Page 62 of Code Name: Ghost

Nick doesn’t blink. His gaze is steel, calm and unmoving. “That’s the idea. You know what they say about the rumors surrounding someone’s death,” he says, like it’s already been written in blood and signed in shadow. The line isn’t a bluff. It’s a warning dressed as charm, a reminder that resurrection isn’t always about redemption—sometimes, it’s about revenge.

She laughs softly, the sound low and indulgent, like it belongs in a boudoir more than a battlefield. Her hand flicks up, graceful and deliberate, and a server appears as if summoned by magic. "Then let’s drink to your resurrection," she purrs, the edge of the words curling like smoke.

The subtext isn’t lost on me. She’s not toasting survival. She’s probing it. Testing how far Nick’s willing to go to convince her that Nikolai Beaumont isn’t just alive, but reborn in something darker, sharper, more capable of burning her entire empire to the ground.

Juliette studies me now. Longer. More pointed. Her gaze skims over the curve of my throat, the collar that gleams beneath the soft lighting, then settles on my eyes like she’s trying to place a name she almost remembers. “And you brought a pet,” she says, not condescendingly. Just… assessing. Curious. Calculating. Like she’s flipping through a mental Rolodex of women Nikolai Beaumont might keep on a leash and wondering if I’m merely decorative or dangerously functional.

“I never travel without what’s mine,” Nick replies, his fingers drifting along the back of my neck, pausing just below the collar. The heat of his touch sets my nerves alight. I force my face to remain neutral, submissive. Silent.

“Charming,” Juliette murmurs. But her smile is a mask. And I see it slip for half a second when Nick leans back and folds one arm around my waist.

The conversation starts politely. Trade routes. Allegiances. Rumors. But every word is laced with barbs, every phrase a test. Nick dances through it like a predator, charming and coiled, while Juliette matches him step for step.

“You always had a taste for rare things,” she says, sipping her wine and eyeing me over the rim.

“Only the ones that bleed for me,” Nick says, calm and dangerous.

Juliette’s smile doesn’t falter. But her pupils flare.

I stay quiet, a spectator in silk and shadow. I watch her fingers curl a little too tightly around the delicate stem of her wineglass—elegant but not relaxed. There’s tension in the motion, a flicker of something feral beneath her poise. When Nick casually mentions Vallois, she shifts, legs crossing, then uncrossing, in a motion too precise to be unconscious. Her smile never falters, but her body gives her away. Her gaze keeps flicking to my collar every time Nick touches it—measuring, weighing, wondering what kind of woman lets herself be claimed so publicly and what it means about the man who holds the leash.

She sees the power shift; watches it unfold in real time as if she’s no longer the center of gravity at this table. She realizes Nick isn’t seeking her validation—he’s pulling her into a game where he already knows the outcome. Where every glance, every touch on my skin, is designed to draw her in and disarm her without a single blade unsheathed.

She wants to test him. And me. To see who flinches first. To gauge whether my silence is submission or strategy, whether Nick’s grip on me is real or performance. Every glance, every subtle shift of her posture, is a question loaded with explosives—and she’s watching to see who lights the fuse.

Juliette leans forward and lets her fingertips drift across my thigh, a featherlight touch that carries the weight of a dare.

Nick moves like smoke—fast, lethal, quiet. One second Juliette’s fingers are gliding over the silk of my gown, and the next his hand is wrapped around her throat. It’s not brutal. It’s not theatrical. It’s clinical. Possessive. A silent strike that shatters the moment with all the weight of a warning shot fired inches from the heart.

“Do not touch what is mine again,” he murmurs, his voice a slow blade wrapped in silk. “I will not warn you again.”

Juliette doesn’t flinch. But her pupils dilate, a subtle shift that betrays more than she intends. Then, with deliberate poise, she smiles—slow, dangerous, delighted. A smile that speaks of secrets and darker appetites. “I see the rumors are true,” she murmurs, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You are every bit the monster they said you were. And perhaps a bit more interesting than I was led to believe.”

Nick releases her like he’s straightening a cuff—measured, precise, without hesitation. No drama. No flare. Just absolute, unquestioned control that says everything without a single word. The air between them still hums, charged and electric, but he’s already moved on—already reasserted himself without breaking a sweat.

Juliette sits back, composed once more. But something’s shifted. This isn’t just a power play anymore. She’s impressed. Aroused, maybe. But mostly? Intrigued. She lifts her glass in toast, her voice silk and invitation wrapped in smoke. “You should come to my villa tomorrow night. A small gathering. Just friends. No names. No recordings. Just... stories,” she purrs, her gaze locked on Nick like she’s already imagining what kind of tale he’ll bring—and what kind of ending she might write for herself.

Nick clinks his glass to hers without blinking, his voice a low purr edged in danger. “We wouldn’t miss it.”

The words are smooth, but his hand doesn’t leave my thigh. His thumb draws idle circles, possessive and grounding. Juliette holds his gaze for a breath too long, her smile lingering like smoke—uncertain whether she’s won a battle or just been invited to a bigger war.

I don’t move. I don’t speak. But beneath the table, my fingers tighten subtly against Nick’s knee. Not because I’m afraid. But because I understand exactly what’s happening now.

This isn’t seduction. It’s strategy.

And just like that, the next move is on the board.

The trap is set.

* * *

Back at the safe house, I strip off the dress in silence. The corset unlaces with a whisper of defiance, the ruby silk puddling at my feet. I stand there in nothing but heels and the heft of everything that just happened. The scent from the club still clings to my skin. So does the memory of Juliette’s touch. Of Nick’s hand on her throat. Of the tension he never let slip.

Nick leans against the doorframe, quiet. Watching. Always watching. His eyes are unreadable, but the intensity behind them burns hot—tracking every breath I take, every inch of bare skin, like he's trying to memorize the moment before it slips away. There’s no smile. No soft reprieve. Just the steady weight of him standing there, silent, dangerous, and mine.

I don’t give him a chance to speak. “Am I just a prop to you?” I ask, my voice taut and laced with something I can’t quite name—anger, maybe, or vulnerability sharp enough to cut. “Or do you actually see me? The woman who didn’t just wear your leash but owned it. Who knelt when you told her to, not because she had to—but because she chose to. The one who played her part so well she could’ve fooled even herself. Do you see her, Nick? Or is she just another tool in your kit?”

The silence between us stretches like a live wire, thrumming with heat and unsaid truths. My breath is shallow, chest rising and falling as I wait—not for comfort, but for clarity. For the edge I know is coming, the steel he always wears like unseen armor when the world needs reminding who he is.

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