Page 24 of All Ghosts Aren’t Dead (The Forgotten #1)

SAMUEL

T he gym was empty except for the sound of my fists landing. No music. No grunts. Just breath and impact—the sharp thud of knuckles against leather and the occasional creak of the chain overhead. The room smelled of sweat, floor mats, and dust that never fully left the corners.

The light was cold, filtered through the high windows, the color of bare concrete. The punching bag jolted. Every strike echoed back at me until my shoulders burned and the bones in my wrists vibrated.

I needed to feel it—the sweat, the sting, and the ache. I needed pain I could control.

Blue had been gone for less than four hours.

Interrogation .

Torture .

It was nothing he hadn’t begged for, but the second he left, something clawed up from my ribs and refused to settle. He kissed me before leaving and whispered, “I’ll be back, Daddy,” like he knew I’d unravel the moment this house didn’t hold him.

I slammed my fist into the bag again.

“You planning to knock that thing off the ceiling?”

Amir stepped inside, because of course he fucking did , and then closed the door behind him.

I didn’t stop punching. “Thinking about it.”

He didn’t push, didn’t sit, didn’t hover.

He just stood there in the quiet, his presence calm and weighted.

His beard was neatly trimmed today, the sharp edge of it catching the low light.

He wore dark slacks and a soft gray sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows, forearms relaxed at his sides.

No clipboard.

No coffee.

Just him —my personal fucking nightmare.

“You’re pacing,” he said after a beat. “With your fists.”

“I’m not pacing. I’m?—”

“Waiting,” he finished. “Which is fine. You just don’t know what to do with your hands when you’re not holding him.”

I hit the bag harder. The chain above groaned.

“Letting him go was the point,” Amir reminded gently. “To teach him that leaving doesn’t mean loss. He needs to believe he can come back and nothing will be different.”

I ground the next punch deeper into the bag. “I should’ve gone with him.”

“No,” Amir said, firm now. “You shouldn’t have. You showing up to supervise would’ve told him he couldn’t do it alone. He needs to know he can. You want to protect him, Sam? Let him grow.”

“I don’t need therapy right now, Amir.”

“Good,” he said, folding his arms across his chest. “Because I didn’t bring any.”

I exhaled through my nose, steady and slow. Sweat rolled down my back and caught in the waistband of my joggers. “I’m not good at this.”

“Allowing yourself to feel something other than numbness and repressed anger?”

I turned on him, fists still clenched, chest heaving. “I’m not interested in your shrink-bait psychobabble right now.”

Amir didn’t flinch. He’d seen me worse.

“I’m serious, Sam. This?” He motioned to the bruised bag and the sweat down my spine. “This isn’t about anger. It’s grief. You’re grieving the loss of control.”

“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, pacing a slow circle, trying to shake off the words. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Knowing it doesn’t mean accepting it.”

I grabbed a towel off the bench and wiped my hands. “He’s young.”

“He’s stronger than you were at his age.”

That landed harder than I wanted it to. My jaw clenched.

Amir stepped forward. “You trust him. I know you do. I’m not saying don’t be scared. I’m saying don’t let that fear become a cage for him.”

I sat down on the bench and tore my glasses off, scrubbing the towel over my face.

“I’m going to ask you something,” I mumbled. “And I need you to not be a dick about it.”

Amir raised a brow. “Does it have something to do with the letter B scratched into your back?”

My shoulders tensed. “You saw that?”

“I have eyes, Samuel.”

It had been four days since I took him for the first time. Since he scratched that letter into me and whispered, “Mine.” Every night since, he’d found it again.

Traced it with his fingertips.

Scratched at it with quiet insistence.

He refused to let the mark fade.

I fucking loved it.

I slipped my glasses back on. “Is this… Is me loving him bad for him?”

There was a pause. It was short, but it hit like a fist to the throat. “Would you give him up if I said yes?”

No.

The idea of letting Blue go felt like dying. Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, slow-fade way. No—like my heart would seize in my chest and never beat right again. The goddamn ground would crack open and swallow whatever was left of me whole.

I’d survive it. That was the worst part. I’d survive, and I’d hate every second of it.

“Tearing the skin off my bones would be less painful than walking away.” My hands clenched. “So no. I won’t. I can’t.”

Amir watched me. “Then why ask?”

I stared down at the towel. The blood on my knuckles had started to dry.

“Because you love him enough to worry about ruining him. But Sam,” Amir sat beside me, elbows on his knees, “he’s better because of you. Not in spite of you.”

Amir’s tone didn’t change, but it pulled my gaze all the same.

