Chapter 4 Eliza
Eliza
If there were a world record for Stockholm syndrome to kick in, then I’d be the holder. What else do I call this thing twisting up in my gut? It could be exhaustion. Maybe I’ve succumbed to these delusions and accepted my situation.
This late in the night, it’s outrageous for me to be hovering over a plate of onion rings and a chicken sandwich that guarantees an upset stomach in the morning.
I’ve always had set meal times, with very slim choices to pick from. Everything has always been planned out for me, so this spontaneous moment feels unsettling. I hate it.
While I don’t want to accept that Ghost is right about my father, about the control he clearly has on me, the evidence is glaringly right in my face.
Ugh. I don’t want to think about myself anymore. At this point, I’m so mentally exhausted that I can hardly even think as it is.
Crunching down on another ring, I stare at his leg. Did he really get kidnapped, or was he lying? Did they take his limb so he couldn’t leave? My own legs curl at the thoughts, the slippers now on my feet thump against the foot of a couch.
“What are you thinking?” Ghost sits at the other end, creating a space between us, watching me with an intensity that feels both new and familiar.
After asking for this food to be made, he’s been quiet, seemingly content just to observe.
But is this any different than what he’s confessed?
Have his eyes always been on me like this?
The bite goes down the wrong pipe, and I cough. Clearing my throat, I grasp for something to say that isn’t the dizzying truth. My gaze catches on the solid line of his prosthetic, and I nod toward it. “I’m wondering how similar our cases really are.”
Ghost nods slowly, his eyes leaving mine to stare at a point on the wall. In this room, there isn’t much. It’s more of a refuge when the chaos of the bar becomes too much. The thrum of the bass is just a muffled beat on the other side of the door.
“Someone reached out to me when I was not in a good mental state,” he begins, his voice soft. The memory visibly pains him, tightening the skin around his eyes. “Four years ago, I got in a bad motorcycle accident. The loss of my leg was only the second worst loss that day.”
Trying to figure out what could possibly be worse than losing a limb, he chuckles despite the grim topic.
He lets the silence hang for a moment, the unspoken loss a heavy presence in the room. “I lost my nerve. The fear… it ruined my love for riding. It ruined everything. I fell into a hole so deep I didn’t see a way out. I tried to end it.”
He laughs like it’s funny, but the amusement doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Someone from the club had heard about my story beforehand. My now best friend, funny enough.” His mouth finally curves into a smile, the memory turning better.
“Stacks doesn’t like taking no as an answer when he demanded I join the club.
The bastard is insistent. He kicked down my door when I broke my streak at the bar, found me, and literally dragged me here before I succeeded in a second attempt. ”
Surprised by his story, I can’t believe it. Sounding like he’s faced death multiple times, his name really is fitting. “You’re amazing.”
He freezes, his head tilting as if he’s sure he misheard. A slow, bewildered blink. The reaction is so genuine, so unguarded, it sends a wave of warmth through me. A little part of me is shocked, too—not just by the compliment, but by the sincerity of it.
So, Ghost was rescued in his own way. I suppose I can see a few similarities. Looking at him now, he looks great. Sure, his body has taken damage, but the person he is on the inside isn’t someone I’d ever consider having suffered.
Munching on my food, I peel my eyes away as he rubs the back of his neck. Coming off like the bashful type, he goes as far as muttering a thanks.
He’s kind of cute. Sure, I haven’t had the chance to be around a lot of guys, so my experience with them is slim to nothing, but this pull I feel toward him can’t be from nothing. Again, is it Stockholm syndrome, or something else?
It’s scary to think I could be feeling anything for a man who is a mixture of my kidnapper and rescuer.
Once I’m done with my food, he takes my styrofoam dish and sets it to the side. As he gets to his feet, he motions back toward the rooms available.
“Let’s get you settled. You’ve had a long few hours.”
He reaches a hand down to help me up. My fingers slip into his, and the moment our palms meet, a jolt of heat spreads up my arm. He pulls me to my feet with an easy strength, but instead of stepping back to give me space, we both seem to freeze as time feels nonexistent.
I’m standing closer to him than I have been all night. The bar’s muted bass thrums in time with my heartbeat. My gaze, which had been fixed on the solid wall of his chest, travels upward, over the column of his throat, the sharp line of his jaw, until it lands on his mouth.
A sudden, unbidden thought flashes through my mind, so vivid it steals my breath. I wonder what they feel like.
