16. Ghost
The antiseptic stench of the hospital is finally behind us, replaced by the damp, heavy air of a London morning.
I’ve spent forty-eight hours in a hospital chair, vibrating with a cocktail of caffeine and homicidal intent, but as I help Angel into the back of the car Oliver arranged, all that matters is that my girl is in my arms.
I’m hovering. I know I am. Every time she takes a step, I’m right there, my hand hovering near the small of her back, my eyes scanning the pavement for even the slightest crack that might trip her up.
She’s pale, and the bruises on her neck have turned a sickening shade of yellow and mottled green, but she’s upright. She’s breathing.
“Ghost,” she murmurs, a small, tired smile playing on her lips as I practically lift her into the seat. “I’m injured, not made of spun glass. I can walk ten feet without collapsing.”
“Humor me, baby.” I grunt, tucking a blanket around her legs despite the heater being on full blast.
I catch her eye, and the flirting comes easy now—a sharp, desperate contrast to the darkness of the ICU. “Besides,” I lean in, my voice dropping to a low rumble near her ear, “I like having an excuse to keep my hands on you.”
She blushes, a faint pink returning to her cheeks. My chest aches with a fierce, possessive need.
We make it to the apartment—a clean, modern space that feels too quiet, too fragile for a man like me. Shade is already there, pacing the living room like a caged wolf, his eyes darting to the door the second we walk in. Oliver follows us, looking weary but focused.
I follow Angel back to her bedroom. It’s small, smelling of lavender and the perfume she’s worn since she was sixteen. Being in her private space feels like an intrusion, a glimpse into the life she built without me.
“I’ll set up on the floor,” I say, already eyeing the rug. “I’m not leaving the room, but I don’t want to crowd you.”
Angel sits on the edge of the bed, kicking off her shoes. She looks up at me, her green eyes steady. “The bed is huge, Ghost. And after the last three days, the last thing I want is space between us. Sleep with me. Please.”
My protective instincts war with my common sense. “Angel, I’m a big guy. I move in my sleep. I don’t want to accidentally hurt you, especially with your neck and—”
“You won’t,” she interrupts, reaching out to snag my hand. “I need to feel you there. I need to know you’re real and not just a concussion-induced dream. Get in the bed, Ghost.”
I can’t help the dry chuckle that escapes me. “Yes, ma’am.”
I strip down to my t-shirt and boxers, feeling the chill of the London flat, and slide in beside her. I reach out, pulling her gently against my chest. I’m careful of her throat, careful of her spirit.
She sighs, a long, shaky sound of relief, and tilts her head back.
In the dim light of the afternoon, with the muffled sounds of London traffic outside, I lean down.
Slowly. This is a claim. My lips meet hers, and the world finally stops spinning.
She tastes like mint and the lingering bitterness of hospital tea, but beneath that, she tastes like mine.
It’s a soft, lingering contact that says everything I don’t have the words for yet.
I love you. I’m sorry. I’m never leaving.
When I pull back, her eyes are wet. “Go to sleep, baby,” I whisper, kissing the tip of her nose.
It doesn’t take long for her breathing to even out.
The trauma has exhausted her, and the safety of having a Halo in her bed finally lets her guard drop.
Once I’m sure she’s deep under, I carefully disentangle myself.
I move like a shadow, pulling my pants back on, slipping out of the room and closing the door with a silent click.
The atmosphere in the living room is entirely different. The soft light of the bedroom is replaced by the harsh, cold reality of the mission.
Shade is sitting at the small dining table, cleaning a knife he must have picked up at a local shop. He doesn’t look like a new patch anymore; he looks like Doc’s son.
“She’s out?” Shade asks, his voice like gravel.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning against the wall, my arms crossed. “She’s sleeping.”
I turn my gaze to Oliver, who is standing by the window, nursing a cup of coffee. He looks at us—two large, tattooed men discussing a death sentence in his living room—and he doesn’t flinch.
“Brian needs to go,” I say. It’s not a question. It’s a fundamental law of the universe. “He doesn’t get a trial. He doesn’t get to explain. He gets a hole in the ground.”
Shade nods, his eyes dark. “I want to be the one to do it. But we don’t know this city. We don’t know where he hides, and we can’t exactly go around asking questions without attracting attention.”
Oliver sets his coffee down. He looks pale, his hands slightly trembling, but his eyes are hard. He’s a med student—he’s spent his life learning how to save people—but Brian crossed a line that turned a healer into a hunter.
“I’ll help you,” Oliver says.
Shade raises an eyebrow. “You sure? This isn’t a playground. You see us do this, there’s no going back to your textbooks and your quiet life.”
“He basically killed her,” Oliver says, his voice gaining strength.
“I was the one who found her. I was the one who felt how cold her skin was. I saw the marks. I know her hard limits. He didn’t just go too far. He violated her. If I hadn’t seen him running like a coward, she’d be in a morgue right now. Her heart stopped, Shade. For like ten seconds, she was dead.”
The air in the room turns frigid. I feel the monster under my skin clawing to get out. Ten seconds.
“I know London,” Oliver continues. “I know how to get you in and out of every neighborhood without being caught on a thousand CCTV cameras.”
I look at Oliver with a new sense of respect. He’s not one of us, but for Angel, he’s willing to become whatever is necessary.
“Tomorrow,” I decide, my voice flat. “We handle it tomorrow. We do it clean, we do it fast, and then we get her the hell out of here. I want her back on American soil by the weekend.”
“Agreed,” Shade says.
We spend the next hour over a map of London, Oliver pointing out the blind spots and the exits. It’s a clinical, cold conversation. By the time we’re done, Brian’s fate is sealed. He’s a dead man; he just hasn’t stopped walking yet.
I head back into the bedroom, the weight of the coming violence sitting heavy in my gut, but the second I see Angel, the tension breaks.
I slide back into the bed, pulling her small, warm body against mine. She stirs in her sleep, murmuring something unintelligible and burrowing closer to my heat. I rest my chin on top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair.
I think about the life I’m going to give her. I’m the luckiest man alive, and tomorrow, I’m going to make sure the man who tried to take this from me never sees another sunrise.
I close my eyes, listening to the steady, beautiful sound of her heartbeat.
Ten seconds, my mind whispers.
I hold her a little tighter. Never again.