He's tall — taller than Nate, and built like he could put someone through a wall without breaking a sweat. Broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of body that makes a room feel smaller just by being in it. Dark hair, a few days of stubble, and eyes that move across the room and take in everything without seeming to look at anything. He's wearing a leather cut over a black t-shirt, patches on the back and front that mean something I don't understand. There's an ease to how he carries himself, an unhurried quality, like he's never had to rush in his life because the world just rearranges itself around him.
He doesn't smile. Doesn't offer his hand. Doesn't acknowledge me at all.
"Tell me," he says to Nate.
His voice is low and rough. Not unfriendly, exactly. Just... economical. Like words cost something and he's not interested in spending more than necessary.
Nate walks him through it. The weeks of escalation. The personal details. The gifts. The breach tonight. Ghost listens without interrupting, his face giving away absolutely nothing. He could be hearing about the weather for all the reaction he shows.
When Nate finishes, Ghost finally looks at me.
It's not a casual glance. It's an assessment. Thorough and brief, like he's filing away information I can't see. I feel suddenly aware of my bare feet, my tangled ponytail, the smudged mascara I didn't bother to fix. I've been looked at by a lot of people in my life — fans, critics, executives, men who wanted something from me. This doesn't feel like any of those.
This feels like being seen. Actually seen. It's unnerving as hell.
"Your security," he says. "Who runs it?"
"My team. They've been with me for?—"
"Names."
I rattle them off. He listens. Something flickers in his expression when I mention the head of my detail, but it's gone before I can read it.
"Before them?"
"What?"
"Who ran your security before this team?"
"Harris Grey. But he left six months ago. Nate let him go."
Ghost's eyes cut to his brother. Something passes between them — a conversation I'm not part of.
"Why?" Ghost asks.
"He was crossing lines," Nate says. "Getting too personal. Too possessive. I didn't like the way he looked at her. The way he talked about her when she wasn't in the room."
"And tonight?"
"Tonight my team has no explanation for how someone got into her room, moved her things, and got out without triggering a single alert. No camera footage. No keycard log. Nothing."
Ghost is quiet for a moment. Then he nods, once, like something's been confirmed.
"Your setup's compromised," he says. To me, not Nate. "Whoever's doing this knows your protocols because he wrote them. Your team is running a playbook he designed. They won't catch him because they're looking for a stranger, and he's not a stranger. He's the man who built the walls they're hiding behind."
The cold feeling from earlier is back, spreading through my chest.
"Harris," I say. It's not a question.
"He built your security. He knows every blind spot because he created them. Knows your schedule, your habits, the way your team communicates." Ghost's voice is flat. Matter-of-fact. Like he's reading off a grocery list instead of dismantling my entire sense of safety. "You're not safe here. Not in this hotel, not on this tour, not anywhere your current team can predict. He's already ahead of them. He'll stay ahead of them."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"You're coming with me."
I stare at him. "Excuse me?"
"Tucson. My territory. My rules. He doesn't know my protocols because I don't have protocols. I have instincts and a club full of brothers who don't take kindly to strangers in their space."
