Chapter 33 Geneva
GENEVA
THE CITY IS STILL ALIVE WHEN WE SLIP INTO THE APARTMENT building, but it feels muted, distant. Ghost leads the way, his hand firm around mine, as we take the back stairs. Always careful. Always moving like we’re being hunted.
Maybe we are.
I don’t remember much of the drive, only the sensation of my body vibrating with exhaustion, and something raw and aching beneath my skin. The adrenaline has worn off, leaving a heaviness in its place that I can’t make sense of.
The apartment is dark when we enter, but safe and familiar. Like Ghost.
The blood is gone from my hands, but I still feel it. Under my nails. Seeping into my skin. Similar to the way my thoughts pervade my soul.
Carter is gone.
I killed him.
He’s as dead as my parents.
I don’t realize I’m shaking until Ghost is peeling my dress from my body, his touch careful. This isn’t logical; it’s loving.
His knuckles brush my skin as he unhooks my bra, and then he kneels in front of me to shimmy my dress around my hips and down my legs. I step out of it wordlessly. He rises, his gaze never leaving mine, before guiding me into the shower.
The water is hot, nearly scalding, but I welcome it, tilting my head back, letting it burn away everything I don’t want to feel.
The apartment lights are off, but the bathroom is slightly illuminated from the dim gold hue of the streetlamp outside the window.
Ghost doesn’t speak, doesn’t demand anything. But he watches.
He’s always watching me.
Then he picks up a washcloth and slowly begins to wash me. I exhale, my body sagging under his touch as he moves with a tenderness that’s out of character for him. He doesn’t rush or intrude. But most importantly, he never asks me how I feel.
I’m not sure I could answer him anyway.
Ghost is methodical, cleaning the grime, the remaining blood, and the night from my skin. His hands are gentle as he runs the cloth over my arms, my stomach, and my thighs, giving me space while never letting me forget he’s there.
When I finally meet his eyes, he’s watching me like a man ready to catch me if I break. But I won’t. I fucking refuse.
The water runs cold before either of us moves. Even then, it’s Ghost who shuts it off. He grabs a towel and wraps it around my shoulders before drying himself off. I stand there, watching him, my limbs heavy, my mind an exhausted blur of too many thoughts and none of them coherent.
Ghost doesn’t say a word. He just takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. The sheets are cool against my skin as I sink into them, my body finally catching up to the weight of everything I’ve done.
Everything I’ve become.
I should feel different, changed in some way. Maybe I am. Maybe I just haven’t figured out how yet.
Ghost climbs in beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. He’s a comforting presence while a storm of emotions rages inside me. Instinctively, I shift closer, pressing my cheek against his chest.
His arms come around me instantly.
He drags his hand up my back, slow and steady, the roughness of his palm soothing me in ways I don’t understand. He continues to hold me. His heartbeat is steady beneath my ear, his body warm and hard.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs after a long stretch of silence.
“Just thinking.”
Ghost slides his hand into my hair, combing his fingers through the damp strands. “About what?”
I don’t know how to explain it. The numbness and the fire. The satisfaction and the hollowness. The knowledge that I’ve done something irreversible, along with the fact that I don’t regret it.
Instead, I ask, “Do you remember your first kill?”
He pauses for half a second before stroking my hair once again. “Yeah.”
“What did it feel like?”
He exhales slowly. “Like I was finally in control.”
I close my eyes as his words burrow deep inside my chest. Because I understand. Too well.
He pulls me closer, tighter, like he knows I need it. And I do. I tilt my head, pressing my lips against his collarbone. A simple touch. A quiet show of gratitude.
“I don’t feel guilty,” I whisper.
“Good.”
The silence stretches between us while I gather my courage. I don’t know what to ask, only that I need to. I want to know everything about him, even the things that should terrify me. Maybe especially those things.
“How old were you?” I ask.
A long pause. Then he says quietly, “Twelve.”
I blink against his chest, my breath catching. I don’t know what I expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.
“Twelve,” I repeat, my voice barely audible. I shift slightly, lifting my head so I can see his face. “Who was it?”
Ghost doesn’t look at me. His gaze is fixed on the ceiling, his expression unreadable. But I can feel the shift in him, the way his muscles tighten under my touch, the way his grip on me doesn’t loosen but somehow feels different.
Tense.
Resigned.
“My parents.” His admission is a quiet breath, not even a whisper.
I stiffen. I don’t mean to, but I know he feels it. A muscle along his jaw tics, and something flickers in his eyes. It’s guarded, distant.
“That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he says. “I know how much you loved yours.”
I sit up, still pressed against his side but needing to see him fully. “Ghost…”
He doesn’t look up at me, but I can see the weight of it in his expression, in the way he braces for my reaction. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen him falter.
This man never hesitates.
My pulse pounds in my ears. “Why?”
“Because they were monsters.”
The words are so quiet, I almost miss them. And the way he says them, the absolute finality of them, makes something in my chest ache.
Ghost is many things. He’s a killer, a psychopath, and a man who drags people into the darkness but doesn’t let them crawl back out. What he’s not is a liar. If he says they were monsters, I believe him.
But that doesn’t stop my mind from reeling. I spent my entire life grieving my parents. And he…
He killed his.
I try to find my voice, but all that comes out is a whisper. Am I scared to ask? Or to receive an answer? “What did they do to you?”
Ghost finally looks at me, and it’s something I’m not ready for. The cold, ruthless man who has tortured and killed without remorse is still there. But beneath it, there’s a part of him that’s hurting and broken.
“It’s not about what they did to me,” he says. “It’s about what they did to her.”
My heart lurches in my chest.
Her.
He’s talking about someone who mattered. Someone who still matters.
The realization slams into me like a fist to the ribs, knocking the air from my lungs. His parents weren’t just monsters to him. They hurt someone he cared about.
Someone he loved.
I don’t even have to think before the name forms on my lips. “Abby.”
Ghost stills.
It’s the kind of stillness that’s unnatural. Like something inside him just shut down. Or died.
He clenches his jaw, and for a long, breathless moment, I don’t think he’s going to answer.
Then Ghost nods once. It’s barely a movement, but it feels heavier than anything he’s ever said to me.
It’s in the way he won’t meet my eyes. In the way his hand tightens around my wrist like he’s bracing for something…
Rejection.
I reach out, cupping his face and forcing him to look at me. His eyes are bright, but beneath the rage and the insanity, there’s more.
Something wounded.
Something human.
And it breaks my heart.