Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
GHOST
I haven’t seen her in four days. Four days of deliberately staying away, telling myself distance was the smart play, that keeping my head clear meant keeping her out of my sight.
Four days of club business, late-night rides, and Riot feeding me updates that never quite answered the only question that mattered. Is she safe?
I should have been there tonight. Should have known the second she didn’t text back that something was wrong. Should have ridden to that fucking warehouse myself the minute Wayne mentioned she’d asked around about Voss. Instead I gave her space. Again.
Because apparently I’m still the kind of idiot who mistakes standing back for respect when what it really is is standing by while the woman who’s been living rent-free in my head for weeks walks straight into a meat grinder wearing nothing but attitude and a bad plan.
Her cheek presses harder against my chest, damp and warm, and the bruise on her face is so close to my collarbone I can feel the heat radiating off the swollen skin.
Purple-black, ugly, spreading like spilled ink.
The split at the corner of her mouth is still weeping, a thin red line I want to erase with my thumb and can’t.
Every shiver that moves through her lands in me like a blow.
I should have dragged her out of whatever stupid, brave, reckless thing she thought she had to do the second she decided Voss needed a personal visit.
Should have thrown her over my shoulder like I’ve imagined doing more times than I’ll ever admit and hauled her straight out before any of those bastards laid a finger on her.
I’m going to kill someone.
I know exactly who dies first. The two meatheads who pinned her arms while she fought, twisting her shoulders until she couldn’t move.
Then the one who threw the punch that split her lip and left blood on her teeth.
And finally Voss himself, slow and deliberate, so he has time to feel the cold press of the barrel against his forehead, time to see the certainty in my eyes before I pull the trigger and paint the wall behind him with everything he used to be.
Killing is what I do. What I’ve always done.
Clean contracts, quiet exits, bodies that vanish before the sun comes up and anybody notices they’re gone.
I’ve never lost sleep over it, never second-guessed the math.
One life for the paycheck, or one life because the client paid extra for certainty.
It was just work. Just another job in a long line of jobs that kept the lights on and the past buried.
Until now. Now it’s personal.
Voss put hands on her. His men held her down while he did it.
He marked her face, made her bleed, left her shaking in my arms with those helpless little aftershocks that keep hitting me like punches I should’ve taken instead.
The second that realization settles in, the last thread of restraint I’ve been clinging to snaps clean.
No more playing nice. No more waiting for church votes or Riot’s intel or Mason’s measured timeline.
They touched what’s mine.
So they die.
My hand moves on its own, sliding up her spine to cup the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair.
I rub slow circles against her scalp the way my mom used to when I was a kid and the world felt too big.
She doesn’t pull away. If anything, she leans in harder, like she’s trying to crawl inside my ribcage and hide there.
Good.
Stay.
Her head tips back just enough for our eyes to lock, and the room shrinks to nothing. Just her. Just that bruised mouth and the stubborn fire still burning behind her eyes even now. The want that’s been simmering under my skin for days goes taut.
My hand slides from her hair to the uninjured side of her jaw. Careful. Thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, staying away from the split as much as I can. Her breath hitches, and that tiny sound is what undoes me.
“Rae,” I rasp. It comes out half warning, half surrender.
She doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. Her gaze drops to my mouth, then lifts back to mine, dark and certain, and that’s it.
Gravity takes over.
I lean down the same second she pushes up. We collide carefully at first, mindful of the bruise, the cut, the fact that she’s still raw from everything that happened. But the second her lips part under mine, restraint burns away.
She tastes like copper and salt and the faint edge of whatever cheap whiskey she’d been sipping earlier.
I lick into her mouth slowly and deliberately, swallowing the sound she makes.
My arm locks around her waist, hauling her tight against me until there’s no space left, until I can feel every uneven breath she drags in.
Her fingers twist in the front of my shirt, clutching like she thinks I might disappear if she lets go.
Not a fucking chance.
I kiss her deeper, hungrier, pouring every ounce of the fear and fury I’ve been choking on since I saw her on that bar floor straight down her throat.
One hand stays cradled against her jaw, gentle there, always gentle where she’s hurt, while the other spreads wide across her lower back, holding her exactly where I want her.
