Page 14 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

TEN

Mason

Drake fights like the professional he is—no wasted movement, each strike aimed at vulnerable points.

In another life, in another context, I might have respected his skill, but all I see is the man who watched while Steffan Reynolds tortured the woman currently hiding in my cabin, and then took his turn.

The man who participated in her abuse.

Who touched her against her will.

His fist connects with my jaw, snapping my head back. Stars explode in my vision, but the pain only focuses me. I counter with an elbow strike to his throat, following with a knee to his solar plexus. He grunts but doesn’t fold, retaliating with a headbutt that splits my eyebrow.

Blood trickles into my eye as we grapple in the snow. Drake manages to jerk free long enough to reach for a backup weapon, but I’m already moving, driving the heel of my boot into his wrist.

Bones crack with an audible snap. He howls, more in rage than pain, as the pistol disappears into the snow .

“Who the fuck are you?” he snarls, blood staining his teeth. “A mountain man with a hero complex?”

I don’t answer, don’t waste breath on words. My fist connects with his temple, dazing him long enough for me to pin him, one knee crushing his sternum while my forearm presses against his throat.

“The woman,” I say, voice deadly quiet. “Tell me who else is coming for her.”

Drake’s laugh is wet with blood. “You have no idea what you’ve stepped in, do you? You think you can protect her? You’re a dead man walking.”

I increase the pressure on his throat, watching his eyes bulge. “Names. Numbers. Timetable. Now.”

“Fuck you.” He tries to buck me off, but my weight and leverage are too much. “She’s Reynolds’s property. His to deal with. You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

The rage I’ve been containing breaks free at his words. My vision tunnels, clouded with red. All I see is Willow’s bruised body, her flinches at sudden movements, the terror in her eyes when she woke in a stranger’s care.

This man participated in that.

Enabled it.

Maybe even enjoyed it.

My control slips, just for a moment, but it’s enough. My hands close around his throat, thumbs compressing his trachea. His eyes widen in genuine fear as he realizes what’s happening—that he’s pushed too far, triggered something beyond his calculation.

A distant part of me recognizes I’m crossing a line. I need him alive for information. Killing him solves the immediate problem but creates others. Unfortunately, that rational voice is drowned out by the roar of protective fury pounding in my veins.

Drake’s struggles weaken, his face purpling as oxygen deprivation sets in. Just a few more seconds, and the threat he poses to Willow will be permanently eliminated.

Gunfire erupts from the direction of the cabin. Three shots in rapid succession, unmistakably from a rifle. Not my weapons.

Not Willow’s pistol.

I release Drake’s throat, slamming his head into the frozen ground hard enough to ensure unconsciousness without killing him. Zip-ties secure his wrists and ankles while I retrieve his weapons, adding them to my arsenal.

More gunfire from the cabin. My blood runs cold. There were only three heat signatures on the perimeter.

Unless—

Unless they split their forces. Unless the three I engaged were a distraction while others approached from a different vector, counting on me to focus my attention southwest.

Willow.

I sprint through the forest, no longer concerned with stealth. Snow whips against my face, branches claw at my tactical gear, but I barely notice. Every cell, every fiber of my being, is focused on reaching the cabin, on protecting what’s mine.

The world narrows to running footsteps and rasping breath, to the primal need to reach her before it’s too late.

I break through the tree line as more gunfire erupts—but this time, it’s coming from inside the cabin, directed outward.

Through the swirling snow, I make out two figures taking cover behind an overturned snowmobile. Their attention is fixed on the cabin windows, where someone returns fire with precise, disciplined shots.

Not Willow.

She’s safe in the hidden compartment.

Which means?—

The pieces click into place as a figure materializes from the trees to my right—tall, bearded, moving with the unmistakable economy of special forces. Ryan. My second-in-command.

The cavalry arrived ahead of schedule.

Relief floods through me, followed immediately by renewed focus. I signal Ryan with a quick hand gesture—two tangos, northwest position—and receive a curt nod in response. Two more shapes emerge from the forest to the east. Martinez and Jackson complete an improvised pincer movement.

The men by the snowmobile never stand a chance. Caught in the crossfire from four directions, they’re neutralized in seconds—one dead from Ryan’s shot to the head, the other wounded and subdued by Martinez and Jackson.

