Chapter 56 Geneva
GENEVA
I CAN’T SIT STILL.
So I pace back and forth across the apartment like a caged animal, every few steps punctuated by a furious swipe at the tears I can’t seem to stop from coming. My feet hurt and I’m one blink away from passing out due to exhaustion, but I don’t care. I can still hear his voice in my head.
“You can’t live your life with a ghost, Geneva.”
“He said it was the only way,” Sarah murmurs, sitting cross-legged on my couch, clutching one of the throw pillows like it can absorb the tension radiating off me.
I whirl around, chest heaving. “Don’t defend Ghost. Don’t you fucking dare.”
“I’m not,” she says quickly, holding her hands up. “I just—I’m trying to understand.”
“Well, don’t.” My voice cracks, and I hate how weak it makes me sound. “You can’t understand unless the person you love fakes their own death and leaves you on a fucking beach with nothing but a lie and a syringe between you.”
She winces but stays quiet.
“I told him,” I whisper, curling my hands into fists. “I told him I couldn’t lose him like I lost my parents. And he still did it. He still fucking did it.”
Sarah rises slowly and approaches like I’m a rabid animal ready to bite her. “What if he’s not dead?”
“He could be!” My throat burns with tears. “I watched him go up those stairs, knowing he might not come back.”
I drop to my knees, too tired to keep standing, too heartbroken to stop shaking. “I didn’t even get to be there for him, to hold his hand when it happened.”
Sarah sinks beside me and wraps her arms around my shoulders. “You don’t have to forgive him right now. You just have to breathe.”
But I can’t.
Because every breath feels like betrayal. Every heartbeat feels like it’s lying to me.
He said he’d come back.
So why does it feel like he died anyway?
Sarah’s arms tighten around me, steady and warm, but it only makes the cold inside sharper. Like her comfort makes it real.
“He planned it,” I whisper into her shoulder. “All of it. The syringe. The timing. The extraction. He knew what it would do to me.”
“He did it because he loves you,” she says softly.
I jerk away from her grip and sit back on my heels, eyes still burning. “No. He made the choice for both of us.”
Sarah watches me carefully. “So what would you have done, Gen? If he told you before?”
“I don’t know.” The confession leaves my lips before I can stop it. “Begged him not to. Tried to stop him.”
“But would you have let him go?”
“Hell no.”
Sarah lets out a slow breath, like this is the part she’s been waiting for me to say. To admit. “Then maybe that’s why he didn’t tell you,” she says gently. “Because he knew you’d never let him go, even if it was the only way you could have a future together.”
I stand abruptly, walking to the edge of the kitchen counter, pressing my hands flat against the cool marble. “It’s not fair. He gets to make the call, take the risk, and I’m the one left behind to handle the fallout. To live, even if he dies.”
“Gen…”
I spin around. “Now I’m supposed to just sit here and wait. And pretend like he didn’t deceive me, when the truth was all I ever wanted from him.”
Sarah stands slowly. “No one’s asking you to pretend. Least of all him.”
“Then what the hell am I supposed to do, Sarah? Knit? Bake cookies? Write in my journal while Ghost lies in some basement with his heartbeat slowed to nothing and a death certificate with his name scrawled all over it?”
She steps closer, her voice low. “You’re supposed to persevere. Just like he is. Even if you didn’t agree on the execution.”
I clench my jaw, eyes stinging. “He should’ve trusted me.”
“I think he did,” she says quietly. “But sometimes love doesn’t look like trust. Sometimes it looks like desperation.”
A knock interrupts the conversation. The sound isn’t frantic or loud, but it’s enough to rattle my bones.
I freeze. My lungs lock up, and my body refuses to move. Because part of me is terrified it’s him. And more terrified it isn’t.
Sarah glances at me, waiting for me to do something. But I can’t. My legs won’t work. My heart is pounding so loud, I’m sure whoever’s at the door can hear it.
So she goes. Quietly. Cautiously. She peeks through the peephole, then lets out a tiny, stunned breath. “Gen, it’s Benedetto.”
My throat tightens. I still don’t move.
She undoes the locks with shaking hands and opens the door. Benedetto fills the doorway, face stoic, eyes harder than I’ve ever seen them. And draped against him—barely upright, breathing raggedly—is Ghost.
