Chapter 28 Geneva
GENEVA
THE FOLDER FEELS HEAVIER THAN IT SHOULD IN MY HANDS, LIKE the weight of it is trying to drag me down. Inside are the names, the photos, and the details of the three men who murdered my parents.
André Bisset.
Dominic Carter.
Luis Dominguez.
My fingers tremble as I flip through the pages, the familiar bitterness of rage rising in my throat as I take in their faces smiling in public, their lives untouched by the devastation they caused. I slap the folder shut.
“What’s the verdict, Doc?”
“I want them dead,” I say, my voice steady even though my pulse pounds in my ears.
Ghost leans against the edge of the table in my apartment, arms crossed, his hazel eyes locked on me. He’s silent for a moment, studying me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to piece together. Finally, a faint smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Are you sure you want to be the one to do it?”
“You’ve done it, so how hard can it be?” I snap, gripping the folder tighter. “I want to learn how.”
The smirk deepens, darker now, more amused. “You make it sound like it’s a weekend seminar.”
“You’re the one who said you’d protect me. Well, this is how you do it. You teach me. Because I’m doing this with or without you.”
His smirk fades, replaced by something severe. He straightens, walking up to me, his presence surrounding me like a brick wall, solid and unyielding. “Murder isn’t something you do on impulse. It’s a skill. A craft. You don’t just wake up one day and know how to do it.”
I nearly flinch at the word “impulse,” as my research from earlier today rises to the forefront of my mind.
This morning, impulsivity was a dividing line, a distinction between men who kill because they can and men who kill because they must. I spent hours dissecting the profiles, the case studies, and the neurological markers that separate instinct from intent.
Ghost isn’t like the others.
He doesn’t act on reckless urges or fleeting rage. He’s calculated, and methodical. Every kill is a decision, not a reaction. That’s what makes him dangerous. That’s what makes him effective.
It’s what makes him different.
I need to believe that he isn’t ruled by the darkness inside him. Because, if he’s nothing more than instinct and bloodlust, then falling for him will be the most reckless, most lethal thing I’ve ever done. More dangerous than hunting down Carter. More damning than learning how to kill.
I tighten my grip on the folder, but my hands still shake. I tell myself it’s rage, not fear. That it’s because of the weight of what I’m about to do. Not the way Ghost looks at me—with unadulterated need, with unwavering possession—that makes my heart stutter.
If I give myself to him completely, I won’t just be stepping into the unknown. I’ll be surrendering to something neither of us can control.
“Teach me,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on.
He chuckles, a low sound that vibrates through the air. “Fine. ‘How to Murder for Dummies.’ Rule number one: Listen to me, no matter what I say.”
“Okay.”
A genuine smile graces his lips, taking my breath away. Ghost is devastatingly beautiful. I wonder if he has any idea…
“You don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to being obedient, Doc.”
His words sting, but they’re truthful. “Fine, I’ll listen to you. What else?”
“Rule number two,” he says, holding up two fingers. “You need to learn how to separate what you want from what you do.”
I force myself to hold his gaze, even as the intensity of his presence makes me want to look away. “And if I can’t?”
“Then you die,” he says bluntly. “Or you get caught.” He takes another step, close enough now that I can feel his breath on my skin.
“Rule three: Always know more about your target than they know about you. Their habits, their weaknesses, their patterns—those are the things that will get you close enough to strike without obstruction. Lucky for you, I already did that.”
“Thank you.” I nod in understanding, gripping the folder like it’s my only proof of reality. Because everything about this conversation is surreal. “And rule number four?”
“Rule four is: Never leave evidence. If they find so much as a hair, a footprint, or a fingerprint, it’s over. That might sound obvious, but you’d be surprised.” He pauses, studying me. “Or maybe that wouldn’t surprise you, given your line of work.”
“What else?”
He tilts his head slightly, watching me like he’s trying to decide if I’m serious or just stubborn. “You’ll need to learn how to kill.”
My stomach flips. “Explain.”
His gaze doesn’t waver, cold and unrelenting.
“Be prepared to engage with whatever’s available.
Guns, knives, poison, or your bare hands, it doesn’t matter.
What matters is that you’re prepared to do what needs to be done.
Cleanly. Efficiently. It’s best to go in with a plan in place, but also with the realization that shit can pop off at any moment and you have to be ready for any eventuality or outcome. ”
I lift my chin. “Okay.”
For a moment, he just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then he nods slowly, his lips curling into that dark, knowing smirk again. “All right,” he says, his voice soft and dangerous. “Your first lesson begins now.”
Ghost steps away from me to pull a knife from his back pocket. He tosses it, the blade spinning through the air before he catches it. I watch in fascination, noting the ease with which he handles the weapon. The same one he used to make me come.
He slams it on the table. I jump at the sound, yanked from the memory of him ordering me to rub my pussy all over the handle.
“Pick it up,” he says.
I hesitate for only a second before I reach for the weapon. The weight of it is unfamiliar, heavier than I expected. My grip is too tight, my hand stiff, adding to my awkwardness.
