Page 25 of Ghost
A shadow crosses his face. “I had my reasons.”
“Rachel?” I whisper the name I heard him call out during last night’s nightmare, when he thrashed beside me, lost in memories I couldn’t see.
His whole body goes rigid. The mug in his hand freezes halfway to his lips. When he sets it down, the careful control of the movement speaks volumes about his internal struggle.
“How much do you want to know?” he asks finally.
“Everything,” I answer without hesitation. “I want to know everything I can.”
He nods once, sharply, then rises from the chair. I follow him to the fireplace, where he stokes the flames higher beforesettling onto the sofa. When I move to sit beside him, he pulls me into his lap instead, arranging me so my back rests against his chest, his arms locked around me like a fortress.
“It’s easier to say this when I’m not looking at you,” he admits, his breath warm against my hair.
I cover his hands with mine, offering silent support. Whatever demons haunt him, I’ll face them alongside him.
“Rachel was my submissive,” he begins, voice low and steady. “And my fiancée. We met after I returned from my third tour and lived the lifestyle. I was—struggling. PTSD, though I wouldn’t admit it then.”
His breathing shifts, becomes more controlled. “About six months into our relationship, I had an episode. Woke up in the middle of the night with my hands around her throat, choking her.” The words emerge like broken glass. “She was fighting me, clawing at my hands, trying to wake me up. By the time I came to, she had bruises. I nearly killed her.”
The self-loathing in his voice is devastating. “I tried to leave her that night. Packed my shit, told her I was too dangerous, that she deserved better than a broken soldier who could kill her in his sleep. But Rachel…” His voice softens with memory and pain. “She wouldn’t let me go. Said she knew the man I was beneath the damage, that we’d figure it out together.”
His arms tighten fractionally around me. “She was my center. My rock. Helped me develop strategies to manage the episodes—sleeping arrangements, ways to ground myself when I felt one coming on. She gave me a reason to keep my shit together, to fight for something better than just surviving.”
The fire pops and crackles, filling the silence as he gathers his thoughts.
“After we got my episodes under control, I was recruited for specialized operations—the kind with no official record. The work was brutal but effective. I was good at it. Too good. Rachelknew not to ask questions, but she supported me. Gave me a safe place to come home to, a way to reconnect with humanity after the things I had to do.”
His voice remains steady, but I feel the tension in his body, the slight tremor in his hands beneath mine.
“Three years in, I was assigned to gather intelligence on a Russian arms dealer named Viktor Orlov. The mission went sideways. My cover was blown. I barely made it out alive. The rest of my team didn’t.”
He stops, his breathing carefully controlled.
“I should have known they’d track me back to Rachel. Should have had better security protocols in place.” The self-loathing returns, sharp and cutting. “I came home one night and found our apartment door ajar. Inside…”
He stops, his breathing carefully controlled.
“They tortured her. For information she didn’t have.” The words emerge with precision, each one carved from stone. “She died because of me. Because I brought my work home. Because I thought I could have both—the mission and a life with her.”
I turn in his arms, needing to see his face. The raw pain in his eyes steals my breath.
“Mason…” I whisper, but he continues, needing to finish.
“When that helicopter came over, I was back there. Back in Afghanistan, watching my team die. The sound triggered a flashback, and I was trying to fight my way out of it when you put your arms around me.” His hands frame my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone. “That’s never happened before. No one’s ever been able to pull me back like that. Rachel couldn’t do it. My therapists couldn’t do it. But you—a woman I barely knew—you touched me and just—pulled me out.”
His voice drops to a whisper, filled with wonder and confusion. “Do you understand how impossible that is? How incredible?It’s why when you kissed me, I kissed you back. Why I couldn’t resist you. The sex we’ve had, the intimacy we’ve shared—it’s not just physical. There’s something about you, something I can’t explain.”
The weight of his confession settles between us. “You brought me back from that flashback, but that doesn’t make me safe. It makes me more dangerous, because now I care about you too much to think clearly about the risk I pose.”
“What happened to Rachel wasn’t your fault,” I whisper, cupping his face in my hands.
“I was trained to anticipate threats. To protect assets.” His voice hardens. “I failed her.”
“You weren’t her protector—you were her partner,” I say firmly. “The blame lies with the people who killed her.”
His jaw clenches beneath my palm. “After her funeral, I hunted them down. All of them. It wasn’t sanctioned. Wasn’t clean. When it was done, I… I disappeared into these mountains where I couldn’t hurt anyone else.”
The confession hangs between us, heavy with implications. I search his face, seeing the warrior beneath the guilt, the protector beneath the pain.