He looks like death. Pale, sweat-soaked, lips still with that faint blue tinge. But his eyes are full of life. And they’re on me.
“He had to see you.” Benedetto’s voice is airy, strained from the weight of Ghost. “He wouldn’t wait.”
Of course not. That’s who he is.
Ghost doesn’t understand patience when it comes to me. Not when he thinks even a second apart is too long. He could’ve stayed hidden. Could’ve given his body the time it needed to recover. But he wouldn’t.
Because waiting meant wondering if I’d slipped through his fingers. Waiting meant imagining me alone, broken, and hating him for what he’d done. And he’d rather tear himself apart to stand in front of me than risk that.
He needed to see me. To breathe me in. To convince himself that I’m still his.
“Holy shit,” Sarah says, backing out of the way as Benedetto maneuvers Ghost toward the couch.
“Sit your ass down before I drop you,” Benedetto mutters. His dark eyes flick to mine. “He’s not a cooperative patient.”
Ghost collapses onto the cushions, chest rising in shallow, ragged breaths. He tips his head back and briefly closes his eyes, exhaustion showing in every inch of his face. Even near death, he is so beautiful.
“Geneva…” My name is a thousand apologies wrapped in a single word.
I’m already moving. I don’t remember crossing the room. My knees hit the floor in front of him, and my hands are on his face, his neck, anywhere I can touch, anywhere I can convince myself he’s real. His skin is clammy, but it’s warm. His pulse flutters under my fingertips, faint but steady.
“You son of a bitch,” I whisper, tears spilling over, this time from relief and fury tangled so tight, I can’t pull them apart. “You fucking bastard. How could you—”
“I’m here.” He lifts shaking hands to grab hold of my wrists. His grip is weak but still strong enough to give me pause. “I came back.”
Benedetto clears his throat. “I’ve seen enough. Why don’t we give them a minute, huh?” He nods at Sarah and jerks his head toward the door. “Come on. Let’s leave the doc to whatever murder she’s got planned. After what he’s gone through, I have no doubt he’ll survive it.”
Sarah hesitates, glancing at me like she’s afraid I’ll fall apart the second she leaves. But Benedetto is already gently steering her toward the exit.
“You sure—” she starts, but he cuts her off with a low chuckle.
“Trust me. If she wanted him dead, I’d be mopping up blood by now.”
The door clicks shut behind them.
Ghost looks up at me, breathing hard, his face pale but his gaze fierce. “Say what you need to say before I fuck you.”
God help me, my hands are still trembling, my heart still pounding. I don’t want to just hit him anymore. I want to fuck him. And that’s a problem.
“Stay away from me.” I jump to my feet and stare down at him. “I hate you for what you did.”
Ghost’s chest heaves like he’s holding himself together by sheer will, his eyes locked on mine, bright and crazed. “Say it again. Tell me you hate me. Tell me you want me dead. Get it out. Because when I touch you, you won’t be able to speak at all.”
I glare at him. “Don’t fucking touch me. I’m not going to forgive you for this shit.”
Ghost drags in a ragged breath, like just looking at me hurts as much as it heals. “You’ll forgive me. Even if I have to fuck it out of you.”
He gets into a sitting position and presses his hands against his knees, his fingers curling like he’s testing the strength left in them. Breathing is still a struggle for him, but I can hear his breaths evening out, as if Ghost is forcing his body to fall back under his control.
He shifts his weight, planting his boots firmly on the floor. When he rises, it’s slow and fluid, like gravity doesn’t get a say anymore. Inch by inch, he claims his height, his space, his strength. His skin is pale, but his eyes burn hot enough to set me on fire.
I watch his chest rise with a breath that shakes his whole body, like it costs him everything just to stand. And once he’s fully on his feet, completely upright, there’s no hesitation. Only determination.
He takes a step.
And another.
Each one is steadier than the last. Like wanting me is reviving him. Like needing me is stronger than the toxin that almost killed him.
My desire for him burns hot, but so does everything else—the agony, the fury, the relief that’s been gnawing at me since the second he walked through the door.
“You need to rest, not walk around,” I say, but he takes another step. “Seriously, sit down. You’re insane.”
“Only for you.”
I resist the urge to back up. To show my weakness for him. When he’s directly in front of me, I tilt my head, glaring up at him. “I said, don’t fucking touch me.”
