Chapter 17 Ghost
GHOST
THE HOUSE SMELLS LIKE STALE BEER, SWEAT, AND CIGARETTE smoke. The floorboards creak beneath my bare feet as I shift, bracing myself for what’s coming. I know how this goes. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.
Not until I’m big enough to fight back.
The scrape of a chair and the clinking of glass are the first signs of danger. Then there’s a resigned sigh from my mother. A deep inhale as she presses herself into the corner, making herself small and pretending she doesn’t exist. Pretending she doesn’t know what’s about to happen to me.
Then there’s my father… He’s already looking for something to break.
A plate.
A bottle.
A person.
I stand in the doorway with my heart pounding in my chest and my fingers curling into fists at my sides. I know the drill. I know that if I step forward and make myself a target, then Abby won’t be.
My baby sister. Three years old with golden hair so light, it looks white, and big brown eyes that don’t understand why Daddy is always angry. She’s too small to stop him, so I do it for her. I take it all, and I have for years.
I’ll keep doing it until I’m old enough to get us away from here.
It’s why I don’t cry when he backhands me across the room. Why I don’t flinch when my ribs crack under the force of his boot. Why I rise to my feet, again and again, until the edges of my vision blur, my body screams for mercy, and my blood stains the floor.
Because I can take it.
And as long as I take it, Abby stays safe. That’s the rule. That’s how this game works.
But then I hear it. Abby whimpers in pain. And it shatters everything.
My heart.
My soul.
My fucking mind.
I seize up, the agony in my limbs vanishing as pure terror replaces it at the sight of my father’s hands on her. I try to move, to stand, but my legs give out beneath me. The room tilts and my vision flickers.
I open my mouth to yell, to tell him to stop, to tell my mother to do something, but all that comes out is blood. Abby cries out, her tiny body flailing as he grips her arm, shaking her like she’s nothing more than a rag doll. She’s sobbing for help. Sobbing my name.
“Liam!”
I claw at the floor, trying to drag myself forward.
Please, please, let me get to her. Let me take the punishment before it’s too late.
“Let her go!” I say around the blood filling my mouth. “Hurt me! Kill me!”
The first hit lands, and the sound of Abby’s scream tears me apart. I fight harder, pulling every bit of willpower I have to the surface as I drag myself across the floor, leaving a streak of crimson in my wake.
But suddenly, she isn’t Abby anymore.
Her hair darkens. The soft features sharpen. And the voice crying out for me is different.
It’s Geneva.
She’s in my father’s grasp, his fingers wrapped around her throat. The world shifts, warping violently, the house melting away to be replaced by shadows. The edges of my vision blur, but I can still see her. Still see him hurting her.
My father’s face morphs into Marcus Telford’s. Geneva kicks against him, clawing at his arm, gasping for air, and I can’t move. I reach for her, my limbs heavy and my body sluggish like I’m wading through cement.
Telford grins. And when he tightens his grip, a sickening crack splinters through the air.
Geneva goes limp.
My breathing stops. My vision darkens. A scream rips from my chest. From my fucking soul.
“Ghost, wake up!”
My eyes fly open. Geneva’s beautiful face hovers over mine, her gaze filled with panic. I jolt, gasping, still half trapped in the darkest corner of my mind. My pulse thunders, and my sweat-slicked chest heaves with my struggles to breathe.
It takes me a second to register where I am. The familiar scent of Geneva’s sheets. The quiet of the room. The weight of her body pressing against mine.
I blink again and again, trying to force reality to settle in, but I can still hear Abby’s screams. Still see Geneva’s lifeless body.
Geneva cups my face, her hands trembling, her voice soft but firm. “You’re okay,” she whispers. “I’m here with you. It wasn’t real. It was just a nightmare.”
I don’t answer. I can’t because she doesn’t understand. It wasn’t a nightmare.
It was a memory.
Followed by what could be reality.
Geneva keeps her hands on my face, her thumbs barely moving as if trying to coax me back to the present. Back to her.
I close my eyes, focusing on the feel of her touch and the steady rhythm of her breathing. I try to let it replace the screams still echoing in my head, some of them mine.
Geneva is alive.
Abby is not.
The realization presses down on me, twisting something deep inside my chest. I inhale, slow and controlled, then pry Geneva’s hands off my face.
She doesn’t protest, but she doesn’t withdraw either. I sit up, running a hand down my face before resting my elbows on my knees, grounding myself with the feel of the mattress beneath me. My body is stiff, tense like it’s waiting for another hit. Another failure.
I don’t know what I would’ve done if Geneva wasn’t actually beside me right now. If she had been taken from me the way Abby was.
I won’t think about that.
Geneva shifts, pulling her knees to her chest. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
She exhales, but there’s no frustration in it. Just acceptance. A quiet understanding.
“Okay,” she murmurs.
I glance at her from the corner of my eye. She’s sitting close but not touching me. Giving me space but not leaving me alone. Her understanding, deep and unobtrusive, is what makes her different. Perfect for me.
After a while, I reach out, curling my fingers around her ankle and rubbing my thumb absentmindedly against her skin. Not because I need to control something. Not because I need her submission.
But because I need to feel her.
She doesn’t tense or question me. She just stays there, her breath steady, her presence sinking into my skin, soothing me.
I stare down at the floor, watching the shadows stretch beneath the soft glow of the moonlight.
My body still hums with adrenaline, a violent energy that has nowhere to go. My fingers twitch against her skin.
She shifts slightly. “You’re shaking.”
I blow out a breath while forcing my hands to still. “I’m fine.”
A lie. One she doesn’t call me on.
Instead, she watches me like she always does, those astute, intelligent eyes counting every breath, every flicker of tension in my muscles. I can feel her analyzing me, cataloging every reaction, every bit of silence.
“Do you get them often?” she asks, her voice quiet.
I don’t answer. The truth is, I don’t sleep much. Not enough for the nightmares to come as often as they should. But when they do, they’re like this. So real, so visceral that it takes me a long time to fight my way back to the present.
I let go of her ankle, flexing my fingers as I shift to lean back against the headboard. The sheets are damp with sweat, my pulse still erratic. I hate this feeling.
Geneva moves, sitting up fully now, watching me like she’s waiting for something. I don’t know what she expects.
I rub a hand down my face. “You should go back to sleep.”
“And what about you?”
I glance at her, my gaze trailing over her face, the messy waves of her hair, the soft curve of her lips. She’s gorgeous. More than that, she’s mine. And the thought of closing my eyes again—of seeing her like I saw Abby—makes my stomach lurch.
“I’m not tired,” I murmur.
A lie. Another one she doesn’t call me on.
She sighs, rubbing a hand over her arm. “Ghost…”
I know that tone. That careful, measured pitch she uses when she’s trying to get me to open up. But I don’t want to be studied right now. I don’t want to be understood. I just want her.
So I do the only thing that makes sense.
I reach for her.
Geneva barely has time to react before I pull her into my lap, gripping her thighs, pressing her against me. She lets out a small gasp, her hands bracing against my chest, but she doesn’t stop me.
She never does.
I bury my face against the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent. Whiskey. Magnolia. Something utterly feminine.
My Geneva.
She relaxes, just slightly, curling her fingers into my hair. “You’re okay,” she whispers. “I’m here.”
In response, I press a kiss against her throat, feeling the steady beat of her pulse beneath my lips. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t.”