I approach the cabin cautiously, weapon at the ready, but a familiar whistle from within confirms it’s secured. When I push through the door, I find our team’s sniper, Cooper, positioned at the window, rifle trained on the tree line.

“Ghost.” He nods without taking his eyes from his scope. “Welcome to the party.”

“Status?” I scan the cabin for signs of disturbance, relieved to find everything relatively intact. The hidden door to the safe room remains closed, undisturbed.

“Five tangos total. Two on the snowmobile, three in the woods.” Cooper’s voice is as calm as if he’s discussing the weather. “You got the ones in the woods?”

“Yes.” I move toward the bedroom. “Perimeter?”

“Secured. Martinez has drone surveillance up. No more incoming detected.” He raises an eyebrow at the blood on my face. “You look like shit.”

“You’re late,” I counter, already moving toward the bedroom.

Cooper’s laugh follows me. “No, man. You’re just always early to the fight.”

In the bedroom, I trigger the hidden mechanism. The floor panel slides back with a soft click, revealing Willow’s pale face blinking up at me.

Bear’s positioned as a living shield—his two-hundred-pound frame curled around her, one massive paw resting on her arm. The dog’s protective instincts transform him from a gentle giant to a deadly guardian. His head lifts the moment the panel moves, a low rumble vibrating deep in his chest.

The Newfoundland’s dark eyes assess me first, checking for threats before giving a soft woof of recognition. He nudges Willow protectively, as if asking if she’s okay, then turns that massive head toward me and snorts, a quiet reprimand for staying gone too long.

Willow’s relief hits like a punch to the sternum—raw and immediate—but it’s quickly chased by concern as her gaze locks on the blood tracking down the side of my face.

“You’re hurt.” She surges upright, her fingers flying to her mouth. “What happened?” She reaches for me, fear and worry warring in her eyes.

Bear shifts as she moves, making space but staying close, his body still angled between her and the door. He’s absorbed her fear, made her safety his singular mission. The bond between them, formed in such a short time, speaks to both Willow’s gentle nature and Bear’s extraordinary instincts.

“Not mine,” I lie, extending a hand to help her out. “It’s over. We’re secure.”

She takes my hand, letting me pull her to her feet. Bear follows, shaking himself and immediately moving to investigate the new scents in the cabin. Willow steps into my arms without hesitation, her body trembling against mine as delayed shock sets in.

“I heard an explosion and then gunfire,” she whispers against my chest. “I thought?— ”

“I’m here.” I tighten my grip, one hand cradling the back of her head. “I’ve got you.”

She pulls back just enough to look at my face, fingers gently touching the cut on my eyebrow. “This is yours,” she accuses softly.

“Barely a scratch.” I capture her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Are you hurt?”

She shakes her head, then stiffens as voices in the main room register. “Who’s here?”

“Reinforcements.” I keep my tone reassuring, though I can feel the questions building in her. “They’re here to help.”

Fear flickers across her face. “Can we trust them?”

The question cuts deeper than it should, reminding me that her experience with men in positions of power—men who should protect rather than harm—has been nothing but betrayal and pain.

“With my life,” I say simply. “And more importantly, with yours.”

She studies my face, searching for deception, for the cracks that would reveal a lie. Finding none, she nods once, decision made.

“Is Drake…” She can’t seem to finish the question.

“Alive.” For now, I don’t add. “We’ll question him, find out if more teams are coming.”

Relief and dread battle in her expression. “And then?”

“And then we take the fight to your husband.” The promise in my voice is iron-clad. “This ends on our terms, not his.”

Fear ghosts across her features, but beneath it rises something stronger—determination. The same steel that helped her survive three years of abuse, that drove her to gather evidence against a powerful, connected man who thought himself untouchable.

“Together?” The single word carrying the weight of so many questions. So much trust.

“Together,” I confirm, sealing the promise with a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Now come meet the team that’s going to help us burn your husband’s world to the ground.”

I lead her into the main room, where four men in tactical gear have established a temporary command center on my dining table. Maps spread across the surface, communication equipment set up, weapons checked and rechecked with practiced efficiency.

All conversation stops as we enter, four pairs of eyes instantly assessing Willow, noting her injuries, cataloging the protective way I position myself slightly in front of her. Ryan—ever the XO—speaks first.