“Blue has never experienced love that didn’t come with a leash, or pain, or even punishment.

That kind of conditioning doesn’t disappear in a month.

He’s still waiting to be punished for being loved.

” Amir’s voice softened, but not out of pity.

“Your love is… overprotective and fiercely possessive. But it’s not cruel.

And that’s new for him. Blue wants to belong to something that doesn’t hurt.

He picked you, and you’ve made space for him in a life that never had room for softness.

That doesn’t make you bad for him, Sam.”

I let the words sink in—sharp, precise, infuriatingly right.

“So what does that make me then?”

Amir didn’t miss a beat. “His boyfriend. His daddy. The poster child for repressed men who fall first and get feral about it later.”

I gave him a look. “You’re such a smug bastard.”

He grinned. “You’re smiling.”

The edge of it tugged at my mouth before I could catch it—the first real one since Blue had left.

“Therapy’s expensive, my friend. Consider this a freebie.”

“Fuck you,” I laughed.

My phone buzzed against the bench beside me, screen lighting up with a perimeter alert. I grabbed it instantly, swiping the notification open.

Motion alert.

Front gate. Vehicle breach.

My heart didn’t speed. It slammed .

Amir leaned over, reading the notification upside down. “Did you… put a tracker on him?”

I didn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “Of course I did.”

“Christ, Sam.”

“That’s my baby, Amir.”

My legs moved before I finished the thought. The towel hit the bench. My feet hit the floor. I was already halfway to the front hall when Amir called after me, voice trailing behind in amusement.

“Don’t sprint. You’ll scare the poor boy.”

Yeah, right.

I didn’t slow down.

Instinct carried me through the house—past the armory, past the rec room, past Bishop’s half-open door and the tang of gun oil that lived in its walls. Each corner I turned, I expected to see him. Every step tightened the coil in my chest.

The front door buzzed, and a second later, the lock clicked open.

I reached it as the hinges gave way, metal swinging inward on a breath of cold air—and there he was.

My Bailey Blue.

Dressed in black from head to toe. Shirt snug across his chest, sleeves pushed to his elbows. Jeans slung low on his hips, boots scuffed at the toes. My gloves were tucked into his waistband, the leather folded neat.

His cheeks were pink, flushed with adrenaline. Eyes wide, glass-clear, and scanning for me before the door had finished opening. His hands twitched at his sides, itching for something.

Me.

He moved the moment our eyes touched.

“Daddy!”

I reached for him with both arms, and he climbed me the way he always did, like gravity meant nothing when I was there to catch him. Legs locked around my waist, he pressed his nose under my jaw. His fingers curled into my shoulders, then into my hair.

“You’re safe,” I said into his skin.

“Of course I am.” His breath hitched against my neck. “You were waiting.”

I held him tighter. His ribs moved against mine, chest rising and falling in time with my own. The air between us turned hot and close, grounding in a way the punching bag never could be.

The world hadn’t made sense all afternoon. Now it did.

Blue pulled back just enough to look at me, eyes still bright. “I got to use a blowtorch.”

I blinked. “You what?”

His grin broke across his face, as if it physically hurt to contain it. “It was amazing. They let me burn the bottom of a guy’s feet. It smelled awful. Like skin and gasoline.” He paused, then added in a lower tone, “I liked it.”

His voice dropped to a whisper, breath warm against my throat. “Daddy, he screamed.”

I felt his legs tighten around my waist.

“Did you have fun?” I asked, still cradling him against my chest.

His nod was fast and eager. “He begged. Just like Bishop said he would. He was already tied up. He couldn’t go anywhere.” His breath caught, excitement and pride tangled in it. “And I didn’t stop until Mr. Ivan told me to.”

“Ivan?” What the fuck? “Ivan Koslov?”

“I don’t know, Daddy.” He shrugged. “He was huge with lots of tattoos, and he said lots of words I didn’t understand.”

“He’s Russian, sweetheart. Ben’s second in command.”

“Oh.” He surged upward and kissed my cheek. “Did I do good, Daddy?”

Ah, baby.

I slid my hand to the back of his head, threading my fingers through his hair. “You did good.”

His lashes fluttered, cheeks flushing deeper.

Then he reached between us and pulled out the gloves from where he’d tucked them in his waistband. He held them in one hand, cradling them like something sacred.

“I kept them safe the whole time,” he swore. “I didn’t let them get dirty. I promise.”

My throat closed around something raw.

They weren’t special because they were clean. They were special because they were his now.

I hadn’t worn that specific pair of gloves in years—not on missions or in the gym. They weren’t earned in blood or passed down through some chain of violence.