Page 64 of Ghost
Bear barrels past him with a joyful woof, launching himself toward the doorway.
Then Mason steps into view.
Filthy. Bruised. Alive.
His broad shoulders fill the doorway like he was built for it. His jacket is torn. There’s dried blood at his collar, soot on his face, snow melting in his hair. He looks like hell.
But he’s never looked more handsome to me.
Bear reaches him first, nearly knocking him back on his heels in his exuberance. Mason drops to one knee, arms open to catch the full brunt of two hundred pounds of ecstatic Newfoundland.
“Hey, buddy,” Mason murmurs, ruffling Bear’s thick fur, laughter rough in his throat. “Missed you too.”
The moment Mason opens the door wide enough, Chaos slips past his side. Bear meets him mid-run. The two dogs collide with grunts and excited yips, paws batting, tails whipping like propellers. Chaos leaps up, licking Bear’s jowls, and Bear answers with a playful snarl before nudging Chaos with a massive paw. It’s pure joy—chaotic and animal and full of the kind of reunion that needs no words.
Then Chaos turns to me.
He charges forward with a full-body wiggle, tongue lolling, and skids to a stop just short of knocking me over. He nuzzles my side, tail wagging furiously as he presses his head against my thigh, whining in that high, happy way that says he’s missed me.
I drop to my knees, threading my fingers into his warm fur. “Hi, boy,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I missed you too.”
He licks my cheek once, snuffling like he’s cataloging every inch of me.
I glance up, and Mason is there. The room disappears. Ryan, the fire, the cold wind curling in from the open door—none of it exists.
Only Mason.Only us.
I throw myself into his arms, and he catches me with a grunt, hauling me against his chest like he might never let go.
His arms wrap around me like armor, like tethering, like he needs to feel that I’m real just as much as I need to feel him.
I bury my face in his chest, breathing in the wild, masculine scent of him—smoke, snow, pine, and something purely Mason. My fingers fist into the back of his jacket, refusing to let go.
“You smell terrible,” I mumble into his ear.
He huffs a laugh into my hair.
I pull back just enough to look at him, to take in the days of stubble, the exhaustion etched into his face, the bruising along his temple.
His gaze sharpens at that—something primal lighting behind his eyes.
“You’re okay,” I whisper, breath catching, face buried in the curve of his neck. “You’re really okay.”
“Yeah.” His voice is rougher than I remember, lower. “Told you I’d be right behind you.”
He pulls back just enough to frame my face between his hands. His touch is reverent, thumbs brushing along my cheekbones. Emotion flickers across his face—relief, heat, hunger—and then he kisses me.
Not soft. Not sweet.
It’s ferocious. Hot. Possessive.
It’s a kiss that saysI survived for you.
I melt into it, into him. I taste smoke and adrenaline and Mason, and I give in to the press of his body, the heat of his hand sliding into my hair.
His other arm locks around my waist, holding me so tight I can’t tell where he ends and I begin.
Tension simmers just beneath his skin. Restraint barely holding him together. His tongue slides against mine, and I moan, my legs going weak beneath the onslaught of need andmemory and overwhelming relief. My fingers curling in his jacket. There’s nothing careful in the way he takes me in that moment—only claiming, only certainty.
