Chapter 58 #2
It was on the bruises.
His eyes tracked them, one by one, those deep purple shadows blooming across her ribs, the raw scrapes on her arms, the angry red marks circling both wrists.
His knuckles brushed one of the marks, featherlight across broken skin.
Rachel saw it clear across his face. His jaw clenched. Every muscle pulled taut. His grip on her hips shifted, growing firmer, steadier.
"Logan," she said softly.
He exhaled hard through his nose, the sound sharp. He mapped her body in silence, ribs, waist, tender bruises. Each mark registered in his eyes. Every scrape, every discoloration wasn't just damage to him, it was proof he hadn't stopped it in time.
She felt his guilt. Saw it in how his jaw worked, in how his eyes traced every bruise and cut. He blamed himself. To him, every wound was a failure.
He'd killed Langley. Put a bullet in him without hesitation. But it hadn't undone the damage. Hadn't erased what had been done while he'd been too far away to stop it.
He stayed still, watching her like he was trying to figure out if he was allowed to touch her.
Then his hands moved to her waist, fingers spreading across her ribs. His touch was gentle, careful around the bruises, but not hesitant. He didn't handle her like she might break.
"Rachel." His voice softened. "This just happened yesterday. You're hurt. You need rest, not—"
"I need this," she said, cutting him off. Her hand stayed on his jaw, thumb brushing along his cheekbone. "I need you."
"Baby—"
"Logan, please." Her voice dropped to a whisper.
"Every time I close my eyes, I'm back in that chair.
I feel his hands on me. I hear his voice.
" She swallowed hard. "I need to replace those nightmares with good memories.
I need to feel your hands instead of his.
I need this to be about us, not what he tried to take from me. "
Ghost's eyes searched hers. She saw the war happening behind them, his need to protect her warring with his need to give her what she was asking for.
"Are you sure?" he asked quietly.
"I'm sure." She leaned in, her forehead resting against his. "Please. Help me replace it."
His breath shuddered out. His hands tightened on her waist, still careful of the bruises. "Then that's what we'll do," he murmured. "Whatever you need."
Rachel rose slowly from his lap. The loss of his body beneath hers left her skin tingling, every nerve heightened.
She stood before him, close enough that her knees brushed his. Her hands moved to her lace underwear. She hooked her thumbs under the elastic.
Ghost's breath caught. His eyes tracked the movement.
She eased them down slowly. The soft lace brushed over her thighs, her calves, sliding to the patio floor in a whisper of fabric.
The night air moved over her body, cool against heated skin. Moonlight spilled across her, painting her in silver. She stood before him completely bare, completely exposed. Not just her body, everything. All the fear, all the trauma, all the vulnerability she'd been carrying since that warehouse.
And she was choosing this. Choosing him. Choosing to reclaim what had been taken from her.
Ghost looked up at her. His eyes went dark, pupils blown wide with hunger.
But underneath that desire burned something fiercer, rage at what had been done to her, gratitude that she was here, alive and whole and choosing to give herself to him.
He wanted her. He'd kill for her. He'd die for her. All of it existed in the same moment.
His hands lifted, hovering just above her hips. Asking permission even now.
"Touch me," she whispered.
His fingers curled around her hips, warm and possessive.
He drew her back into his lap with slow, deliberate pressure, guiding her down until she straddled him again.
Her bare thighs pressed against the soft fabric of his sweatpants.
Her chest brushed his, skin to skin. The contact sent sparks through her, heat and need and something deeper.
His eyes found hers. What passed between them wasn't just desire. It was trust. Healing. A promise that they were both still here, still breathing, still choosing each other despite everything that had tried to tear them apart.
Rachel's hands slid up his chest slowly.
Her fingers traced the lines of muscle, mapped the ridges of old scars, felt the warmth and strength beneath his skin.
He tensed under her touch, muscles responding, but he didn't move.
Didn't rush her. He was letting her set the pace.
Letting her take back the control that had been stolen from her.
She leaned forward, her lips hovering above his. Their breath mixed in the small space between them. "I need you," she whispered. She needed this connection, this intimacy, this proof that her body was still hers. That pleasure could replace pain. That she could be touched without fear.
Ghost's hand came up to cup the back of her head, fingers tangling gently in her hair. "I've got you, baby," he murmured. "I'm right here."