Chapter 7 Ghost
GHOST
GENEVA’S APARTMENT IS DARK, SAVE FOR A DIM LIGHT IN THE HALLWAY.
The smell of antiseptic hangs in the air, no doubt left behind by the paramedics who patched her up.
It mingles with the familiar scent of Geneva.
It’s soft and floral with a hint of something I can never quite place but crave all the same.
Another feminine smell wafts under my nose. Sarah, the dutiful best friend who stayed by Geneva’s side the entire time I was dealing with Skinner. Lucky for me the woman left before nightfall, or I would’ve been forced to access Geneva’s bedroom window instead of the front door.
I step inside, quietly closing the door behind me. My boots barely make a sound as I move through the living room, searching for her. For the other half of my soul. Finding the couch empty, I head toward the bedroom.
My hands are still stained, the dried blood cracked and caked around my knuckles and between my fingers. It’s Skinner’s blood. His screams still echo in my ears, along with the way he begged when he realized I wasn’t just going to kill him. That I was going to torture him extensively.
And God, did he suffer.
I might’ve only stretched it over the past twenty-four hours, but I made it feel like a lifetime of torture. Nothing less than the best for my girl.
And for me, if I’m being honest.
Geneva’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, and the soft sound of her breathing reaches me, steady and even. Relief washes over me, so powerful it almost drops me to my knees. I’ve been monitoring her on the camera feeds, but it’s not the same.
I push the door open carefully, not wanting to wake her.
The sight of Geneva stops me in my tracks.
She’s lying on her side, her hair fanned out across the pillow like dark silk.
Her face is turned toward me, peaceful in sleep, but the faint bruising on her jaw stands out, a horrible reminder of everything that happened.
The bandage on her forehead has my hands curling into fists. Skinner did that.
And I made sure he paid for it.
I move closer, needing to be near her. Geneva doesn’t stir as I sink onto the mattress, my eyes never leaving her face. The urge to touch her is overwhelming, much stronger than my need to kill has ever been.
I reach out, my fingers caressing her cheek, and then the slope of her neck. The warmth of her skin seeps into mine, soothing me in a way I can’t explain. I brush my thumb over her jaw, careful not to press too hard, as if my touch could somehow erase the marks Skinner left.
The demons inside me are quiet now. They’re silent in a way that’s unprecedented, like they’ve been sedated by the simple act of touching her. My thumb moves in slow circles, stroking the soft skin of her face, and the rage simmering in my blood begins to fade.
I slide my hand down to her arm, splaying my fingers over her shoulder, then drag them to her wrist. Her hand lies limp against the blanket, her fingers delicate and pale, and I trace each one.
It’s such a minor thing, this small connection, but it brings me peace.
A foreign concept in a lifetime of chaos.
My entire existence has always been ruled by anger and violence.
It’s the only language I’ve ever known, the only thing that’s ever made sense.
But touching her, feeling her warmth beneath my fingertips, it’s like she’s rewriting everything.
Geneva is teaching me a new language. One I didn’t even think I was capable of understanding.
I briefly close my eyes and release a long breath. The tightness in my muscles loosens with each steady rise and fall of her chest. She’s alive.
But I could’ve lost her.
“You have no idea what you do to me. What you mean to me,” I whisper, my voice rough. “You might not think this is love, but I can’t imagine anything greater, or more powerful. The things I would do for you…”
Her hand shifts slightly under mine, and I freeze, worried I’ve woken her. But she settles again, her breathing even, and her face gentled in repose. Relief washes over me, but it’s tinged with something sharper. Fear.
I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Most likely set the world on fire and kill people so their loved ones would feel a fraction of my pain.
I sit there for what feels like hours, my fingers lightly entwined with Geneva’s, letting her very presence envelop me. The demons are still there, lurking in the corners of my mind, but for the first time they’re content with the blood on my hands and this woman at my side.