Every breath you take is mine to claim.
The words blur as a wave of nausea washes over me. My knees go weak, and I sink onto the edge of the bed, clutching the card in my hands. My heart pounds against my ribs, hard and fast, as if trying to escape my chest.
He was here.
Ghost was here, in my home. In my bedroom. The thought is paralyzing, and my body stiffens although my mind races with questions I can’t answer. How did he get in? How long was he here?
I glance around the room as if every shadow is alive and threatening. My breath comes in shallow pants as I clutch the card tighter, its words like a brand seared into my mind. The walls press in and the faint scent of magnolias fills the air. I hadn’t noticed it before, but now it’s undeniable.
My eyes dart to the corners of the room, to the closet, the curtains, the doorframe. Every creak, every distant sound from the building amplified, echoing in my ears like a war cry.
Is he still here?
The bat is within reach and I grab it, rising to my feet despite the unsteadiness in my legs. The card flutters to the mattress, forgotten as my survival instinct takes over. If he’s here, I have to know.
The closet is my first choice. I slowly open the door like there’s a bomb about to detonate. And… nothing but my clothes and shoes.
I move to the bathroom next, ripping open the door with less hesitation this time. The space is empty, but that doesn’t stop my heart from jumping in my throat.
“Get your shit together, Geneva,” I mutter. “Ghost wouldn’t have left the box if he was planning on talking to you.”
I sweep through the rest of the apartment, checking every corner, every hiding place, until I’m certain there’s no one here. The sense of being invaded, of having my space violated, clings to me. The magnolia scent lingers, stronger now, filling the air with its oppressive sweetness.
Back in the bedroom, I sit on the edge of the bed with the bat resting against my knees. I look at the box again, the ribbon still perfectly tied, the pristine white surface untouched. Curiosity rises, too strong for me to ignore.
“Damn it.”
My hands tremble as I untie the bow and lift the lid, revealing the candle inside. It’s smooth, polished, and elegant. A benign object, yet so deadly because of the giver.
“Why?” I whisper, the word barely audible over the pounding of my heart.
Ghost wouldn’t send a meaningless token of affection. Everything he does has a purpose. It’s part of an ongoing strategy.
This candle is a message.
So, what is he trying to tell me?
CHAPTER 26
GHOST
It’s go time!
If only I could get some popcorn for the main event.
I lean against the wall flush to my bed, my attention solely fixed on the small screen in my hand. I’m cradling the phone, not just to keep it hidden from curious glances aimed at my cell, but because it’s my only link to Geneva.
The camera outside her building flickers to life as the ride share pulls up to the curb and my skin prickles. I don’t need the grainy image to tell me she’s arrived, since I was notified the moment her location pinged nearby. Still, I watch as she steps out of the vehicle, hungry for the sight of her.
My cell is musty and cold, but that doesn’t matter. Not with the way my blood heats whenever I look at Geneva. Even the stale air around me now vibrates with my anticipation. This might be the closest to happiness I’ve ever been…
Aside from the first time I saw her.
When Geneva reaches her apartment, I sit up straight, my fingers gripping the phone tightly as I watch her unlock the door. Her hesitation is subtle but there, the slightest pause before she steps inside. The second the door is locked behind her, she exhales, releasing a bit of stress.
I shift on the mattress, adjusting the brightness setting as the cameras inside her apartment flicker to life. After a quick sweep of the room, she strides to the back door, and I grin. I know what she’s after. Sure enough, she grabs the baseball bat propped in the corner.
“That’s my girl,” I murmur.
Geneva hefts the bat in her hands, testing its weight, tightening her grip as she moves through the apartment. The rigidity of her stance and the thorough sweep of her gaze over every inch of the place is entertaining. She’s preparing for a fight that isn’t coming.
At least, not yet.
When she finally moves to her bedroom, my breathing accelerates, my pulse drumming an unsteady cadence. The first camera angle in this room isn’t quite right, so I cycle through three more until it is. Until I can easily make out the stiffening of her body and the way her lips part on a gasp.
Her reaction is exquisite. The rush of satisfaction that slams into me is euphoric, and I groan from the pleasure. “Go ahead, Geneva,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “See what I’ve left for you.”
When she finally sets the bat down to reach for the card, I bite my lip to keep from moaning again. Although, that doesn’t stop my dick from getting hard.
Her hands tremble as she unfolds the note, her lips moving silently as she reads my poem. Watching her unravel, caught between fear and anger, is perfection. I love the way her fingers tighten around the card right before her knees buckle and she sinks onto the mattress. I love the way she stares at the parchment in desperation, every fiber of her being dying to know why I left it and what it all means.
If she wants answers, she’ll have to come to me.
Geneva grabs the bat and jumps to her feet. She moves like a ghost herself, quiet, methodical, scanning her apartment for threats she’ll never find. It’s fascinating, really, how she’s caught between instinct and reason, how her mind tries to rationalize what her gut already knows…
I was there.
The camera allows me to follow her through every space until she returns to her bedroom and opens the box. She doesn’t destroy the candle. I knew she wouldn’t. She’s too curious, too tied to the connection she refuses to acknowledge. Instead, she sets it down carefully, like she’s afraid of breaking it, and clutches the card tightly.
“Why?” Her voice is barely audible, but I don’t need sound to know it’s filled with frustration.
I watch as she sits there, the bat forgotten at her side. The candle, the card, the scent—they’re all pieces of me, woven into her home, her life, her very breath. A satisfied smile spreads across my face. They’re not just a message. They’re a promise.
Geneva is mine.
The need to touch her gnaws at me, but I shove it aside. Patience is the result of control. And control means knowing when to wait. I may not be able to fuck Geneva yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not time for the next step in my plan.
The clanging of metal echoes through the corridor, jolting me from my thoughts of Geneva. The sound grows louder as someone approaches my cell. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. The rhythm of the steps and the faint drag of a worn sole tell me it’s Officer Jennings. A man who prides himself on his authority but who’s insecure enough to overcompensate with posturing.
Although if we had a dick-measuring contest, he’d cry for sure.
When Jennings reaches my cell, he pauses, one hand gripping the bars while the other rests on the baton at his hip. He’s stocky, with a gut that spills over his belt, and a face that’s permanently red from alcohol consumption. His uniform is crisp, but his boots are scuffed and muddy. Attention to detail is only plausible when it suits him.