her shoulder, her eyes softer than they had any right to be after nearly becoming a human popsicle."Hey, it’s about safety, Boss," Zayyan replied, tossing her the matte-black helmet. "And aesthetics. Imagine a leather-lined sidecar with a built-in espresso machine. We’d be the most caffeinated Special Ops team in history."Keisha caught the helmet with one hand, a small, genuine smirk tugging at her lips. "I think the espresso might fly out at the speeds you drive. Now, quit stalling. My internal temperature is finally back to human levels, and I’d like to keep it that way.""Right. Extraction phase part two: The Getaway.