Chapter 30 Geneva
GENEVA
THE WAREHOUSE IS COLD, THE AIR THICK WITH THE SCENT OF RUST and something else, something malicious. Maybe that’s coming from me. Or Ghost.
The space is vast, empty except for the abandoned office in the far corner, a few broken wooden crates, and the single metal chair in the center of the concrete floor.
The one Carter is strapped to.
His head lolls for a second before he lifts it, blinking against the dim light from the single overhead bulb. Confusion flickers across his face.
Ghost crouches in front of him, a lazy smirk playing at his lips and a knife in his hand. “Rise and shine, asshole.” His voice is singsong, like he’s waking up an old friend.
Carter’s eyes move sluggishly between us. I watch the exact moment he pieces everything together: the woman in the alley, and the mistake he made following her.
His gaze settles on me, more alert than before. Calculating.
I step closer, my pulse thrumming but my hands steady. “Do you know who I am?”
Carter stares for a second before his lips curl into something that’s supposed to be a smirk. “Should I?” His voice is hoarse, one of the aftereffects of whatever Ghost dosed him with.
I swallow back the venom rising in my throat. “You killed my parents. Their names were Samuel and Margaret Prescott.”
A slow exhale leaves him as though this situation is a minor inconvenience to him. “Okay.”
That’s it. That’s his response. No shock, no denial, but not a confirmation either. Just fucking okay.
“Why?” I ask.
My voice is calm, but there’s a storm beneath it. Ghost shifts beside me, silent, but I can sense the tension rolling off him. He’s waiting, watching, and letting me take the lead.
But ready to step in the second I need him.
Carter blinks slowly, like he’s weighing whether my question even deserves an answer. Then, he shrugs.
“I’ve killed a lot of people.” His lips curl into a mockery of a smile. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
The rage inside me cracks, splintering into something sharp and unbearable. My chest tightens. My vision tunnels. I take a step closer, my nails biting into my palms when I fist my hands.
“Twenty-one years ago, you and two other men broke into a house on Maple Drive, and slaughtered a pair of Americans recently returned from Africa.” The words burn as they leave my mouth. “I want to know why and who ordered the hit.”
“That was a long time ago,” Carter says. “I’m not sure I remember.”
My body goes rigid. “You were there.” My voice is quieter now, laced with something far more dangerous than yelling. “I saw you.”
Carter’s smirk wavers, barely perceptible, but I catch it.
Ghost stays silent beside me. Anticipating.
“I was seven. I had a stuffed elephant, the one my dad gave me.” I blink, sinking into the memory like a stone dropping into the depths of a murky pond.
“My mother tucked me in that night, kissed my forehead, and told me she’d see me in the morning.
But then I woke up to the sound of my father yelling at her to run. ”
I inhale a shuddering breath, almost choking on it.
“I didn’t understand what was happening at first. I slid from my bed and ran with my mother’s voice still ringing in my ears, telling me to hide.
I squeezed into the hallway alcove, adjacent to the living room, the little recessed space where I used to curl up with a book or play with my dolls. ”
I swallow hard, forcing the words from my throat, words I have not spoken aloud in decades. “I saw and heard all three of you talking and laughing. My mother was sobbing, my father was groaning in pain, and there was blood splattered across the rug in the living room.
“My mother… She was tied to a chair. Her hair was tangled, stuck to her face with tears and blood. You had a knife and you kept running the edge of it along her arm, taunting her. She was crying, begging, but you and the others didn’t care.
” I frown, and briefly pause as something unlocks in the darkest part of my mind.
“You kept at it because you wanted something.”
My stomach lurches painfully, plummeting so quickly my head spins. The room tilts. My breath catches, but no air comes. It’s like I’m drowning, like I’m seven years old again, trapped in that hallway alcove, choking on the scent of blood and death.
“Tell us where the diamonds are, Dr. Prescott.”
The words slam through my skull like a gunshot. A buried land mine, detonating without warning.
I sway, my vision darkening at the edges. My knees tremble under the suffocating weight of the memory, and I can’t stop myself from crumbling.
“Shit!” Ghost yanks me to him before I hit the floor. He’s quick to wrap his arms around my waist, pressing me to his chest while holding me up with an unyielding grip as he scrutinizes every inch of my face.
“Geneva.” His voice is low, urgent, commanding. My name is not a question, but a demand. “Stay with me.”
I weakly shake my head, staring into his face without really seeing him. My whole body feels wrong, like I’ve been drugged.
And I can’t…
I can’t fucking breathe.
“Tell us where the diamonds are, Dr. Prescott.” The words echo through my mind, over and over, like a fucking death knell.
