Page 12 of Ghost
His authority doesn’t diminish me—it cradles me, holds me steady while I remember how to breathe.
Instead of panic, it makes me ache. For the first time in years, someone else is making the decisions, and my body is responding with a hunger that terrifies and thrills me.
Not because I’m afraid of him, but because I’m afraid of how much I want to yield to him.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. Submission is woven into my DNA like breathing. I yield to authority—always have, even before Steffan weaponized it against me.
It’s why I followed his commands for so long, why I stayed when every instinct screamed to run.
Here I am, doing it again with Mason when it’s the last thing I should do, when I should be running, fighting, and protecting what’s left of my fractured independence.
But there’s something about Mason that makes it feel—safe.
Natural.
Inevitable.
Like I can finally exhale and let someone else carry the crushing weight I’ve been dragging. He won’t hurt me. I know this with a certainty that defies logic, that bypasses every rational defense I should have.
Where Steffan took my submission and twisted it into something ugly, Mason handles it like something precious.
I know it’s probably a trauma response. I should fight this instinct that’s gotten me into so much trouble, but with Mason, yielding doesn’t feel like losing myself.
It feels like coming home.
He leads me to a bathroom that’s surprisingly luxurious for a wilderness cabin. Heated floors, a rainfall shower, and thick towels stacked neatly on shelves.
As he sets clean clothes on the counter, I’m acutely aware ofthe small space we’re sharing, the intimacy of him preparing these things for me. The way he’s taking care of me.
“Take as long as you need,” he says, but when he turns to leave, our bodies brush in the narrow doorway. The contact is electric, and for a moment, we’re frozen, looking at each other with something raw and hungry.
I see the moment he notices my hardened nipples through the thin fabric, the way his pupils dilate.
“These will be too big, but they’re warm. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”
The promise in those words—that he’ll be listening, that he’ll come if I call—sends a rush of warmth and comfort through me that leaves me breathless.
“Mason.” I can’t look him in the eye. He’s too much, too caring, too devastatingly perfect.
He pauses at the threshold, his knuckles white where he grips the doorframe like he’s fighting not to turn back.
“Thank you. For—all of this.”
Something softens in his expression, but there’s heat there too, possession.
“Get clean. I’ll take care of the rest.”
The way he says it—like it’s already decided, like I’m already his to tend—sends shivers through me that have nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the ache building between my legs.
FOUR
Willow
The hot water is a revelation,but I can’t stop thinking about Mason’s hands on my skin, the way he looked at me like he wanted to map every bruise with his tongue.
I shouldn’t be feeling this. After what Steffan did, after Drake’s brutality, I should be terrified of male attention. Instead, I touch myself under the spray, imagining Mason’s hands replacing mine, his mouth on my throat where Steffan left his marks.
The borrowed soap smells like pine and something uniquely masculine, and using it feels like being claimed in the most intimate way. When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel that could double as a blanket, the clothes he left are indeed enormous.
