5. India #2
"I get to talk to you however I want." He takes another step closer. "I'm the one who kept you alive. I'm the one who knows every security flaw, every vulnerability, every way someone could get to you. Without me, you'd be dead ten times over. You owe me."
"I don't owe you anything."
"Yes. You do." His hand shoots out and grabs my wrist, hard. "You owe me everything. And I'm done waiting for you to figure that out."
"Let go of me."
"You're coming with me." His grip tightens, fingers digging into bone. "Right now. And you're going to stop this embarrassing little rebellion and remember who's been there for you. Who's always been there for you."
"You're hurting me."
"I would never hurt you." But he's not letting go.
If anything, his fingers dig in harder. "I love you, India.
I've loved you longer than anyone. And once you're away from these people, once you have time to think clearly, you'll see it.
You'll see that I'm the only one who really understands you. The only one who deserves you."
"HEY!"
The shout comes from behind me. The prospect — the one who should have been watching the back — is standing at the corner of the clubhouse, coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth.
Harris's grip loosens for just a second, and I wrench my arm free. I stumble backward through the gate, my wrist throbbing, my whole body shaking.
"This isn't over," Harris says quietly. Just to me. "This will never be over until you're mine."
And then he's gone. Slipping into the desert scrub, disappearing before the prospect can even drop his coffee and move.
I stand there, shaking, staring at the empty space where he was.
The prospect is at my side in seconds, young face pale. "Are you okay? Who was that? I just went inside for two minutes, I swear, I just—"
The back door bangs open.
Ghost.
He takes in the scene in a single sweep — me shaking by the fence, the prospect babbling beside me, the empty desert beyond. His eyes drop to my wrist, where red marks are already darkening into bruises shaped like fingers.
Everything about him goes still. The kind of still that makes the air feel thinner.
"Come inside," he says to me. Low. Gentle. A different voice entirely from the one he's about to use.
I move toward the porch on unsteady legs. The prospect starts to follow.
"Not you."
The prospect freezes.
Ghost doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't need to. He just turns that flat, empty stare on the kid, and I watch every drop of colour drain from his face.
"You had one fucking job." Ghost's voice is calm. Almost conversational. That's what makes it terrifying. "Watch the perimeter. Keep her safe. And you went inside for a goddamn coffee."
"I was only gone for—"
"Someone put his hands on her." Ghost takes a step closer, and the prospect stumbles back. "Someone left bruises on her fucking skin. While you were getting coffee."
"I'm sorry, I didn't think—"
"No. You didn't fucking think."
The prospect's mouth opens, closes. He looks like he might be sick.
Ghost holds him there for a long moment, letting the silence do the work. Then he turns his back on the kid — a dismissal more brutal than any words — and walks to where I'm standing on the porch steps.
The shift is immediate. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, tilting my face toward his. His eyes search mine.
"You okay?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
He takes my wrist gently, examining the marks. His jaw tightens. A muscle ticks in his cheek.
"Harris." My voice sounds far away. "He was waiting. There was a cat, and I just stepped outside the fence for a second, and he was just there—"
"I know." His thumb traces carefully around the bruises, not touching them. "I know."
"He didn't hurt me. Not really. He just grabbed me and—"
"He put his hands on you." Ghost's voice is still calm. Still flat. "He left marks on your skin."
"Ghost—"
"I'm going to kill him."
He says it simply. Matter-of-factly. Like he's telling me the weather.
"You can't just—"
"He touched what's mine." His eyes meet mine, and there's nothing cold about them now. They're burning. "Nobody touches what's mine."
Behind us, the prospect hasn't moved. King appears in the doorway, takes one look at the scene, and jerks his chin toward the front of the building. The prospect goes, head down, knowing his time with the club might be measured in hours now.
Ghost doesn't watch him leave. His focus is entirely on me.
"Inside," he says, softer this time. "Let me take care of this."
I follow because I don't know what else to do.
Inside, the brothers are already gathering. King, Lock, Diesel — all of them with the same hard look on their faces. Ghost stands at the center, radiating fury, and lays it out.
"Harris Grey. Her old head of security. He's been stalking her for months and today he got close enough to put his hands on her." He looks around the room. "That ends now."
"What do you need?" King asks.
"Everything we have on him. Where he's staying, how he's tracking her, who's helping him. I want to know every move he's made since he got to Tucson."
"Done." King nods to Lock. "Get on it."
"And then?" Diesel asks.
Ghost's smile is cold. "Then I'm going to have a conversation with him. A private one."
The room mobilises around him. Phone calls, brothers heading out to talk to contacts, favours being called in. And I stand in the middle of it, still shaking, still feeling Harris's fingers on my wrist.
He protected me for three years. I trusted him with my life.
And the whole time, he was watching me. Studying me. Falling in love with a version of me that only existed in his head.
Ghost appears beside me. He doesn't touch me — I don't think he trusts himself to be gentle right now — but he stands close enough that I can feel his warmth.
"This ends tonight," he says quietly. "I promise you. He will never touch you again."
I believe him.
Completely.