Chapter 11 Geneva
GENEVA
I LIE THERE WITH GHOST STILL BESIDE ME IN BED, STARING UP AT the ceiling, completely bewildered.
This man just fucked me like I owed him money.
I smile, my lips spreading with satisfaction and… happiness. Wow. That’s new.
It’s foreign, this feeling. Like a long-lost artifact buried under years of restraint, logic, and carefully controlled emotions.
I don’t do this. Whatever this is. I don’t let people in.
I don’t let people see me, not really. Not beyond the curated, composed version of myself that I present to the world.
But Ghost?
He ripped down my barriers and never apologized for the destruction. The most confusing part of the entire affair is that I wanted him to. I wanted to know what it’s like to truly connect with someone.
Now I don’t know how to live without it.
I tilt my head, glancing over at him. He’s still there, lying beside me, his face turned toward the window, his breathing heavy and uneven. His body is tense, like he’s waiting for something, and I wonder if he’s fighting himself right now the same way I am.
The dim light from the morning sun casts shadows across his face, making him look even more like the contradiction he is. He’s both sharp angles and quiet softness, a man who wields violence with the same precision that he wields control. And yet, right now, here with me, he’s… calm.
Peaceful, even.
The realization makes my chest ache. Because I gave him that.
I reach out, my fingertips barely brushing against his arm. The moment I do, his head snaps toward me, his hazel eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
For a second, we just stare at each other. And I feel it. That pull. That invisible tether between us I can’t explain. Or deny.
I swallow, my voice quiet when I finally speak. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
A muscle in his jaw ticks, his expression unreadable. “I should be asking you that.”
I let out a soft huff, my lips quirking. “I think we’ve established that I’m fine.”
His gaze roams over me, lingering on the marks he left on my skin. The faint fingerprints on my hips. The slight redness of my lips from his brutal kisses. Something dark and possessive flickers in his eyes.
“What are you thinking?” I ask.
He exhales, dragging a hand over his face before turning his head back to stare at the ceiling. “That I’m fucked.”
I blink. “Fucked how?”
His throat bobs as he swallows, and when he looks at me again, there’s no mask. No shields. Just an unfiltered honesty. “Because I don’t know how to exist without you anymore.”
I open my mouth, then close it, my brain scrambling to process what he just said. He talked about this minutes ago, but the fact he’s bringing it up again shows me just how much he’s feeling.
Maybe Ghost is capable of tender emotion…
“You’re mine, Geneva,” he says, his voice rough, edged with something almost desperate. “There’s no going back for either of us. That should scare the shit out of you.”
Maybe it should.
Maybe it would, if I weren’t already too far gone.
I reach up, brushing my fingers against his jaw and tracing the hard lines of his face. He stiffens at first, like he’s not used to being touched so tenderly, but then he relaxes.
“I already told you: I’m not going anywhere,” I say.
His whole body stills, his pupils dilating like a predator who’s just spotted its prey. Then, in one fluid movement, he rolls on top of me, caging me beneath him, his weight pressing me into the mattress. His hands slide up my arms, pinning them beside my head, his grip firm but not bruising.
His lips hover just above mine, his breath hot against my skin. “Say it again,” he orders, his voice barely above a growl.
I arch slightly beneath him, tilting my chin up, my lips brushing his as I whisper, “I won’t leave you.”
A shudder runs through him, and then he devours me. His mouth crashes against mine, his kiss deep, consuming. Confirming. His body presses into me, every inch of him branding me, reminding me that I am his.
And this time, when he thrusts inside me, it’s not just lust.
It’s something very close to love.
Stepping out of the shower, I wrap a towel around myself before heading into the bedroom. Needing to wear comfortable clothes, I put on leggings and a fitted long-sleeve T-shirt.
When I think I can hear voices coming from the living room, I hesitate for only a second before opening the bedroom door and stepping into the hallway. Bracing myself, I peek around the corner to find Ghost in the living room.
And he’s not alone.
A man sits casually on the couch, one ankle propped over his knee, a whiskey glass in his hand. He’s middle-aged, not yet forty, with dark, slicked-back hair and an expensive suit that looks custom-made. His posture is relaxed, but his eyes are alert, calculating, assessing everything.
Including me.
There’s something about the way he carries himself that tugs at the back of my mind. I can’t place it, but it’s there. A nagging recognition, like a name on the tip of my tongue that refuses to surface.
Ghost sits across from him in the armchair, mirroring his posture with an ease that feels dominant. But the second I step fully into the room, the conversation dies.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The man’s eyes flick to Ghost, and something unspoken passes between them before he turns back to me, offering a smooth, practiced smile. “Hello again, Dr. Andrews.”
I freeze.
Again?
My stomach clenches as the nagging recognition sharpens into something more tangible. I sweep my gaze over him once more, my brain flipping through memories like pages of a book, trying to find where I’ve seen him before.
I narrow my eyes. “And you are?”
The man chuckles lightly, taking another slow sip of whiskey, like we’re playing a game only he knows the rules to. “Just a friend.”
Bullshit.
I shift my gaze to Ghost, who’s watching me with that unreadable expression of his. “This is Benedetto Malone,” he says finally, his voice even. “Giulio’s brother.”
My stomach twists. The Malones are the most powerful crime family in the city. Their name is synonymous with power. And bloodshed.
A chill creeps down my spine, before recognition slams into me. The press outside. The courtroom. The uncomfortable wooden benches.
Ghost’s arraignment.