Ghost keeps his eyes locked on mine like he can see straight through the lie I’m trying to tell him. And myself.
His voice drops even lower, a rough whisper that scrapes against my heart. “I don’t believe you. I don’t believe you aren’t dying for me, like I am for you.”
“You think that fixes it?” I snap. “You think you can almost die, lie to me, break me—and I’ll just let you touch me?”
Ghost’s lips twist in a broken kind of smile. “No,” he says. “But I’m going to touch you anyway.”
And then he does. He fists his hand in my hair, tugging my mouth to his, and the kiss is brutal. It’s punishment. It’s desperation. It claws at what’s left of my resolve, shredding it until only the truth remains.
I hate him so much.
But I love him more.
I shove him hard, and he stumbles back a step, chest heaving, his breath ragged from more than the toxin that nearly killed him. His eyes burn through me, hungry and haunted all at once.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t give a single fuck that I shoved him, that my glare could cut glass. He just straightens, his chest rising hard and fast like it physically hurts him not to have me.
And then he’s coming for me again.
Slowly at first. Like he wants me to see it coming. Like he wants me to know there’s no outrunning this. No outrunning him.
I press my back against the wall as if it’ll save me. It won’t.
Ghost closes the last bit of space between us, his eyes burning wild, his jaw tight with restraint that’s hanging by a thread. His hand shoots up, gripping my jaw, his thumb pressing against my cheek, forcing my head back. Not hard. Not cruel. Just enough to remind me who’s in control.
And then he pins me, with the wall against my back and his body flush to my front.
His mouth crashes into mine again, fiercer this time.
All teeth and tongue and filthy promises he doesn’t say out loud but I feel in every savage drag of his lips over mine.
There’s no finesse in it. Just a love that feels too big to contain and too dangerous to name.
I rip my mouth away and try to push him away again. “I hate you.”
“You fucking hate me?” he growls against my mouth, breath hot, ragged. “Then hate me while I’m inside you. Hate me while I make you come so hard, you forget why you’re mad.”
“Fuck you,” I hiss, but it sounds like a plea.
“Yeah, fuck me. Hate me. Just don’t stop touching me.”
I gasp, the sound swallowed by his kiss as his hands roam—rough, greedy, everywhere at once. He palms my ass and lifts me. His body trembles with the effort, but it doesn’t stop him. His need is stronger than the weakness.
“You’re mine,” he rasps, voice wrecked, breath shaking against my throat as he drags his mouth down my neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark. “You can scream at me later. You can hate me tomorrow. But tonight? I’m going to remind you who you fucking belong to.”
I grip his back, my nails scratching his skin through his shirt, wanting him closer, deeper, wanting him to hurt the way I do. The way I did when I thought I’d lost him.
“I’ll never forgive you for almost dying,” I say, even as my legs wrap around his waist.
“I’m still dying,” he pants, rocking his hips against me, cock hard and straining against his pants. “Every fucking second I’m not inside you, I’m dying.”
Our clothes hit the floor in pieces. His body is still recovering, but he’s strong enough where it counts. The way he moves, the way he holds me, it’s like he’s trying to make me feel every second we lost, every word we didn’t say.
We’re a tangle of limbs and fury, moans and gasps, nails scraping, mouths desperate.
He shoves his pants down just enough, hands shaking with the urgency, and then he’s there—hard, hot, sliding against me, letting me feel how close he is to losing control.
His breath tears out of him as he grips my thighs, grinding against me.
He thrusts into me, hard, filling me in one long, brutal stroke that knocks the air out of my lungs.
“Ghost,” I breathe, my voice breaking, my heart breaking.
“I’m here,” he pants against my ear, hips snapping, setting a punishing rhythm. “I’m fucking here.”
His teeth graze my throat, his grip bruising my hips, and I take it because I want it. Because I need it. Because every thrust, every sound, every breath between us says the one thing neither of us can—I thought I lost you.
I meet him, desperate, wild, matching his ferocity with my own. The wall at my back, him everywhere else, filling me, owning me, ruining me in all the ways I want.
And when it hits—when I shatter around him, shaking, crying, breaking apart in his arms—he follows with a guttural curse, burying himself as deep as he can, holding me like he can fuse us together and make this forever.
Right now, this is all that exists. The hate. The love. The way we tear each other apart just to feel whole again.