“Don’t tell me you buy into the bullshit. The prick isn’t even made. He’s a freak we call in for the dirty work.”
“Think the Don would let him make orders if he wasn’t something special?” The other guy sounds nervous, like he doesbuy into the stories.
“Ever consider he’s a smooth talker? Or too good at playing people?” The other scoffs.
"Have you considered that he might really be as good as they say?"
“Christ, I definitely should get out of here. My job’s done, and I don’t want to stick around to see you blow Ghost,” he emphasizesGhostwith sarcastic flair.
No answer. Left in silence again, with the remnants of ringing still plaguing my ears. Too afraid to move, I remain still for what feels like an eternity, taking short breaths wherever I can, but never deep enough that I might make a sound. I’m just biding my time, praying for this nightmare to end.
I feel it before I see it. A shift in the room so intense it’s like the room itself is holding its breath too. And as a dark shadow consumes what little light washes over me, I know it’s too late. That someone made it in, and damn close, without making a sound.
Like a ghost would move.
I turn my head, slow and cautious, while scouring my heart and mind for a way out of what’s coming next. But instead of finding myself on the business end of a nine-millimeter barrel, I’m met by him. A statue carved out of muscle and dripping with intensity. He doesn’t move, his chest barely rising while he draws in oxygen, staring straight back at me. His dark eyes lock onto mine, making my entire body seize.
Well, everything except my pulse, which gallops out of control.
The lower half of his face is covered with a black-and-white ceramic half-mask. Sharp-toothed and snarling, it’s unmistakably Japanese. Unmistakably demonic.
Fitting for a man who carries the title, Ghost.
I want to scream, beg for mercy, do anything that would turn this monster’s attention away from me, but the only sound that comes out is a pathetic, breathless whimper. And Ghost reminds me not to make another by raising a gloved finger over the mask's jagged teeth.
Shhh.
I obey because there’s no room left in my body for anything but obedience. Not while he looks at me like this. He isn’t scanning my face or glancing at my body. He’s ravenously consuming every inch of me. His dark eyes flicker and glow with delight as they pore over my features, trail my curves, and settle between my breasts.
Somehow, beneath the fear of this monster’s shameless gawking, something else thrums even louder inside me. Something deeper, needy, desperate.
No one has ever looked at me this way. Smoldering, dangerous, as if I’m his and I don’t get a say in the matter.
My stomach coils into a tight knot while the shame of whatever the hell is going on with me bubbles beneath my skin. And it lingersthere, teasing the ache between my legs, until my thighs clench without permission, and I can’t tell if it’s from my panic or want.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
I can’t feel this way. Not now. Not ever. Yet, here I am, my heart pounding against my ribcage as I wait for his next move. Getting out of here alive should be my only focus, so why is the way his muscular frame hasn’t budged an inch all I can think about? And still, somehow, I can pretty much feel him reaching out, those strong, gloved hands latching onto me. Squeezing me tight, pinning me in place, making sure I know his gaze isn’t the only thing claiming me.
What’s worse is how I almost want it.
Who is he? What is he?
And why does he make my body ache in places that should be numb from fear?
“Holy shit, when is this guy gonna get here?” the same cocky voice bellows out, breaking my focus. Not his, never his. It’s locked on me, no matter what.
“He’ll get here when he gets here.”
Ghost’s gaze snaps from me to the window and back again. He doesn't need to speak for me to understand that he’s guiding my route with a haphazard glance. Barking his order for me to escape.
And I’m not going to waste the opportunity.
Regaining my senses and realizing how bat-shit crazy I’m being, I stumble to my feet and rush to the window. Even this escape is insane. I’ll be jumping from a second-story window into Mrs. Vasquez’s rose bushes. But a few scrapes from their thorns and a sprained ankle sound a lot better than ending up in an unmarked grave.
My arms tremble violently as I reach for the window’s latch. My twitching fingers struggle to grip the hook and lift it. I’m ashamed to admit it takes more than a few tries to get it right. My nerves bite harder when it finally swings open, and I kick my first leg over the narrow ledge.
Every inch of my being screams that I should drop down and run when the second leg joins in the chilly night air. But the knot gripping tightly in my core makes me stop. Turn back. Steal one last look at the Ghost who saved me.