I remember the man who sat beside me that day. Silent. Unbothered. He never spoke—except a few choice curse words—or reacted. But he was there, watching. Just like he’s watching me now.
“I remember you,” I mutter.
Benedetto’s smirk widens ever so slightly, like he’s pleased I figured it out. “Good.”
My throat goes dry. “Ghost’s arraignment, right?”
“Guilty as charged, just like Ghost.”
I turn to Ghost. “Why was he there?”
Ghost exhales slowly, his gaze locked onto mine, but he doesn’t answer. I don’t need him to. Benedetto Malone wasn’t there by chance. He wasn’t just a curious observer. He was there so Ghost wouldn’t be without resources in that courtroom.
I stare at him, feeling like I’ve missed something vital. “What’s going on?”
Benedetto chuckles lightly, swirling the whiskey in his glass. “We’re ‘associates.’ Let’s just say that Ghost has a unique way of getting what he wants.”
“Why are you here?”
“Why don’t you ask him?” Benedetto says with a shrug.
My pulse quickens. I look at Ghost again, searching his face for some type of explanation. When his expression remains blank, I clench my teeth.
“I don’t like being left out of conversations that involve me.”
Benedetto chuckles, low and amused. “Smart girl.”
“Come here, Geneva.”
Ghost’s voice is calm, almost gentle. But his gaze hardens, leaving no room for protests. Especially not arguments.
With a sigh of resignation, I step forward, my legs stiff. The second I’m within reach, Ghost moves faster than my mind can comprehend. One moment I’m standing, the next I’m in his possession.
He grips my waist, his strength effortless as he pulls me down onto his lap, my body colliding with his.
A gasp escapes me as I brace myself against his chest, my fingers instinctively curling into his shirt.
The essence of him surrounds me just as effectively as his arms. The scent is a combination of something clean, crisp, and metallic.
That could be the result of the weapons he handles like a lover, familiar and reverent.
Ghost brushes his thumb over my hip in a soothing motion. “Benedetto’s here to protect you,” he murmurs against my temple, his voice low and intimate, meant only for me. “I need to know you’re safe.”
“I don’t trust him.”
I feel, rather than see, the way Ghost smirks against my temple. “You don’t have to. You need to trust me.”
Touché.
I pull back slightly, meeting his gaze. “Why him?”
Benedetto chuckles from the couch, his voice smooth. “Because I’m the best at what I do, sweetheart.”
I glare at Benedetto, who’s still lounging on my couch, swirling the whiskey in his glass like we’re discussing a TV show rather than my life. His expression remains infuriatingly amused, while Ghost, on the other hand, is unreadable.
“I know he’ll keep you alive,” Ghost says to me. He trails his fingers down my arm, his touch light but firm. “And he owes me.”
Benedetto’s smirk falters slightly at that, but he doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he lifts his glass in a mock toast. “For what it’s worth, I’m not thrilled about playing babysitter either.
” He takes a slow sip, eyeing me over the rim.
“But Ghost and I have an understanding. He does the hunting. I keep you breathing.”
My throat tightens as I swing my gaze back to Ghost. “What if something happens to you?”
His lips twitch slightly, a hint of a smirk, but there’s no amusement behind it. “Then you’ll have to find another psychopath who will ruin your standards when it comes to men.”
I suck in a breath. “That’s not funny.”
“It’s not a joke.”
He shifts his hand to the back of my neck, pressing his fingers hard enough to emphasize his words. “I’ll always come back for you.” His lips brush against my temple, soft and lingering, a silent promise before he finally pulls back.
I hate that he’s leaving.
I hate that I can’t stop him.
I hate that he’s right about me needing protection while he’s gone.
But most of all, I hate that he’s risking his life. For me.
I close my eyes for half a second, inhaling deeply before finally whispering, “Okay.”
Ghost leans his forehead against mine. Just long enough for me to memorize the warmth of him, the feel of his breath against my skin. Then, just as quickly, he pulls back.
Benedetto watches the exchange with mild interest, setting his empty glass on the table before stretching lazily. “All right, lover boy. I’ll keep her safe. Go handle your business.”
Ghost’s eyes flick toward him, bright with warning. “If anything happens to her—”
Benedetto waves a dismissive hand. “Yeah, yeah, I know. You’ll carve me up and scatter the pieces.” He rolls his eyes. “Very original.”
“Actually, I’ll cut off your dick and sew it to your head like a fucking unicorn if anything happens to her.”
We all know that Ghost isn’t making a joke for humor, or succumbing to theatrics. The image of my ex-boyfriend’s dead body flashes in my mind, and I almost feel sorry for Benedetto. Almost.
Benedetto clears his throat, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve. “Duly noted.”
Ghost holds Benedetto’s stare for another moment before his gaze shifts back to me. He drags his fingertips along my arms until they reach my throat, then my jaw, tilting my face up to his. His touch is gentle, but his grip is desperate.
Like he can’t stand the thought of leaving me.
“Ghost—”
He places his thumb on my mouth, sweeping it back and forth across my bottom lip. “I know.”
I want to say more, but the words die in my throat. Because we both know there’s nothing left to talk about. This is the next logical step if I want to survive.
His eyes burn into mine, searching, memorizing, branding me with something unspoken. Then, with agonizing slowness, he presses his lips to my forehead.
Tender.
Regretful.
Final.
Ghost removes me from his lap, his warmth vanishing, leaving a hollow feeling in its place. Then without another word, he walks to the table, grabs a baseball cap and jacket, and disappears.