Page 33 of Depraved Devotion

That’s fine if he is. I’ve been pissed at Ghost since I met him.

I shift in my seat. “I didn’t come here to have a staring contest. I’m here for answers.”

He narrows his eyes. It’s just a fraction, but it’s enough for me to know he’s heard me. Yet he still doesn’t speak.

“What do you know about April 18th?” I ask.

There’s the faintest flicker of something in his eyes, but still, he says nothing.

Damn it.

I glance at the chains on his wrists, moving slightly as hisfingers twitch. There’s something simmering beneath his handsome exterior, something dark and dangerous. I know that look… it’s barely restrained rage.

I try again, softening my tone. “Ghost, please. How do you know about that night?”

His lips part, but instead of answering, he leans forward, his gaze never leaving my face. I blow out a breath and start to get to my feet when his voice stops me. It’s low and rough, like shards of glass grinding together.

“Who touched you?”

I slowly sit back down as my pulse quickens. This isn’t the direction I want this conversation to go. I came here for answers about my parents. Not to discuss Mason.

“Ghost—”

“Who. Fucking. Touched. You?” His voice is harder now, each word deliberate, as if he’s forcing them out.

I grit my teeth, trying to maintain my composure, but his intensity is crawling along my skin. He’s not letting this go. And I can’t help but wonder what he’ll do if I tell him what he wants.

“This isn’t about me. I’m asking aboutApril 18th.”

“I don’t want to talk about your parents,” he says, his words clipped. “I’m asking aboutyou. Who hurt you?”

I let out a breath, steadying myself. “No one.”

“Don’t lie to me, Dr. Andrews.” His words are softer now, almost playful, but there’s a sinister current beneath them, something far more threatening than his usual demeanor. “You let him hurt you. Why?”

I stiffen, my muscles going taut as Ghost’s words sink in. What the hell is he talking about? My first instinct is to lash out, to tell him he’s wrong. No woman wouldleta man put his hands on her.That’s absurd. I didn’t allow Mason to hurt me. I didn’t see the hit coming.

But in my gut, I know that’s not entirely true.

I didn’t back down. I didn’t turn away or run. I stood there, eyes locked on Mason, daring him to do it, daring him to lose control.

When his fist connected with my face, there was a part of me that wasn’t surprised. I pushed him to that edge. Not because I was weak, not because I was powerless, but because I wanted it. The fire burning inside me demanded something—anything—to make me feel alive.

The memory flashes in my mind: Mason’s rage, the way his expression twisted just before he struck me. But instead of fear, instead of regret, I felt pure satisfaction.

In that moment, I wasn’t the casualty. I was the catalyst.

How in the hell does Ghost know that?

I steady myself, forcing my expression to remain neutral, even though my heart is pounding in my chest. Ghost watches me in a way that makes me feel exposed. He tilts his head as if he’s challenging me to admit it. Waiting for me to say the words out loud.

But I won’t.

“This is none of your business, Ghost.”

“Everything about you is my business. Where you live. What you do. Who you fuck.Allof it.”

“You don’t own me.”