Shadowed (Team Zero #4) by Rina Kent

Unwanted heat creeps down my belly and up my cheeks.

He’s been doing this a lot lately: watching from afar like he has a claim on me or something. To my doom, a wave of thrill contorts my stomach every time I catch him staring. I hate the man. He’s arrogant and slippery and… wrong.

It’s just a phase. I’m sure the tingles between my thighs will fade if I ignore it.

I rip my gaze and focus on my task. It’s useless to get caught in a staring contest with him because he never looks away first. Even now, I can feel his piercing attention on my back.

It’s so unexplainable, but I take extra care to sway my hips on my way to the bar.

I spend the rest of the busy night working my arse off and taking a few breaks with Natalie. Once the shift is almost over, I ask Nat a favour to take over for me and then sneak from the backdoor.

As I observed, Shadow always leaves fifteen minutes or so before the closing of the club and wanders outside Le Salon.

I heave a breath and step into the darkness of the night.

Tonight, I’ll follow the beast to his lair.





Chapter Seven





The pounding in my head won’t bloody stop.

It’s constant and buzzy and irritating as fuck. Those little elf bitches are carrying giant hammers and pounding at the walls of my fucking sanity. Otherwise, why would I imagine naked, disgusting elves in my head?

One thing for sure, imaginary or not, once I catch those little bitches, I'll rip them apart.

A stab of pain shoots from the back of my head.

Fucking elves are taking revenge.

I rub my temple as I walk out of Le Salon. The only solution for this constant, numbing pain is a little capsule named Omega drug.

When the pain got too much, I took more than the dose needed for withdrawal. Ghost has been on my arse since he started suspecting it.

He doesn’t fucking understand. I’m not him; all family man and responsibilities. He’d do anything for Team Zero because he considers them his family.

It’s fucking ridiculous if you ask me. We barely remember each other when on Omega and we’re all bloody murderers. What’s so familial about us?

Ghost and his wrapped up sense of reality is all on him. I don’t share the whole family and rainbows rubbish.

Once he figures out how much of a monster I am, everything will be over.

It’s my mission to not let him find out.

I straighten and sprint down the road and run so fast that the streets start blurring. Cold night air slaps my face. I take refuge in the darkness and the complete lack of warmth.

This is my territory. The coldness. The nothingness. The fucking emptiness.

I run.

Like a madman or a free spirit, it depends on the day.

Today, I need to fucking run. Boxing and running help with Omega’s lingering effects. They give me a purpose other than ending other people’s lives.

It takes me thirty minutes at full speed to arrive at the meeting location. My lungs are begging for bloody air, but I forbid them the pleasure. The abandoned building on the outskirts of East London is three-storey high with shopped stones as walls.

I rub my hands together and place them on the cracks between the stones. I haul my body up and start climbing.

My feet slip and I almost fall, so I clutch a crack in the stones with one hand. My shoulder muscles strain at holding my entire weight. I grunt, draw in a breath, grab the wall with my other hand, and continue.

Sure, there are doors and stairs, but where’s the fucking fun in that?

I don’t consider myself alive. I never was. Not before Omega and certainly not during Omega; I only killed like a robot at that time. One hit and I get my dose. No hit and Hades forces the bitching withdrawal on us. Just because he fucking can.

So now, I take every bloody opportunity to feel alive.

Once I arrive at the roof, I blow a breath and dust my clothes. My contact isn’t here. I check my watch. I’m early.

With nothing better to do, I hop on the edge of the rooftop where there aren’t rusty metal railings. I stand there and watch the empty street from the shadows. There’s a gladiator-level battle going on between stray cats over some rubbish.

A taxi stops in front of the worn-out building across the street. A blonde stumbles outside. A black man hurries from the other side to steady her. She giggles like some school girl. He drops her to the front of the building, makes sure she’s okay and then goes back to the taxi.

The woman fidgets in front of the building, obviously drunk and about to pass out. She sways in place until the taxi is out of sight. Then, she stumbles to the middle of the pavement.

The whole time I watch her, I can’t put a finger on it, but I want to fucking shake her.

That’s a lie.

I can put a finger on it. From this angle, without clear physical features, she reminds me of that bloody Zoe. Even her name is irritating as fuck. What does Zoe even mean? Life. I kind of searched it up.

She snatches my attention whenever she’s in the room like a bloodsucker. I simply can’t look away – and it’s not from lack of trying.

But I better learn to turn the other way because the consequences won’t be pretty for her.

Fuck. Who am I kidding? Look away? I can’t even rip my gaze from her fucking imitation down the street.

After what seems like forever, the blonde trudges into the building.

A rustle sounds from behind me. I turn in time for a gun to be pointed in my face. I’m on the edge of the rooftop without railings. The fall would fucking kill me. A gunshot would hurt less than having my skull crushed.