Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Naomi thought she’d seen Ghost’s cabin before—the space everyone called the Hub, with its banks of computers and equipment—but she hadn’t realized he also had a whole living space there, too.
After Greta had left them at the door with a quiet promise to check in tomorrow, Ghost had all but carried her inside, past the computers, through a door in the back she’d never noticed before.
The hallway was short, just enough space for a small bathroom on one side and a linen closet on the other, then it opened into what had to be his bedroom.
She blinked, trying to process what she was seeing.
A king-sized bed dominated the space, neatly made with a charcoal gray comforter and too many pillows to be practical for a man who seemed to barely sleep.
There was a dresser against one wall, and bookshelves filled with paperbacks lined another.
The space smelled like him—cedar and cigars, gun oil and Cinder and something else she couldn’t name, something elemental.
Outside, rain had started again, a gentle patter against the roof that somehow made the silence between them feel less empty.
Ghost set her down just inside the door, and she stood there, swaying slightly, the borrowed hospital scrubs hanging loose on her frame.
Cinder lifted her head from her dog bed in the corner, watching them approach with something close to worry.
After hours at the hospital, after endless questions from the state police and the FBI, after statements and debriefings and reassurances that the girls were safe, all she wanted was to close her eyes and let oblivion take her.
But every time she tried, she saw the barn, smelled the hay and blood, felt the grip of the man’s hand in her hair, heard his voice calling her Rabbit. Her skin crawled.
“You should sit down,” Ghost said, his voice rough at the edges. He moved past her to adjust the thermostat, and warm air whispered from the vents. “You’re still cold.”
She hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it, but her body was trembling—not just from cold, but from something deeper, a bone-deep shudder that seemed to start at her core and ripple outward. She wrapped his flannel shirt tighter around herself, clenching the worn fabric.
Naomi took one step toward the bed and then another, but on the third, her knees buckled.
Ghost caught her before she hit the floor, his hands steady under her elbows.
The adrenaline that had carried her through the rescue and the hospital was finally, completely gone, leaving only the hollow ache of exhaustion and pain.
“I’m okay,” she said automatically, though they both knew it was a lie. She had two fractured ribs and a concussion, bruising on her throat, and her entire body felt like one massive bruise from being tossed around. Every movement was agony.
He didn’t call her on it. Just guided her to the bed and eased her down, his touch gentle but impersonal, clinical in a way that should have made her feel safer but somehow just made her feel more alone.
She couldn’t stop shaking now. Her teeth chattered, and her hands trembled no matter how tightly she clasped them in her lap. The dam inside her was cracking. All the fear, all the helplessness she’d pushed down during her captivity was rising to the surface, threatening to drown her.
“I should shower.” The words felt thick in her mouth. “I can still smell that place on me.”
“Naomi.” Ghost crouched in front of her, his face level with hers. In the dim light, his eyes looked almost soft. Almost human. “You need to rest.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “I need to wash it off. Please.”
He studied her face, his jaw working as if he was chewing through his response. After a moment, he nodded. “Alright. Let me help you.”
The idea of needing help to shower would have mortified her a week ago. Now she just felt grateful.
He guided her to the bathroom, his hand a steady pressure at the small of her back.
The space was small but immaculate—nothing like the chaotic bachelor pad she might have expected.
Everything had its place. No toothpaste smears on the sink.
No damp towels on the floor. Just clean, utilitarian order.
Ghost reached past her to start the water, testing the temperature with his hand. Steam began to fill the small space, fogging the mirror.
Then he faced her, his expression carefully neutral.
“Can you manage, or do you need help?”
The question wasn’t suggestive, wasn’t charged with any of the heat that had sparked between them before. It was an honest assessment of her condition. And honestly, she wasn’t sure she could stay upright through a shower.
“Help,” she admitted, the word scraping her throat.
He nodded once, then reached for the hem of her scrub top. “Lift your arms.”
She did, wincing as the movement pulled at her ribs. Ghost eased the top over her head, his gaze never lingering, never making her feel exposed. He helped her step out of the scrub pants next, then turned away while she removed her underwear and stepped into the shower.
“I’ll be right here if you need me.”
The water hit her skin, hot enough to sting, and Naomi closed her eyes.
She braced one hand against the shower wall, the trembling in her limbs making it hard to stay upright.
Every drop that ran down her back felt like a reminder of the rain during their escape.
She tried to focus on the warmth instead, on the steam rising around her, on the clean cedar scent of Ghost’s soap as she scrubbed away the mud.
But the memories kept flashing behind her eyelids. The barn. The girls. The man’s voice.
Little Rabbit.
A sob caught in her throat, surprising her. She hadn’t cried since they found Mary Rose’s body all those years ago, and she’d sworn she never would again. Tears were useless. They didn’t change anything.
But now they came anyway, hot and silent, mixing with the shower spray. Her body shook with quiet sobs that sent pain lancing through her ribs, but she couldn’t stop.
“Fury.” Ghost’s voice sounded choked. “Jesus, you’re killing me.”
She stared up at him through the fog of steam, trying to make sense of his expression.
He was blurry through her tears, a dark shape against the bathroom light, but she could feel the tension radiating from him.
His fists were clenched at his sides like he was physically restraining himself from reaching for her.
“I’m—” She couldn’t finish. Another sob wrenched through her, and her knees finally gave out. She slid down the shower wall, the ceramic tile cold against her back.
Ghost moved instantly. He stepped into the shower fully clothed, boots and all. Water soaked through his shirt, plastering it to his skin, but he didn’t seem to notice or care as he gathered her to him.
