Chapter 11
eleven
He’d almost kissed her.
It would’ve been a mistake, but there for a second, it was one he’d desperately wanted to make.
The image of Naomi lingered like static on the back of his eyelids—the set of her mouth, the line of her throat, the way she’d looked at him with that raw, honest wanting.
Not desperate. Not soft. Just… real. And for a second, he’d actually wanted to believe he could have it, that maybe he could want something without destroying it. Without breaking her in the process.
But that wasn’t him. Never had been. He didn’t get the girl. He didn’t even get to try.
You ever get tired of being alone?
He’d said no. He really fucking wanted to mean it.
He watched the porch light flicker as she moved around inside. Shadows, movement, the faintest blue glow from her kitchen. Probably her on the phone, or pacing, or doing what she did best: keeping herself busy so the darkness didn’t catch her.
Yeah. He knew the feeling.
He should leave. He should put the truck in gear, drive back to the Ridge, and get some goddamn work done. Anything to shake the memory of her from his bloodstream.
Instead, he just sat there, hands locked on the wheel, replaying that moment in the cab. The air between them electric, tight as wire, her face inches from his, those stubborn eyes daring him to take what he wanted.
He almost had. God, he’d wanted to. Would’ve been so fucking easy to just bridge the gap, taste her. Mark her. Make her forget the whole world except for what he could do with his mouth, his hands, his body.
Instead, he’d pulled back, because that was what he did. He didn’t cross lines. Didn’t risk it. Didn’t let himself want.
But he did want.
He wanted her with a bone-deep ache that made his hands shake on the steering wheel, just thinking about the way her lips had parted, waiting, hungry, right there in the dark, inches from his.
He could’ve gone for it. Should’ve. Would’ve wrecked her composure, made her gasp, maybe even made her beg.
God, he wanted to.
But that wasn’t his style, was it? No. He was the ice man. The one who never gave in, especially not to something as reckless as want.
Still, he sat there in the cab, pulse throbbing so loud he could hear it in his ears, replaying that last second over and over. The way her gaze had dropped to his mouth. The way her breath shuddered in her chest.
He’d felt the challenge in her, wild and stubborn and so fucking alive. Daring him.
He’d nearly broken. Just one twitch of muscle, one slip of control, and he would’ve had her against the seat, tasting her mouth, her throat, her skin. Would’ve had her arching into him, hands all over, nails scoring his scalp as he took her apart piece by piece.
Instead, he’d pulled back, because restraint was the only thing that kept him safe. The only thing he trusted.
And now all that pent-up need was coiled in his gut, raw and restless, with no outlet.
Cinder whined from the backseat, and he jolted, lifting his gaze to the rearview mirror. The dog never whined, not in all three years he’d known her. She was watching him with a soft uncertainty in her eyes that made something in his chest twist painfully.
He reached over the seat and scratched her ear. “Yeah, I know, girl. It’s fine.”
He told himself that all the way up the Ridge’s long, winding drive, past the edge of the pines where nothing moved except the wind and maybe a couple of deer watching him from the tree line.
He pulled in beside the bunkhouse, lights off, Cinder panting in the seat next to him. The dog watched his every move, ears up, waiting for a command. Or maybe for him to get his shit together and act like a normal human for once.
He took her to her kennel and got her settled with fresh water and a bowl of kibble. But he paused before shutting the door. The other dogs all slept with their people. Even that hairy overgrown menace, King, had an entire twin bed to himself in Bear’s room.
Ghost hesitated, hand on the latch. In the dark, Cinder cocked her head, ears up, eyes locked on his.
He tried to remember if he’d ever seen her relax. Actually sleep, not just power down between patrols—but no, she always waited, always watched. She was like him, that way.
But at the same time, she wasn’t.
She pressed her nose to his palm, pushing, insistent. Most nights, he just gave the command, closed the gate, walked away. Kept her separate, the way he kept everyone. Kept everything. Only this time she held her ground. Didn’t back off. Didn’t give up.
Like maybe she thought tonight something would be different.
Like she wanted it to be different.
He stared at her. At the deep, silent want in her eyes. It hit somewhere he didn’t have words for.
He’d spent his whole life locked down. Stitched himself together with discipline and distance, trusting no one, relying on nothing but instinct and the cold logic of survival.
But here was this damn dog, pressing close with raw, wordless need, and he couldn’t shut it out. Couldn’t make himself turn away.
What would it even be like, to let go? To actually want something, and then reach for it? Not as a tactic, not as a lure, but as… himself. No mask, no shield, no agenda beyond the need crawling under his skin.
Fuck.
He couldn’t do that. Not for Cinder. And certainly not for Naomi Lefthand.
He backed up and shut the kennel door, ignoring the feel of Cinder’s stare following him out. He headed for the bunkhouse, hoping the others would be asleep so he could sneak into his room before anyone asked questions.
No such luck.
The common room was chaos, voices rising and falling in a tangle of insults and laughter.
The pool table had been converted for a card game, with River, Jonah, and X in some kind of poker death match over a pot that included a crumpled heap of candy bars, loose change, and what looked like twelve AA batteries.
Anson sat at the kitchen island, pen scratching across a sheet of paper. His wolfhound, Bramble, sprawled out at his feet, snoring so loud the windows vibrated.
Ghost barely cleared the threshold before River fixated on Anson, grinning like he’d just sniffed out somebody’s secret. “You ever going to tell us about this mysterious pen pal, Sut?”
