“Backup’s on the way.” Barlow lowers his radio but keeps his weapon aimed at Ghost. The energy in the room feels like a live wire, sparking with unspoken threats.
Ghost leans against the wall, his cuffed hands resting casually on his stomach. His grin hasn’t faded, but his eyes gleam with something I can’t place. “Relax, Officer. I did you a favor. Lobo wasn’t exactly a model inmate.”
Barlow scoffs, but doesn’t respond, and the room falls silent again. I shift uncomfortably, keeping my eyes fixed on the floor, the walls, my hands… anywhere but Ghost. If I look at him now, even for a second, the truth of what happened between us will be written all over my face.
Ghost has touched my skin and gotten underneath it, becoming a part of me that I can’t get rid of.
The sound of heavy boots echoes down the hall right before two more officers enter, their weapons drawn. They take in the scene quickly: Lobo’s lifeless body on the floor, Ghost’s nonchalance, and me standing stiffly against the wall.
“What’s the situation?” one of the new arrivals asks, his eyes scanning the room.
Barlow jerks his head toward Ghost. “This inmate killed another inmate. Claims it was self-defense. Dr. Andrews confirms he saved her.”
The second officer frowns, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before turning to Ghost. “You have anything to say for yourself?”
“Just that I’m an exemplary citizen,” Ghost drawls, his grin widening. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”
The officer snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Cuff him to the table,” he orders. “We’ll sort this out.”
As the guards move toward Ghost, the tension in the room shifts again. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t flinch as they secure him to the table, but the air crackles with unspoken words. He’s letting them handle him now because it suits him.
“Let’s go, Dr. Andrews,” Barlow says, urgency lacing his tone. He steps closer, the weapon still in his hand but his body language shifting to guide rather than threaten.
I move quickly toward the door, acutely aware of Ghost’s gaze on my back. It’s so strong it’s like a physical touch and my skin prickles with the memory of his hands on me.
When I reach the doorway, I can’t help myself. I turn and look at him over my shoulder. Ghost is watching me, but there’s no sign of his typical mocking smile. This time his face holds something else.
Longing. No, pain. Acute, excruciating pain.
It guts me where I stand. I’ve never witnessed vulnerability in Ghost. Not even when he kissed me.
“Dr. Andrews,” the guard says, his voice harsh this time. “We need to go.”
I nod, though my feet are rooted to the spot, my chest tight as Ghost’s gaze holds me captive. He doesn’t speak, but the raw desperation in his eyes says a lot. And it’s overwhelming.
Why is he looking at me like that? Like I’m a breath of air and he’s drowning? Like he’ll die without me?
And then it hits me, all at once, with a force so sharp it stills my heart.Ghost cares about me.That’s what this is, what his eyes are saying, what that raw, unguarded emotion is screaming.
This isn’t possible.
Men like Ghost don’t feel things like this. They’re wired differently, incapable of true connection or genuine emotion. Psychopathy doesn’t allow for it. I’ve spent years studying it, dissecting it, cataloging every trait and symptom.
He shouldn’t be capable of this.
And yet, Ghost is looking at me as if I’m the only thing holding his world together. No, like Iamhis world.
My mind scrambles to make sense of it, to reconcile the impossible contradiction. He shouldn’t care about me. Hecan’t. But the emotion in his eyes is too real to ignore.
“Dr. Andrews,” the guard says again, his tone firm, almost impatient. “We need to go.”
Barlow steps closer, his presence breaking the fragile connection between me and Ghost. The man clamps his hand around my arm. “Now.”
On instinct, I glance at Ghost.
His entire body stiffens, his hands raised but not in surrender. His jaw clenches, his shoulders coil like a predator about to strike, and his eyes—the raw, unguarded pain from moments ago—darkens with something else entirely.
Rage. Protective, territorial rage.