My mother’s voice rips through the barriers my mind spent decades constructing.
The way they hurt her. The way my father tried to reach her, desperation clinging to him like the blood pouring down his face.
Ghost’s grip tightens, piercing my memories. I can feel the tension in his body pressed against mine, and the way he’s holding me as if he’s genuinely afraid I might slip away.
“Breathe,” he orders, his voice rough. “Breathe, damn it!”
I try, but I’m seven years old again, huddled in that alcove, fingers stuffed in my mouth to keep from screaming as the men touch my mother—
I suck in air, but it gets tangled somewhere in my throat. I cough and wheeze, shuddering, the taste of bile rising in my throat.
Ghost swears under his breath. Then suddenly he’s grabbing my face and jerking it up, forcing me to look at him. His fingers are firm along my jaw, almost bruising, his thumb brushing the edge of my cheekbones.
“Hey.” He shakes me. Just once, just enough. “You’re here. Not there. Here. With me.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it out, trying to focus on here. The cold air of the room, the scent of Ghost, and the rhythmic rise and fall of his breathing against me.
Not violence. Not blood. Not screams.
Ghost.
My lashes flutter open. He’s right there, so close that I can see the cut of his jaw, the hard line of his mouth.
But it’s his gaze that brings reality flooding back.
His eyes search mine with an emotion that’s deeper than mere concern.
It’s a fear that stems from something more than that of a lover or protector.
It’s… love.
The realization crashes through me, just as destabilizing as the memory that nearly sent me to the floor.
I’ve spent so long denying it—denying him—convincing myself that whatever Ghost feels for me isn’t real.
That he’s incapable of something so human.
That his obsession, his possessiveness, and his unrelenting need to keep me safe at all costs are just facets of his psychopathy. That they’re dangerous and consuming…
But not love.
Now, staring into his eyes, seeing the edges of his restraint, the way his fingers tremble against my skin, I don’t know if I can lie to myself anymore.
Maybe it is real.
Maybe what he feels for me is different from anything he’s ever felt before, just like how he is different from the rest.
I suck in a breath, this time deeper and steadier. The floor is beneath my feet again. My heart is still racing, but I can control my body.
I blink up at him. “Ghost…”
He slides his hands to my throat, cradling my neck while resting his thumb against my pulse. “You with me?” he asks, voice quieter now. Rough around the edges.
I nod, even though I don’t fully trust my voice.
He watches me for another second, like he’s making sure I’m not about to faint, before he exhales and releases me. Not all at once. It’s slowly, like he doesn’t want to let go.
Behind him, Carter watches.
I turn toward him. “It wasn’t just a hit.” My voice is hoarse. “You were after something. It was diamonds.”
I watch his body language, and he doesn’t try to hide it from me. No microexpressions to suppress. No careful masking of reactions. He lets me see it all. The way his pupils dilate, his fingers twitch against the restraints, and how his nostrils flare slightly as I say the word “diamonds.”
He knows exactly what I’m talking about, and he doesn’t give a damn if I see it. That’s what makes my stomach knot. The fact that he doesn’t even pretend.
“That’s what you wanted from my parents,” I say, stepping closer. “That’s why you tortured them. It wasn’t politics. It wasn’t some government contract.” I narrow my eyes. “It was greed.”
Carter leans forward as much as the restraints allow. Then he stares at me like he’s peeling me apart layer by layer. “You look just like your mother,” he murmurs.
Something inside me shatters.
I cover my mouth with shaking fingers, stifling the sob before it can escape. But Carter sees it. Of course he does. He wants to see it.
And that’s when Ghost moves.
He buries the knife deep into Carter’s leg with a sickening crunch of steel against bone.
Carter screams. Not a groan. Not a grunt. A real, visceral scream that tears from his throat and echoes off the walls.
Ghost doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t react.
He just twists the blade.
Slowly.
Carter’s body jerks against the restraints, his fingers clawing uselessly at the arms of the chair. His breath comes in ragged, desperate gasps, but Ghost just leans in, so close their foreheads nearly touch.
“Don’t fuck with her again,” he murmurs. “Because this is nothing but a taste of what I’ll do to you.”
Then, with one brutal yank, he rips the knife out.
Carter moans, his head snapping back, his entire body trembling from the pain. Blood spills down his leg in thick, hot rivulets, pooling beneath the chair. His chest heaves, sweat dripping from his temple, but Ghost just watches him, his expression unreadable.
He’s waiting… And when Carter finally lifts his head, Ghost tilts his own, tapping the bloodied knife against his palm.
“Now,” he drawls, voice light, almost mocking. “Let’s talk about those diamonds.”