“Relax,” he murmurs, stepping behind me. He covers my hands with his, then presses his front to my back. “You’re not supposed to strangle it. You need to control it.”
His voice is low, his breath warm against my ear, but despite the subject matter of the lesson, there’s still a softness in his touch. Along with precision. He shifts my fingers slightly, adjusting my grip until the knife feels like an extension of my own hand rather than a foreign object.
“Every weapon has a purpose,” he says quietly. “Guns are quick, impersonal. Poison is quiet and patient. Knives…” He presses my hand forward, guiding the blade through the air. “Knives are intimate.”
A shiver rolls down my spine. He’s right. Knives aren’t just about killing. They’re about proximity, about feeling the fight leave someone’s body in real time.
I swallow hard. “So, what’s my first lesson?”
Ghost’s fingers tighten over mine. “How to make it quick.”
Then, with a sudden movement, he wrenches the knife from my grasp and spins me around, pressing the blade flat against my throat. Not cutting—just a warning. A reminder.
My breath catches. His eyes burn into mine, dark and endless. “Rule five, Doc.” His voice is almost a whisper now. “Never hesitate.”
I force myself to stay still, my pulse hammering against the blade pressed to my throat. Ghost watches me, unblinking, waiting for a reaction. A flinch, a tremor, or a sign of fear.
I give him nothing.
Instead, I meet his gaze head-on, keeping my breathing even. My skin tingles where the cold steel kisses it, but I don’t pull away. I can’t. Because this isn’t just another lesson.
It’s another test.
“Good,” Ghost murmurs, his lips barely moving. He tilts the knife, just enough to remind me it’s there. “You’re not afraid.”
I don’t correct him. Fear is there, coiled deep in my stomach like a living thing, but it’s not the kind that makes me want to run. It’s the kind that keeps me anchored to my pursuit for justice.
“What now?” I ask, my voice steady.
“Now you learn how to reverse this.”
He steps back suddenly, slipping the knife into my hand so fast, I barely register the shift before the handle is pressed against my palm.
“Come at me,” he says.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me.” He gestures to himself. “Put the knife to my throat. If you can.”
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the handle. “That’s not how real fights work.”
Ghost cocks his head. “You think your targets are going to stand still and wait for you to strike?” His voice is mocking, but not cruel. “Come on, Doc. Show me what you’ve got.”
I take a breath and move.
I go for the opening, aiming to cut the distance between us and press the blade to his neck the way he did to me.
But before I can even close the space, he sidesteps effortlessly, catching my wrist mid-motion.
With a sharp twist, he spins me, wrenching my arm behind my back.
My chest slams into his, and the knife is gone from my grasp.
I don’t even see how he takes it.
A rush of air brushes my ear as he leans in. “Dead,” he whispers.
Frustration flares, but I swallow it down. I knew this wouldn’t be easy.
He releases me, stepping back and flipping the knife between his fingers before offering it again. “Try again.”
I grit my teeth and take it.
This time, I don’t hesitate. I feint left, then pivot, aiming low instead of high. Ghost blocks it, but I’m ready for his counter. When he grabs for my wrist, I use my momentum, twisting with him instead of against him. I don’t win, but I don’t lose as fast either.
He nods in approval. “Better.”
We do it again. And again. Each time, he takes me down faster than I can process. But with every failure, I learn something. My body starts to understand the weight of the knife, the rhythm of movement, the inevitability of force meeting resistance.
My muscles burn, my breath comes in uneven pants, but I don’t stop. Ghost is relentless, and I don’t expect anything less.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, I move without thinking. The moment he reaches for me, I shift low, twisting out of his grip, and the next thing I know, the knife is pressed against his throat.
His lips part slightly, something dark flashing in his eyes. Surprise. It lasts only a second before it melts into something else.
Satisfaction tinged with lust.
“Well,” he murmurs, voice low. “Looks like you’re learning.”
My chest rises and falls with each breath. My hand trembles, but I keep the blade steady. Then, so slowly it makes my lip tremble, Ghost lifts a hand, wrapping his fingers around my wrist. He doesn’t pull away. Just holds me there, his touch firm.
He brushes his thumb over my racing pulse, and I feel it everywhere. This man can seduce me with a mere touch. A single look.
Ghost tightens his grip, just enough to remind me that he could take control at any moment. That he could end this game with a flick of his wrist. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he watches me. Waiting.
I can’t decide which of us is more deranged: the man who’s enjoying this, or the woman who doesn’t pull away.
He drags his thumb over my pulse, a caress that makes my grip falter for half a second. Not enough for him to disarm me. Just enough for him to notice.
His lips part, and his voice is quiet. “Still think this is easy?”
I slowly shake my head. “No.”
His smirk returns, but it’s different this time.
Darker. Pleased. “Good. Rule number six: Kill with intent, or don’t kill at all.
” His gaze locks onto mine, unyielding. “Sloppy killers get caught. Weak killers hesitate and get killed. Every strike, every bullet, and every drop of blood has to mean something. Otherwise, you’re just gambling with your life, and the house always wins. ”