Chapter 16 Ghost
GHOST
I sit in the interview room humming a dirty shanty I learned years ago. Something about sailors, a whore, and a mast representing a gigantic penis. One of my favorites.
The guards just outside think I’m simply waiting. Subdued and harmless. They believe these chains mean something. But like this prison, they’re an illusion of control.
The vent above me rattles, a tiny vibration in the ceiling every time the air kicks on.
It’s small—just big enough for me to fit through—and the grill is rusted, held on by screws that also contain rust around the edges.
I can hear the faint whistle of the air, and I mark it in my mind, cataloging it like I do everything else.
I sweep my gaze over the room. The table in front of me is bolted to the floor, but one of the legs isn’t secure.
I figured that out weeks ago, during my first visit with Geneva.
Just a small wobble, but it’s there. A weak point.
All things can break if you apply the right pressure. Even metal tables.
Especially people.
The chair is the same as it always is, worn at the edges, but it’s solid enough. No use there. But the cameras? They’re my biggest point of contention. That’s where Dr. Andrews comes into play.
I lean back, the chains rattling just enough to remind myself of their presence. They’re heavy, cold against my wrists, but they don’t bother me. They’re temporary. Just like my situation.
But not her.
No, Geneva isn’t temporary.
She’s my eternity.
I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the thought of seeing her again.
The tension in her posture, the fire in her eyes when she tries so hard to maintain control of herself.
It’s intoxicating, watching her balance on that razor’s edge between order and chaos.
She doesn’t realize how close she is to crossing over. Not yet, anyway.
But she will. I’ve made sure of that.
I smile as anticipation builds in my chest. She’ll come. I’ve baited the trap perfectly. And she’s never been able to resist chasing the truth, no matter how dangerous it might be.
The tiniest sound reaches me… a guard’s footsteps down the hall. It’s go time.
I sit up straighter, my hands still bound, but my mind is racing. I’m eager to see Geneva.
The door creaks open, and I don’t have to look to know it’s her. I can feel her presence, the feminine energy that fills the room whenever she’s near. I slowly lift my head, my eyes locking onto hers the moment she steps inside.
Welcome back, Geneva.
She walks up to the table, her steps deliberate, every muscle in her body tense, like she’s preparing for a battle she knows she can’t avoid.
That’s what I love about her: the fight.
She’s always wrestling with herself, with me, with the darkness that’s creeping closer every time we sit in this room together.
I lean forward, ready to play, ready to watch her unravel again. But then I see it.
A bruise.
The purplish shadow is barely visible under the makeup covering her cheek. But it’s there. My smile fades, the amusement that had been dancing on the edge of my mind slipping away in an instant. I stare at the mark, my gaze narrowing, all the plans I had for toying with her disintegrating.
It wasn’t a shadow like I assumed when watching her through the cameras. She’s had this on her for days…
Someone put their fucking hands on my Geneva.
I know without her saying a word. It was him. Mason.
I pushed her to destroy him and now her beautiful skin is marred with a bruise.
He’s a dead man walking. I’m going to fucking annihilate him.
What method of torture should I employ?
Skin him alive and make a rug out of his flesh?
Cut off his dick, and shove it in his mouth so he’s a literal cocksucker?
Beat the ever-loving fuck out of him until he’s pliable like a bean bag?
So many choices, but none of them will ever be enough to reverse what he did.
Geneva says nothing, just stares at me, waiting. Probably wondering why I haven’t spoken, why I’m not twisting her mind into knots.
But I can’t. Not when I’m looking at that mark on her face, the evidence that someone else has dared to touch her.
Hurt her.
My fingers curl into fists, the chains rattling again while I force myself to stay calm. I have to. But inside, there’s a stirring of the blinding, all-consuming wrath I haven’t felt in years.
Not since Abby.