Chapter 15 The Ghost Speaks #2
“I’m sorry, Ren,” I whisper, not sure why we’re speaking in hushed tones with no one around. “I hope she finds a match soon.”
He nods, still not looking at me.
I don’t know what comes over me—the agony leaching from his frame, the gut feeling he has no one to talk to, or the camaraderie of hiding pain behind masks—but I need to comfort him.
To tell him he isn’t alone.
Gently, I step up to his back and wrap my arms around him.
For a moment, the world silences. No wind. No birds. Nothing except the sound of my blood rushing in my ears and his flurried heartbeats beneath my palms.
He slides his hands down my forearms, sending tiny shockwaves through my nerves before clasping his fingers over mine.
Awareness braises between us, thick and heavy.
We stay like that for a few fragile beats—too short to count, too long not to matter.
Until Blake’s ring digs into my skin from being pressed up against Ren.
What am I doing?
I bolt back, my fingers finding the sunflower center stone, clutching its sharp edges.
Ren turns around, his eyes blazing with hunger until his gaze lands on what I’m holding.
Something flashes across his face—too quick for me to understand.
He squeezes my hand, still clenching my ring, then gently eases my fingers apart, one by one.
An audible swallow. A half-sigh.
His fingers tremble as he rests my hand over his beating heart.
Feel me, his eyes seem to say.
The world distills into fragments. Sensations.
A fire sparks in my core, sweeping up my spine. My fingers travel lightly over his shirt.
He hisses like he’s in pain.
I feel a raised scar—proof he’s endured a dance with death and survived.
Tears moisten my eyes.
Someone died to give Ren another chance at life.
“It’s a gift,” I whisper. “Organ donation.”
Closing my eyes, I focus on the steady thumps of his heart.
Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
“Someone else lives on within you,” I continue. “You carry the wishes and dreams they didn’t get to complete. And I hope someday Celia will receive that gift.”
When I open my eyes, his haunted gaze brands me with warmth. He reaches up and cradles my cheek, his thumb skimming the surface.
Shivers dash along my skin and my eyes flutter shut again.
“I want to thank you…for that night at the hotel. It was the best sleep I’ve had in months.”
He takes my hand, the one over his heart, and covers my palm the same way he did in the hospital all those weeks ago.
I didn’t know a killer’s hand could be so tender with me.
A soft pressure caresses my hair—a breath, a kiss, or something else.
When I open my eyes, he’s stepped back.
Cold air crashes between us.
Suddenly bereft, I say, “I think I should thank you somehow…with more than words.”
He arches a brow.
“How about another book?”
He blinks.
“I gave you The Little Prince last time. Was I right? Was I close?”
Ren’s throat ripples, and he reaches for his phone again.
Ren
Yes. It was a favorite.
“Yes!” I pump my fist into the air, feeling accomplished. Perhaps I sense the man before me doesn’t get softness or little joys like reading. And I want to give him that.
He gives me a lopsided smile, and my stomach flips.
Ren
What book are you giving me?
“Three questions. Same as last time?” I can’t help but smile back.
He nods. I take a few seconds to mull over what I want to ask him.
“First question: if you had to live in one place forever, what would you pick—a storm-battered lighthouse, a locked library, or a cabin in the woods?”
“What?” he mouths.
I ignore him and continue. “Second question: which is worse—hurting the wrong person, failing to protect the right person, or surviving something you shouldn’t have?”
My heart trembles as I feel his heated stare on my face while I look at my feet, not knowing why I can’t look him in the eye for this last question.
“Third question,” I murmur. “What’s more dangerous—being known, being needed, or being loved?”
Silence falls between us. A cricket chirps in the background.
But then my phone pings.
Ren
1. Storm-battered lighthouse. 2. Surviving something I shouldn’t have. 3. Being loved.
My stomach drops.
He’s lonely. Tormented.
And his second and third answers mirror mine. Maybe the damn full moon finally makes me realize the truth.
I have survivor’s guilt over Blake.