When we finally break for air it’s ragged. Foreheads pressed together. Breathing hard enough to share it. Her fingers are still fisted in my shirt while mine frame her face like she might slip away if I let go.
I don’t open my eyes right away. I just feel her. The heat of her skin. The rapid flutter of her pulse under my thumb. The way her body has gone soft and trusting against mine.
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” I mutter, voice scraped raw. “And I was so goddamn pissed you went in there.”
My thumb traces the bow of her upper lip, staying clear of the damage. “Pissed you got hurt. Pissed I let it happen.”
She exhales against my mouth, shaky. “I know.”
I force my eyes open and look at her. Really look at her. The bruise darkening by the second. The exhaustion under her eyes. The stubborn spark that refuses to go out. “I’m not leaving tonight,” I tell her, flat and final.
Her mouth curves, small but real, and something in my chest loosens for the first time in hours. “Didn’t think you were.”
Her lips are still brushing mine when I feel it, the exact second the last of her fear turns into something hotter. Her fingers tighten in my shirt, not pulling me closer this time, but anchoring herself like she’s about to let go of every wall she’s ever built.
I break the kiss just enough to speak against her mouth. “Bedroom.”
My voice comes out low, gravel-rough, the kind of tone I usually save for orders I expect followed.
Her eyes flick up to mine, pupils wide. For half a heartbeat I think she might argue, might throw that mouth of hers at me and test me the way she always does. Instead she breathes out a shaky, “Upstairs. First door on the right.”
That’s all I need.
I scoop her up without warning, one arm under her knees, the other banded across her back. She gasps, hands flying to my shoulders, but she doesn’t fight it. Her legs hook around my waist instinctively as I start moving.
The stairs creak under my boots. Every step makes my pulse hammer harder. I kick the bedroom door open with my heel.
It’s dark except for the silver moonlight cutting through the curtains and the warm glow of a bedside lamp she must’ve left on earlier.
The bed is unmade, sheets tangled, pillows shoved to one side like she’s been restless for days.
It smells like her, citrus and hay and something faintly sweet underneath.
I set her on the edge of the mattress, but I don’t let her go far. My hands stay on her hips, thumbs pressing into the soft dip above her jeans as I lean over her, forcing her to tip her head back to meet my eyes.
“You scared the shit out of me tonight,” I say, voice low and dangerous. “You don’t get to do that again. Understand?”
Her breath catches. She nods, but it’s not enough.
“Words, Rae.”
“Yes,” she whispers. Then quieter, “I understand.”
“Good girl.”
The praise lands like a spark. Her thighs press together. I feel the tiny shift against my hips, and it damn near snaps what little control I’ve got left.
I drop to my knees between her legs. My hands slide up her thighs, thumbs hooking under the waistband of her jeans. “Lift.”
She does. Hips rising without argument. I drag the denim down her legs along with her underwear in one rough pull and toss them somewhere behind me. The second she’s bare I spread her thighs wide with my palms, opening her completely.
She’s already wet. Glistening in the low light.
The sight of her like this, bruised face flushed, chest rising fast, spread for me, blows through the last leash I had on myself. I don’t tease. I’ve waited too fucking long for slow. I lean in and drag my tongue up the center of her in one long, firm stroke.
She cries out and her hands fly to my hair, gripping hard. “Cole.”
I answer by sealing my mouth over her clit and sucking.
Hard.
Her hips jerk. I pin them down with one forearm across her lower belly, keeping her exactly where I want her.
“Stay still,” I growl against her.
The vibration pulls a whimper out of her.
I lick into her with slow circles, then faster flicks, then flatten my tongue and lap at her like I’m starving. Every sound she makes goes straight to my cock, throbbing painfully behind my zipper, but this isn’t about me yet.
This is about taking all that fear she walked in here with and burning it out of her.
I slide two fingers inside her without warning. She’s tight, hot, slick enough that they glide in deep on the first push. I curl them immediately, finding the spot that makes her back arch off the bed.
“There it is,” I mutter, lips brushing her clit as I speak. “That’s what you’ve been hiding from me all week, isn’t it?”
She’s panting now, ragged, desperate little sounds spilling out of her. Her fingers yank at my hair like she can’t decide whether to pull me closer or push me away.