His thumb brushed over her lower lip. His voice followed, rough and quiet.
"I love you."
Rachel stilled. The words hit hard, overwhelming. Her pulse roared in her ears, but her eyes never left his.
"I don't know when it happened," he said. "Maybe the first day, when you ran into me. Or when you looked me in the eye and told me you weren't afraid of me."
She couldn't speak. Her throat was tight, breath shallow, but she felt every word.
"I love you," he said again, firmer this time. "And I'm not letting you go."
Rachel's breath came out ragged as her palms traced down his chest, fingers finding scars she'd only glimpsed before. Under her touch, he was solid. Warm. Real.
He looked up at her, eyes searching. He held her close, waiting for the words he needed to hear.
"Say something, baby," he murmured, fingers curling at her waist.
Rachel smiled, a slow smile that softened her whole face. "I love you too."
The sound that came from Ghost’s chest was low and guttural, part exhale, part growl, then he kissed her again, all restraint gone.
Hot and possessive. Pure need. Completely hers.
She sank into him, into the kiss and the way he held her. Her fingers threaded through his hair as she laughed against his mouth, the sound soft and breathless.
"You're mine now, Parker," he muttered against her lips.
Rachel smirked, her forehead resting against his. "Good," she whispered. "Because you're mine too, Hayes."
He slipped his hands beneath the oversized shirt she wore, palms gliding over warm skin. The contact was slow, deliberate. She felt the heat of his touch everywhere, her whole body responding.
Rachel pulled back just enough to lift the shirt over her head. The fabric slipped free, falling to the ground. Cool afternoon air moved over her bare skin, but it wasn't the breeze that made her shiver, it was his gaze.
A guttural sound tore from his throat.
"Fuck, baby," he rasped. His hands rose, claiming her breasts. His thumbs circled her already hardened peaks with patient precision, teasing her until she gasped and arched into his touch.
His palms were rough and calloused but warm, every movement careful. She gasped. She felt herself responding, her body wanting more.
Just as his hands slid lower, he stopped.
His fingers flexed at her ribs, holding but not claiming. His breath slowed. His gaze wasn't on her lips anymore. It wasn't on her breasts.
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.
