As they moved back toward the forest path, the rain finally began to ease. Through breaks in the clouds, stars appeared, sparkling faintly against the black canvas of night, like the world was slowly returning to normal.
But nothing was normal anymore. Ghost knew that. Everything had shifted the moment he’d seen Naomi in that clearing, fighting despite impossible odds, protecting those girls with her own body.
He’d spent his life not needing anyone. Not caring. Not risking. But this woman, who was strong enough to risk everything for two girls she didn’t know, but who now trembled against his chest—she mattered to him more than anything else. Keeping her safe. Keeping her close. Keeping her whole.
And that changed everything.
twenty-seven
Naomi thoughtshe’d seen Ghost’s cabin before—the space everyone called the Hub, with its banks of computers and equipment—but she hadn’t realized he also had a whole living space there, too.
After Greta had left them at the door with a quiet promise to check in tomorrow, Ghost had all but carried her inside, past the computers, through a door in the back she’d never noticed before. The hallway was short, just enough space for a small bathroom on one side and a linen closet on the other, then it opened into what had to be his bedroom.
She blinked, trying to process what she was seeing. A king-sized bed dominated the space, neatly made with a charcoal gray comforter and too many pillows to be practical for a man who seemed to barely sleep. There was a dresser against one wall, and bookshelves filled with paperbacks lined another. The space smelled like him—cedar and cigars, gun oil and Cinder and something else she couldn’t name, something elemental.
Outside, rain had started again, a gentle patter against the roof that somehow made the silence between them feel less empty.
Ghost set her down just inside the door, and she stood there, swaying slightly, the borrowed hospital scrubs hanging loose on her frame.
Cinder lifted her head from her dog bed in the corner, watching them approach with something close to worry.
After hours at the hospital, after endless questions from the state police and the FBI, after statements and debriefings and reassurances that the girls were safe, all she wanted was to close her eyes and let oblivion take her.
But every time she tried, she saw the barn, smelled the hay and blood, felt the grip of the man’s hand in her hair, heard his voice calling her Rabbit. Her skin crawled.
“You should sit down,” Ghost said, his voice rough at the edges. He moved past her to adjust the thermostat, and warm air whispered from the vents. “You’re still cold.”
She hadn’t noticed until he mentioned it, but her body was trembling—not just from cold, but from something deeper, a bone-deep shudder that seemed to start at her core and ripple outward. She wrapped his flannel shirt tighter around herself, clenching the worn fabric.
Naomi took one step toward the bed and then another, but on the third, her knees buckled. Ghost caught her before she hit the floor, his hands steady under her elbows. The adrenaline that had carried her through the rescue and the hospital was finally, completely gone, leaving only the hollow ache of exhaustion and pain.
“I’m okay,” she said automatically, though they both knew it was a lie. She had two fractured ribs and a concussion, bruising on her throat, and her entire body felt like one massive bruise from being tossed around. Every movement was agony.
He didn’t call her on it. Just guided her to the bed and eased her down, his touch gentle but impersonal, clinical in a way thatshould have made her feel safer but somehow just made her feel more alone.
She couldn’t stop shaking now. Her teeth chattered, and her hands trembled no matter how tightly she clasped them in her lap. The dam inside her was cracking. All the fear, all the helplessness she’d pushed down during her captivity was rising to the surface, threatening to drown her.
“I should shower.” The words felt thick in her mouth. “I can still smell that place on me.”
“Naomi.” Ghost crouched in front of her, his face level with hers. In the dim light, his eyes looked almost soft. Almost human. “You need to rest.”
“No.” Her voice cracked. “I need to wash it off. Please.”
He studied her face, his jaw working as if he was chewing through his response. After a moment, he nodded. “Alright. Let me help you.”
The idea of needing help to shower would have mortified her a week ago. Now she just felt grateful.
He guided her to the bathroom, his hand a steady pressure at the small of her back. The space was small but immaculate—nothing like the chaotic bachelor pad she might have expected. Everything had its place. No toothpaste smears on the sink. No damp towels on the floor. Just clean, utilitarian order.
Ghost reached past her to start the water, testing the temperature with his hand. Steam began to fill the small space, fogging the mirror.
Then he faced her, his expression carefully neutral.
“Can you manage, or do you need help?”
The question wasn’t suggestive, wasn’t charged with any of the heat that had sparked between them before. It was an honest assessment of her condition. And honestly, she wasn’t sure she could stay upright through a shower.
“Help,” she admitted, the word scraping her throat.