“My bet is it’s an old lady in Tennessee who collects taxidermy possums,” Jonah said.
“Or a forty-year-old bald man,” X said. “He lives with his parents and gets his kicks by stringing along lonely cons.”
Anson just kept writing, hand steady. “Fuck off,” he said, but there was no heat in it.
X spun his chair around, eyes sparkling. “Come on, man, you ever heard of email? Or are you living in 1995?”
River threw down his hand, folding, and leaned back in his chair. “Do you seal it with a kiss?” He dropped his voice in a fair approximation of Anson’s: “Dear Miss Mabel—”
“Maggie,” Anson corrected.
River ignored him. “Hope this letter finds you well. Enclosed, a lock of my beard and a pressed dandelion. Yours eternally, Anson Sutter.”
X snorted.
Anson flipped them off and kept writing.
At the opposite end of the room, Bear was doing battle with King, trying to towel off the enormous dog and losing.
Water flew everywhere. King grinned, tongue lolling, and Bear grumbled a string of kid-friendly curses since Oliver was present.
The kid was planted on the sagging couch next to Jax, determinedly drawing while Echo, the Australian shepherd, watched them both with love in her mismatched eyes.
“Bear, that dog needs some training,” Jax said.
“He is trained,” Bear growled. “He just doesn’t always listen.”
Once again, Ghost thought of Cinder in her kennel.
Would she rather be here? The other dogs didn’t seem to mind the chaos one bit, but he couldn’t picture her here.
Hell, he didn’t want to be here. It was too much.
The voices, the laughter, the constant push and pull of men who actually wanted to be around each other. Family.
He wanted to bolt. He made it three steps toward his room before River spotted him.
“Hey, look! Casper decided to grace us with his presence. Did you get lost, or were you just hiding in the shed again?”
X didn’t even look up from his cards. “He’s got a whole Batcave under the Hub, you know. Probably sleeps hanging upside down from the ceiling.”
Ghost kept moving.
“Hold up, man,” Jonah called. “We’re about to settle a debate. Which is more dangerous: wrestling a pissed-off cow moose in heat, or Boone before coffee?”
River shook his head. “You ever see Boone before caffeine? I’ll take the moose.”
“Definitely the moose,” X said, and Bear agreed.
“You’re all idiots,” Jonah said, but it was affectionate. “Boone isn’t that bad. Jax and Anson agree with me. So, c’mon, Ghost. You’re the tiebreaker. Boone or moose?”
He didn’t even blink. “Moose. Any day.”
River shot both fists in the air. “Told you!”
X flicked a pretzel at Jonah’s head. “Pay up, man.”
“Bullshit,” Jonah complained. “Boone’s nothing but a big softie under that scowl.”
“Obviously, you’ve never had that fucking scowl aimed at you,” River muttered.
“Boone’s gonna be pissed if he hears you making bets about him,” Jax said.
“Boone doesn’t need to hear about it,” X said. “What happens in the bunkhouse, stays in the bunkhouse.”
Ghost turned away, aiming to put the hallway and at least two doors between himself and the noise of his bunkmates, but he didn’t make it.
Oliver suddenly let out a dismayed squeal. “King! No!”
Ghost turned back in time to see the Leonberger, one hundred and fifty pounds of wet fur and zero impulse control, snatch Oliver’s drawing and barrel toward the kitchen like he was trying out for the NFL.
Bear lunged for his collar, missed, and the dog’s tail swept a cereal box off the counter in a single mighty arc.
The box landed on Bramble, who yelped and darted under the kitchen table, knocking Anson’s chair sideways and taking the man with him.
Anson flailed out to catch himself, and his hand found the dish rack, sending it flying.
Plates and cutlery shattered against the floor. Ghost’s mug—the blue one, the only thing he gave a damn about—cartwheeled off the counter, bounced once, and split clean down the middle.
For a heartbeat, nobody moved. Even King froze, tail wagging, tongue lolling, as if stunned by his own power.
Ghost stared at the pile of fragments.
He felt nothing. Not anger, not heartbreak. Just… blank. Same as always. The mug was just a mug.
Except… it wasn’t. He’d had it longer than anything else in his life. Now it lay there, split and useless, busted because a dog couldn’t keep his ass out of trouble for five fucking minutes.
“Sorry, man. That’s on me.” Anson started scooping up pieces, his scarred hands careful. “I should’ve just let Bramble sleep in my room, but I wanted him with me. I know how skittish he can be. Here, I’ll clean it up.”
“Don’t,” Ghost said, voice flat.
Anson looked up, startled.
Nobody said a word.
Not even River, and he usually had a smartass comment for everything.
Ghost crouched, picked up every sliver of blue, and ignored the worried eyes watching him like he might snap and trash the whole kitchen.
He didn’t snap.
Jax’s voice was quiet, pitched low. “Ghost, it was an accident, man.”
He dropped the shards into the trash. “Not a big deal,” he said, and meant it. But his skin crawled, his pulse spiking hard and ugly.
He needed air. Space.
He left the kitchen without another word. Out the door, across the gravel lot, into the dark.
At the kennel, Cinder waited right where he’d left her. He let her out, and the dog fell into step beside him as they cut through the moonless night to the security hub.
He didn’t look back at the bunkhouse. He didn’t need to.
The blue mug was gone, and that was that. End of story.