I save people for a living, but I couldn’t save him. And I’m restless because I’m starved for affection, but afraid of losing it again.
Boots fill my vision, followed by careful fingers as he tilts my chin up to look at him.
“You okay?” he mouths.
He traces a small line next to my lips, as if to beg me to smile.
Flustered, I say, “Storm-battered lighthouse? What’s wrong with you? A cabin in the woods is the way to go.”
Ren gives me a pained smile and types on his phone.
Ren
It’s too nice for someone like me.
I snort. “What? Scary bodyguards can’t like the woods? I’d think it’d suit you—hermit and all. Do you know how loud a storm-battered lighthouse is? You’ll need earplugs. Since you don’t like to speak, taking away your hearing is just tragic.”
He chuckles as he steps back again and types on his phone.
Ren
Only you would turn a book recommendation into an interrogation.
“I take all my jobs seriously, including book matchmaking.” I try my best to sound stern. But I obviously fail because he only smiles again.
Ren
So, my gongzhu and book doctor, what’s the verdict?
“You’re never going to tell me what that nickname means, huh?”
He winks and I sigh.
“Since we’re watching Wuthering Heights inside, I’m going to pick another Bronte sister classic for you. Jane Eyre. Try not to brood in my ER or when you go…hunting.”
He laughs, the sound loud and hoarse.
And utterly beautiful.
Something lifts inside me, and before I know it, I laugh alongside him.
Later that night, I’m staring at the dark ceiling in my bedroom, restless again, reliving my strange interaction with Ren.
After our conversation, we went back inside the café.
I helped Scarlett with inventory in the back room, needing to do something with my hands.
When I finished and returned to the main area, Ren was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, a handsome man with dirty-blond hair and a three-piece suit stood by the counter, his stony gaze telling me he was irritated.
He introduced himself as Sebastian and said he was part of The Syndicate. When he drove me home, he peppered me with questions about my nonexistent relationship with Ren. The man seemed distantly amused, like he didn’t understand what all the fuss was about.
Confused and lonely again, I opened the TellNo1 app to text the only person who’d understand.
ILoveDarkStories
Are you Reaper? You never answered me. Why are you ghosting me? Why won’t anyone tell me anything? Why am I always so fucking alone?
Not waiting for a response, I set the phone on my nightstand and tried to sleep.
But I’m wide awake. I toss and turn before shifting to my side, my gaze catching on Blake’s chessboard by the window, the knight still on its side, unmoved.
Unease follows me as I eventually drift into an unsettling sleep.
Thump.
I bolt upright, clutching the blankets to my sweaty skin.
Thump.
The sound. I didn’t imagine it. It isn’t a nightmare this time.
I think of the knight piece, the distinct sensation of being watched while I sleep.
Yanking open my nightstand drawer, I pull out the pepper spray and press the emergency short dial Tristan gave me.
“I-I’m armed. Police are on their way,” I holler to the darkness.
Another creak. A soft shuffle.
A shadowy presence reaches my bedside, but before I can shriek, a gloved hand covers my mouth.
“Shh,” a deep voice rasps. “I won’t hurt you.”
I scream into his muffled hand, my fingers clutching my phone, hoping the emergency call went through.
My hopes are dashed when the shadowy figure yanks my phone out of my grip and swipes on it.
For a brief second, a flicker of blue light illuminates his face.
Or lack thereof.
A black hood covers his head, hiding most of his features. I spot a glint of a silver mask. Broad shoulders.
Recognition sparks, and I gasp. The stranger at the club.
His eyes land on mine, then everything plunges into darkness when he clicks off my phone.
“You’re going to be good and not scream,” he says.
Oh crap. Oh crap. Oh crap.
I nod vigorously, not that he can see me.
But apparently he can, because he slowly lets me go.
“Who are you and why the hell are you here?” The words rush from my mouth, unfiltered.
A beat of tense silence passes. Then a low, unnatural chuckle.
“You didn’t want to be alone. So…here I am.”