Page 37 of Ghost
“Then we slow down,” I say. “We breathe. We survive this. After that, we figure it out together.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t know how to trust someone like you. I’ve only ever trusted men who hurt me.”
I lower my forehead to hers. “Then don’t trust me yet.” My voice is soft. Steady. “Just watch me. Watch what I do when things get hard. Watch how I show up for you. Let me earn your trust.”
Her fingers curl into my shirt. She doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t run.
And that’s enough.
For now.
The vulnerability in her question breaks something open inside me—a tenderness I thought had died with Rachel. Ibrush the tear away with my thumb, marveling at the trust she’s placing in me by showing her fear.
“You’re not broken, Willow. Wounded, yes. Healing, yes. But you’re not broken.” I press my forehead against hers, our breath mingling in the small space between us.
ELEVEN
Mason
The wind stops howling,leaving an unnatural stillness in its wake. Out here, silence is rarely a comfort—it’s the quiet before the storm, the breath held before the strike, the pause between heartbeats when instinct knows danger is near.
I glance at my team as we trudge through knee-deep snow toward the storage shed where we secured Drake and his men. Ryan walks two paces behind me, ever the faithful XO. Jackson and Martinez flank our sides, weapons at the ready. We left Cooper in the cabin with Willow—his sniper skills are best utilized as overwatch.
“Four tangos secured,” Ryan says, his breath clouding in the frigid air. “One KIA by the snowmobile. The critically wounded one might not make it.”
I process the information. “Status on the wounded?”
“GSW to the chest, through and through,” Martinez supplies. “Jackson patched him, but without proper medical, he’s got maybe hours.”
“And Drake?”
Ryan’s mouth tightens. “Conscious. Angry. Zip-tied hand andfoot. Bastard’s already threatened to skin us alive when he gets loose.”
“Charming.” The word emerges as a growl.
The storage shed appears through the trees—a solid structure I built to house equipment too large for the cabin, reinforced against both weather and unwanted visitors. We’ve repurposed it as a temporary detention facility, one that won’t allow sound to carry back to the cabin.
To Willow.
The woman’s been through enough without hearing what’s about to happen.
Jackson clears the perimeter before I unlock the reinforced door. The interior is dimly lit, illuminated only by a single battery-powered lantern that casts long shadows across the walls. The smell hits immediately—blood, sweat, fear. Four men secured to support posts, spread far enough apart that they can’t assist each other.
Drake’s eyes lock onto mine the moment I step inside, a calculating hatred burning in their depths. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cower. Just watches me with the cold assessment of a predator.
“You’re officially dead men.” His voice is surprisingly steady for someone with zip-ties cutting into his wrists. “All of you.”
I ignore him, turning to the wounded man slumped against the far post. Blood has soaked through the field dressing on his chest, his breathing shallow and labored. His eyes are glassy, unfocused.
“He needs a hospital,” Martinez mutters.
“We all do,” one of the other men snaps—younger than Drake, with a military buzz cut and a busted lip. “This is fucking kidnapping. We’re licensed security contractors.”
Ryan snorts. “That’s what they’re calling hitmen these days?”
I crouch beside the wounded man, checking hispulse. Thready. Weak. “Who’s your medic?” I ask Drake without looking at him.
“Go to hell.”
