Page 21 of Code Name: Ghost

CHERISE

The chilly night air bites at my skin as I slide into Nick’s Range Rover, the silence between us as thick as the shadows outside. My body hums, every nerve ending still alive from our time at Opus Noir. Even now, the sensation of leather kissing my skin lingers, the phantom ache of the flogger's strikes sending shivers down my spine. I cross my arms, wrapping them tightly around myself, but nothing can still the storm raging inside me.

He hasn’t said a word since we left the club, his focus locked on the dark, winding road ahead. His jaw is set, and the dim dashboard light catches its sharp line.

I want to speak, to say something, but I can’t find the words. How do you articulate the whirlwind of emotions crashing through you? The overwhelming vulnerability, the unexpected desire, the infuriatingly undeniable pull toward the man sitting just inches away.

I glance at him, at the way his hands grip the wheel, strong and controlled, veins prominent beneath tanned skin. Those hands had wielded the flogger with precision, coaxing sounds out of me I didn’t even recognize as my own.

“You’re awfully quiet,” I finally say, my voice softer than I intend.

He doesn’t look at me. “Because I’m thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how much more complicated my life just got,” he replies, his tone clipped.

I bristle, turning my gaze to the window. The city lights fade as we leave Monte Carlo behind, replaced by the dark expanse of the countryside. “You’re the one who insisted on putting me on that cross.”

“And you’re the one who asked for my help. You fainted into my arms with a traitor and an arms dealer gunning for you. Besides, you trusted me enough to obey,” he counters, his voice low, steady.

My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful for the darkness. “That doesn’t mean I don’t have questions.”

He glances at me briefly, his hazel eyes sharp, unreadable. “Tonight’s not the night to have this conversation. Besides, questions won’t keep you alive, Cherise.”

“Maybe not,” I admit, my fingers gripping the hem of my jacket. “But ignoring what happened tonight won’t, either.”

His grip on the wheel tightens, but he doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, until the Range Rover slows, turning onto a narrow dirt road. The headlights sweep across a small, secluded house overlooking a cliff that drops down into the Mediterranean Sea, its windows dark and unassuming.

“This is it?” I ask, breaking the silence, not convinced this shack could protect a cow from the rain, and my voice shows it.

“Like many things, looks can be deceiving,” he says, pulling to a stop and cutting the engine. “It’s safe, and that’s all that matters.”

He steps out without waiting for me, his broad frame moving with a quiet authority that grates on my nerves even as it reassures me.

I follow, the crunch of gravel beneath my heels the only sound in the stillness. The house looms ahead, a stark contrast to the opulence of Opus Noir. Here, there’s no polished mahogany or glittering chandeliers. Just cold practicality.

He unlocks the door and steps inside, flicking on the lights. From the outside, the place looks like a rustic stone cottage tucked into the cliffs above Monte Carlo—weathered shutters, ivy-covered walls, and a chimney that curls smoke like something out of a fairytale. But the interior is a different story.

Warm. Clean. Quietly luxurious. A leather couch faces a low-burning hearth, and a modern kitchen stretches along one wall—sleek steel appliances and a butcher block island in sharp contrast to the exposed beams overhead. Two doors lead off the main room, likely bedrooms, all of it designed to project quiet charm.

But what sets it apart—what makes it Cerberus—is hidden beneath our feet.

Nick crosses to a panel tucked into the back wall and presses his thumb to a biometric pad. A subtle beep. Then the floor-mounted lift clicks to life, concealed beneath the braided rug. The elevator hums low, ready to descend into the heart of the real safe house—the subterranean operations center Cerberus runs off-grid. Secure. Hardened. Invisible.

This is no cottage. It’s a command post in disguise.

“You’ll sleep in the first room on the right,” he says, his voice all business as he sets his bag down on the couch. “I’ll take the other one.”

I linger near the door, my arms crossed. “That’s it? No debrief? No explanation for what happened tonight?”

He straightens, turning to face me. “What do you want me to say, Cherise? That it was a mistake? That I regret every second of it?”

The heat in his gaze pins me in place, and my breath catches. “No,” I whisper. “I just… I don’t know how to process what I’m feeling.”

His expression softens for the briefest moment before the steel returns. “You don’t need to process it right now. You just need to survive.”

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