The intensity of the wonder shocks me. It’s not just a passing curiosity; it’s a desire to know if they’re as soft as they look, or if they’d be demanding against mine.
Ghost wanted to save me for a reason, and I find it hard to believe that it was out of the kindness of his heart. What if he wants me as much as the man I was promised to?
Somehow, my heart beats harder. His hoodie on my body feels even warmer.
Then, just as quickly as it came, the moment breaks. He clears his throat, the sound rough, and takes a step back, releasing my hand. The loss of contact feels like a cold draft.
“Come on,” he says, his voice slightly deeper than before. He turns to lead the way, and I follow, my legs feeling unsteady for a reason that has nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with the man walking ahead of me.
He leads me back to his room and motions toward the large, rumpled bed. “Try to get some sleep.”
My body thrums at the sight of it, a flush creeping up my neck. The proximity from moments before in the common room still hums under my skin.
Are we going to share it? The thought is terrifying and exhilarating.
The concept is so foreign, so intimate. I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before.
My mind races, tripping over a cascade of worries—the heat of another body, the sound of someone else’s breathing in the dark, the accidental brush of skin.
While I’m frozen in my silent, internal panic, he moves.
But not toward the other side of the bed.
He grabs a spare blanket from a shelf, then slides down the wall to sit on the floor, his back against it.
He pulls his laptop onto his lap, the screen casting a blue glow across the sharp planes of his face.
“I’ll be here,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Tomorrow might be worse. I’ll have to tell the president what’s happening.”
The relief that washes over me is so potent it feels like weakness, my knees nearly buckling. But it’s quickly followed by a confusing, sharp pang of… disappointment? He’s giving me his bed, taking the hard floor himself?
“You’re not tired?” Drifting to the bed, I spread out against the blankets and take in a deep breath. Everything in this room smells the same. Smells like him.
“I work best when it’s late.” He keeps his eyes on his screen. “More invisible this way.”
I hum, trying to digest his answer. His jacket has a patch that says ‘Tech Specialist’, but something tells me it’s more than that. He got into our security, after all.
The exhaustion finally seeps into my bones, heavy and undeniable, and somehow, despite the whirlwind in my mind, I let my eyes close and use the sound of his keyboard to fall asleep.
It’s only a few hours later when I wake, the room still dark, the muffled bass from the bar now silent. My eyes adjust, and I see him.
Ghost is still on the floor, the blue glow of the laptop screen painting his face in shadows.
He looks tired, the line of his shoulders tense, but his concentration is absolute, his gaze fixed on the screen.
Has he found something out, or is there already a list of issues for this place he tries to protect?
Still wrapped in the haze of sleep, the words leave me in a soft mumble. “Aren’t you going to sleep?”
He doesn’t look up, but his typing stops. “Monitoring the feeds. Making sure no one gets any ideas about coming this way.”
The protectiveness in his voice, the sheer exhaustion in his profile, makes my chest ache. It’s a reckless, sleepy impulse. I shift over, my hand patting the empty space on the mattress beside me. “Just for a little while.”
His eyes snap to mine, the screen’s light catching the surprise in them. The room is so quiet I can hear the faint hum of the laptop. “You sure?”
“Yeah,” I whisper into the darkness, my heart thumping a slow, heavy rhythm against my ribs. “I’m sure.”
Even if it’s the exhaustion pulling at me that’s causing my guard to be lowered, I’m ready to feed into it.
When he shuts the laptop and the room is engulfed in darkness, I hear too much shifting around. Unable to see what he’s doing, I hear the sound of fabric against skin. Imagining he’s getting changed, I bury my face into the blankets before my eyes can adjust completely.
When Ghost finally appears, there’s a slight struggle as he joins me. I don’t need to overanalyze his frustrated sighs and grunts. Nor do I miss the soft apology that leaves his lips when something thuds to the ground.
Once he’s on his back, he’s respectful enough to keep his distance, but there’s only so much that can be made on a bed this size.
Feeling the heat radiating off of him, I scooch closer without thinking. He doesn’t shift, letting me do as I please.
“Has he noticed I’m gone?” It’s a stupid question, but I feel the need to know.
“Yeah.” He sighs softly. “He knows.”
Something unsettling twists in my gut. Is it the thought of returning that is gnawing at me? Deep in my chest, I know the truth. As shaky as the future is, I don’t want to go back to the past.
Pinching my eyes shut, I try not to let my thoughts unwind about it all and hope sleep comes back to me.