Chapter 4
Nya
It’s almost noon.
The arrangements are packed. The truck is loaded.
Murphy already teased me about riding off into the sunset with a biker like it’s some Hallmark special dipped in leather.
I reminded him that noon isn’t exactly sunset... and that I’ll be using the truck. Because, you know—flowers. Unless Ghost planned for me to juggle six vases on the back of his bike like some floral daredevil.
Still, I haven’t stopped daydreaming.
I should be downstairs, waiting like a normal person. Instead, I’m pacing the narrow hallway of my apartment, towel clutched tight, nerves sparking under my skin like dry kindling begging for a match.
I don’t know what possessed me to come upstairs. Maybe it was the way Ghost looked at me.
Like I mattered.
Like I was his.
Maybe it was the way my body hasn’t stopped buzzing since. Like I’m a live wire waiting to snap.
The apartment above Wild Petals is small but homey. Worn hardwood floors, secondhand furniture, a dozen half-finished stuffed animals peeking out of a basket near the couch. A shelf of cookbooks I almost never use and more candles than any one person should legally own.
And still, it’s the bathroom mirror that holds me captive. I stare at my reflection like I’m trying to see what he sees.
Towel wrapped around my curvy body, damp curls clinging to my shoulders, skin flushed from the hot shower.
I close my eyes and press a palm over my belly.
I thought the shower would help. Cool me down. It didn’t.
All I can think about is him.
The way he said my name.
The feel of his knuckles on my cheek. The promise in his voice when he told me I was his.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before. Like they see every messy, soft, too-much part of me and want it anyway.
I slip my hand lower, beneath the towel, into the damp heat between my thighs. I gasp at the touch, my own fingers feeling foreign, hesitant. I never did this before.
But then I imagine it’s his hand. His rough, calloused fingers. He’d be patient. He’d tease me until I was begging.
My fingers move faster, circles that make me arch my back, a whimper catching in my throat.
In my mind, it’s not my hand at all. It’s his. Rough and sure. His voice a dark growl at my ear, telling me I’m his, again and again, until the words sink deeper than skin.
I imagine him pinning me against the wall, mouth claiming mine, hips tight to mine, that solid strength pressing me open until I break.
“Ghost,” I whisper, as if the walls could swallow the sound, as if saying his name might summon him.
I can almost hear his voice in my ear. That’s it, sunshine. Let me feel you.
The tension coils inside me, a spring winding tighter, tighter… until it snaps.
Pleasure crashes through me, curling deep in my belly. I gasp his name as it hits. The towel loosens as I slump forward against the counter, heart pounding, legs weak.
Maybe I don’t have experience, but I know what it feels like to want.
I’m catching my breath, warm and wrecked, when a sharp knock splits the silence.
I freeze.
Ghost?
My stomach swoops. I straighten, tightening the towel around me, still breathless and flushed.
Another knock. Louder. More impatient.
I pad barefoot to the door, hesitating before cracking it open.
And freeze.
“Steven?”
His face is as familiar as it is unwelcome. Blond hair gelled too perfectly, smirk crooked in that way that used to charm me. Now it just turns my stomach.
“What are you doing here?”
His gaze drags over me, lingering on the exposed curve of my shoulder.
“Damn, Nya. Always had those good tits,” he says with a laugh that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You should have shown them to me, maybe I would have pity-fucked you.”
I step back. “You need to leave. NOW!”
He shoves the door open farther. “Not before we talk.”
“You have nothing to say that I want to hear.”
Steven saunters in like he owns the place, eyes sweeping over the room before landing back on me.
“Jessica’s in a mood,” he says. “You really pissed her off.”
I cross my arms. “Good.”
“She’s crying. Screaming. Throwing shit.” He chuckles. “And it’s all because of you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “If she’s that fragile, maybe don’t build your self-worth around someone else’s man.”
Steven’s jaw tics. “You always thought you were better than her. Playing sweet. Acting innocent.”
“I am better than her,” I snap. “And definitely better than you.”
His smirk falters. “You think the biker wants you? You really believe he sees anything but an easy lay? You’re not his type, Nya. You’re the warm-up act.”
“Get out.”
“He’ll get bored. They all do. You know why I asked you out in the first place? It wasn’t for your personality. Or your curves.” His lip curls. “It was because I knew Jess would want whatever you had. I wanted her, and the fastest way to get her was through you.”
The words slice. Sharp and cruel.
I flinch. He sees it. Smiles like he’s proud.
“You’re nothing, Nya. A stepping stone. A joke.”
But I don’t cry. Not this time.
“You and Jessica deserve each other,” I say evenly. “She’s petty and cruel. You’re pathetic. I hope you make each other miserable.”
His expression darkens. “You little—”
He raises his hand.
And then—
The door slams open.
Ghost is there.
Big. Furious. Dangerous.
His eyes lock on Steven. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Fists flexing at his sides.
“Step away from her,” Ghost growls.
Steven stumbles back. “I—this isn’t what it looks like—”
Ghost moves. One second, he’s across the room. The next, Steven’s pinned to the wall, Ghost’s forearm at his throat.
“You touch her?” Ghost’s voice is low, deadly calm. “You even thought about hurting her?”
Steven chokes. “N-no—”
Ghost leans in closer. “I’ve killed men for less.”
My breath hitches. I clutch the towel tighter, heart pounding. Not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of him.
He’s here. He came for me.
Steven’s pale now. Mouth opening and closing uselessly.
“Get out,” Ghost snarls. “If you ever come near her again, I’ll break every bone in your body.”
Steven bolts. The door slams behind him.
Silence.
Ghost turns to me. His gaze softens instantly. He crosses the room, hands no longer fists.
“You okay?” His voice is rough but careful.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Did he touch you?”
“No.”
He exhales sharply through his nose, still vibrating with fury. Then his eyes drop. To the towel. My bare shoulders. Wet hair.
“I came early,” he murmurs. “Wanted to check if you needed a hand with the flowers.”
I step closer. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
But I do.
Because he showed up. Because he cared. Because I didn’t have to face that alone.
“I’m sorry you saw that,” I whisper.
He cups my cheek. “Don’t be.”
The air hums between us, thick and heavy. Want. Relief. Something deeper.
“I should get dressed,” I say softly.
His eyes darken. “Right.”
But neither of us moves.
He watches me like he’s memorizing everything.
And I let him.
Because for the first time in my life, someone sees me.
“I’ll be downstairs,” he says.
“No,” I whisper. “Stay.”