“Tell me what you need,” he said against the top of her head, voice tight with something that might have been fear. “What can I do?”
He was already doing it.
She tightened her arms around him even though it hurt. “Just… don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” The words vibrated through his chest against her cheek. “I’ve got you.”
She leaned into him, letting his strength hold her up when her own had failed.
The shower beat down on them both, the steam rising in clouds around their bodies.
His shirt clung to the hard planes of his chest, and his jeans were sodden, but he didn’t move.
Didn’t complain. Just held her while she shook apart.
Time stretched, elastic and strange. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that—her naked and trembling, him fully clothed and steady as stone. Eventually, the sobs subsided, leaving her hollow and spent.
“Let’s get you dried off and into bed,” he murmured, reaching out to shut off the water.
Ghost wrapped a towel around her, the fabric soft and warm against her skin.
His movements were gentle but efficient, like he was handling something valuable and breakable.
She wanted to tell him she wasn’t fragile, that she wouldn’t shatter, but the lie stuck in her throat.
Right now, she felt like one wrong move might crack her into a thousand pieces.
He guided her back to the bedroom, one arm around her waist supporting her weight. Her body ached with every step, but his presence anchored her. The trembling had subsided, but exhaustion dragged her down like concrete shoes.
“Can you sit for a minute?” he asked, his voice low.
She nodded and sank onto the edge of the bed. Ghost disappeared into the hallway, returning moments later with a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants that would swallow her whole.
“These will be too big,” he said, “but they’re clean and the pants have a drawstring.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was raw from crying. From screaming at her captors. From the fear that had clawed its way up her throat and stayed there.
He hesitated, then turned his back while she dressed, giving her privacy she hadn’t expected but appreciated. The shirt smelled like him, like safety. She pulled it over her head, wincing as pain flared through her ribs.
“Done,” she managed.
Ghost turned back, his clothes still soaked and dripping onto the hardwood floor as he pulled back the covers on the bed. “In.”
She crawled in, her body so heavy with exhaustion she could barely lift her legs onto the mattress. The sheets were cool against her skin, and she shivered again, her teeth chattering audibly now.
“I’ll get another blanket,” Ghost said, already turning away.
“Don’t leave.” The words escaped before she could stop them, raw and naked and needy in a way she’d never allowed herself to be. She caught his wrist, her fingers barely closing around the solid warmth of him. “Please.”
He went still, his back to her, tension radiating from his shoulders. For a moment, she thought he’d pull away, retreat behind those walls he kept so carefully maintained. Then his shoulders dropped, and he turned back to her.
“I’ll be right here,” he said, and there was something in his voice—a roughness, a vulnerability—that matched her own. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He settled into a chair beside the bed, close enough to touch but giving her space.
“No,” she said. “Here.” She patted the bed beside her. “I—” Her voice broke on what might have been a sob. “I don’t want to be alone.”
Ghost studied her face for a long moment, as if trying to read something written there in a language he barely understood.
Then he nodded once and shucked off his wet clothes, letting them fall to the floor.
He moved to the other side of the bed in a pair of form-fitting boxers, pausing only to grab a fresh pair of sweatpants from his dresser.
When he slid beneath the covers, he kept to his side of the bed, careful not to touch her.
No, she wasn’t letting him shut her out. Not tonight.
She reached for him across the expanse of sheets, and he met her halfway, his hand engulfing hers. The simple contact broke something loose inside her chest—not a dam breaking but a knot unraveling, slow and inevitable.
“I thought I was going to die in that barn,” she whispered, the confession torn from somewhere deep. “I thought I’d end up like all those other girls. Like Mary Rose. The bastard called me Little Rabbit. He knew my childhood nickname. He’s one of my community, my people…”
Ghost said nothing, just held her hand as the tears came again. She cried for the girls in that barn, for all the ones who hadn’t been found, for her cousin lost so many years ago. She cried for the fear she hadn’t let herself feel and the pain she’d pushed away.
And through it all, Ghost stayed, his hand warm and solid in hers, his presence a tether to the world outside her grief.
When the tears finally subsided, leaving her hollow and scraped raw, he reached out with his free hand and brushed her damp hair back from her face. The gesture was so gentle, so unlike the hard, dangerous man she’d first met, that fresh tears threatened.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ve got you.”
“I don’t know if I can,” she admitted. “Every time I close my eyes, I’m back there.”
Ghost shifted closer, not touching her beyond their joined hands, but near enough that she could feel the warmth of him. “Then don’t close your eyes. Just breathe. In and out. Focus on that.”
She did as he suggested, matching her breathing to his—slow, steady, controlled. The panic that had been clawing at the edges of her mind began to recede, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.
“That’s it,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Just breathe.”
Gradually, the tension in her muscles unwound, and her eyelids grew heavy, her body surrendering to exhaustion even as her mind fought against it. She tightened her grip on Ghost’s hand, anchoring herself to him as consciousness began to slip away.
“Owen,” she whispered, the name still foreign on her tongue but somehow right. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t.” His voice wrapped around her like a blanket. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
She believed him. That was the strangest part—how completely she trusted this man she barely knew.
A man she absolutely shouldn’t trust. The same man who’d pushed her away just days ago, who’d built walls so high and thick no one could scale them.
Yet here he was, holding her together when she felt like she might shatter.
Sleep dragged her under in waves, each one pulling her deeper than the last. The last thing she felt was Ghost’s thumb tracing small circles on the back of her hand, a silent promise in the dark.