Page 80 of Ghost
When he returns, he makes no mention of the call,but I understand instinctively—he’s creating layers of security even the rest of us don’t know about.
Mason’s hand finally finds mine under the table, fingers interlacing. “I don’t like this,” he murmurs.
“I know.” I squeeze his hand. “But it’s time.”
On the screen, Steffan finishes his threats with that smile I once feared more than his rage. “I know where you’re hiding. I know who’s helping you. And I know exactly how to make them suffer if you don’t return what’s mine.”
Mitzy cuts the feed. In the sudden silence, my resolve hardens like steel being tempered.
I am not his. Not anymore. Never again.
The training roomsmells of sweat and determination. My muscles burn pleasantly as Mitzy circles me on the mat, her petite frame deceptively relaxed.
“Remember,” she says, “you’re not fighting fair. You’re fighting to win.”
She lunges suddenly—a calculated attack designed to test my reflexes. I sidestep, redirect her momentum using her arm as leverage, just as she’s taught me over these past few weeks.
Mitzy hits the mat with a grunt, then grins up at me.
“Perfect.” She springs to her feet. “Now, men like Reynolds fight with their emotions. They get angry when they don’t immediately dominate.”
“Steffan always did have a temper underneath that controlled exterior,” I confirm, readjusting my stance.
“Use it against him. Let him think he’s winning. Let him overcommit.” Mitzy demonstrates, telegraphing a wide swing that leaves her center exposed. “Then strike where it hurts.”
We continue like this for another thirty minutes—Mitzyattacking, me defending, then counterattacking. My body moves with a new fluidity, muscle memory taking over where conscious thought ends. By the time we finish, my tank top is soaked, and my lungs burn with exertion.
But I feel ready.
In the armory, Mason waits with a black case. His expression is solemn as he sets it on the bench between us.
“Non-negotiable,” he says, opening the case to reveal a sleek, lightweight vest of ballistic material. “If you’re doing this, you wear protection.”
I nod, understanding this is his way of supporting my choice while still needing to keep me safe. He lifts the vest carefully, stepping behind me to help me into it. His hands are gentle as they position the plates, then firm as they tighten the straps.
“It’s designed for women,” he explains, his breath warm against my ear as he works. “Kevlar composite with ceramic strike plates. It’ll stop anything short of a high-powered rifle round.”
His fingers brush against my ribs, adjusting the side panels. Even through the tactical material, his touch sends electricity along my spine. He reaches around to secure the front plate, his palm resting briefly over my heart.
“It’s lighter than I expected,” I say, placing my hand over his.
“Latest Guardian tech. Doesn’t mean you take unnecessary risks.” His voice is gruff, but his eyes tell a different story when I turn to face him.
“I won’t,” I promise. “This isn’t about revenge, Mason. It’s about ending it. On my terms.”
He nods, then helps me out of the vest. “We’ll continue training with it on. You need to get used to moving in it.”
As we exit the armory, I catch a glimpse of movement in a connecting hallway—six men in tactical gear. Their leader,tall with sharp features and watchful eyes, pauses briefly to acknowledge Mason with a curt nod.
“Ethan,” Mason returns the nod. “Good hunting.”
The man—Ethan—glances at me, his assessment quick but thorough. Then he’s gone, his team disappearing like shadows into another section of the facility.
“Charlie Team,” Mason explains, noting my curiosity. “Forest’s elite tactical unit.”
“Part of the operation?”
Mason’s expression reveals nothing. “Insurance we don’t talk about.”
