Page 2 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

TWO

Mason

The woman in my arms weighs nothing and everything. One hundred and twenty pounds of frozen responsibility I swore I’d never carry again.

Not after Rachel.

Not after the night that rewrote every line I thought I could safely walk.

Fifteen minutes ago, I was tracking a six-point buck through fresh powder. Now I’m cradling a half-frozen stranger while my planned route back to the cabin dissolves in the thickening white-out.

Funny how fast priorities shift.

How quickly training overrides common sense.

Her skin is ice, brittle, and pale. Bruising darkens her throat in finger-shaped smears, fresh and ugly. Her hair is matted with blood where someone struck her temple hard enough to swell a knot beneath the skin.

Scrapes and abrasions mar her arms—defensive wounds. The kind that speaks of struggle. Of someone who fought back until she couldn’t .

Chaos’s low growl cuts through the wind as he scents the trail behind us. The Malinois’s ears prick forward, his posture screaming danger. Bear circles us, his massive Newfoundland bulk already positioning to shield us from the wind, dark fur collecting snow like a living shroud.

“Bear, guard.”

The Newfoundland immediately shifts his weight, placing himself beside the woman as I lower her gently to the ground. His massive body radiates warmth, buying me necessary minutes.

“Chaos, perimeter sweep. Double-back.” The Malinois disappears into the white like smoke, silent and efficient.

They’re the only company I keep now. Dogs don’t flinch at scars or ask questions I can’t answer. They know what I am and accept it.

The storm’s building fast.

The temperature’s dropping faster than my comfort zone allows. What started as a manageable snowfall has evolved into nature’s version of psychological warfare.

The forecast said light snow, but it’s turned into a white-out. The wind howls through the pine tops like artillery fire, and visibility’s down to about ten feet.

Her tracks behind us are already half-obscured, disappearing like ghosts in the fresh powder. Another hour, maybe less, and they’ll be completely buried. Along with us, if I don’t make the right call.

The cabin is three miles north. In this storm, it might as well be on another planet.

“Goddammit.” The curse freezes in the air between us.

This would be manageable solo. I’ve survived worse conditions with less gear, but the woman changes everything.

Her breathing is shallow, lips tinged with a blue that has nothing to do with cosmetics.

The gash on her temple has mostly stopped bleeding, but the dried blood has frozen into macabre crystals along her hairline.

Decision time: risk movement to the cabin or build a temporary shelter? One look at her blue-tinged lips makes the choice for me.

Shelter first. Then triage.

The woman’s carotid pulse flutters beneath my fingertips—thready, irregular. Her core temperature is dangerously low. She’s not dressed for this kind of weather.

I spot a shallow depression ahead. It offers some protection. The towering pines will break the wind, and their lower branches give me material to work with. I unsheathe my KA-BAR, and pine boughs fall under its blade. A decade of special operations etched this process into my bones.

I build the lean-to in fifteen minutes. String out an emergency blanket for insulation. Pack snow walls tightly to trap heat. It gives maybe twenty degrees of temperature advantage.

Every degree counts when you’re fighting hypothermia.

I layer the ground thick with pine branches, creating insulation from the frozen earth. It’s not pretty, but it’ll keep her alive through the night if necessary.

I return to her. Bear hasn’t moved. His massive form shelters the woman from the worst of the wind. She stirs slightly when I lift her, her body instinctively curling toward warmth.

Toward me.

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

Something breaks within me, wishing I was worth that kind of trust.

Inside the shelter, I lay her on the pine-bough bed.

“Bear, cover.” The Newfoundland settles against her side while I begin my assessment. Head to toe, methodical. Her pulse is weak and erratic. Skin like ice. She won’t make it without intervention.

Her clothes are soaked. They have to go.

Field protocol. Dry her. Warm her.

Probable concussion from the gash on her temple. But then I uncover other marks that have my jaw clenching until I taste copper. The bruising visible beneath her torn clothing speaks of systematic abuse.

My hands catalog each injury with growing fury. Precise bruising along the ribs. Fingerprints around the throat. The kind of calculated violence that leaves plenty of nightmares for the victim.

I bite back the growl rising in my throat. The world narrows to three priorities: stabilize her, keep her warm, and protect her.

That last hits like an IED, setting off warning bells in my head. She’s not mine. Can’t be mine. The last time I claimed responsibility for someone’s life…

No. Focus on the mission.

Chaos returns, materializing from the white void like a specter. His posture tells me we’re temporarily clear, but his agitation confirms my suspicions—someone’s out there, hunting through this storm.

Hunting her.

The wind picks up, driving the temperature lower. The storm’s no longer just a threat—it’s a full-scale assault. We’re officially in white-out conditions. The kind that swallows men whole and spits out frozen corpses in the spring thaw.

The storm provides cover but traps us. It traps those hunting her too.

I’ll take the win.

Because there’s no way out until the weather breaks and she’s stable.

I grab my spare thermals out of my pack.

They’ll swamp her small form, but they are dry.

I wrap her in an emergency blanket, tucking her against Bear’s flank.

Then I take the other side, sharing my body heat with her. My sidearm rests within easy reach.

Her head rests in the crook of my arm.

I should feel nothing.

Instead, I feel everything.

She fits too perfectly.

Feels like heaven.

Smells like redemption.

I should be back at my cabin, processing that buck I was tracking, stoking the woodstove against the storm. Instead, I’m hip-deep in someone else’s nightmare, with an unconscious woman who carries more secrets than answers, two dogs, and a blizzard bearing down that could last days.

Whatever she’s running from, whoever marked her with such cruelty, they’ll have to go through me to get to her.

Hours pass in a blur of howling wind and soft breaths. The storm rages beyond our snow walls, but inside we’ve created our own warmth. Bear’s massive bulk heats her left side while I’m pressed against her right, my body curled protectively around her petite body.

Her color improves. Pulse steadies. Her body seeks heat, burrowing instinctively closer into me.

Her soft curves pressed against me are a special kind of torture—one I’ve earned, maybe, for thinking I could play protector again.

My body thrums with awareness, combat instincts tangled with baser needs I can’t afford to acknowledge. I spent a year drowning that part of me in whiskey, isolation, and silence. She brings it all raging back to the surface.

Chaos maintains his vigil by the entrance, occasionally shaking snow from his coat. Bear’s bulk and thick coat shield against the wind .

The night stretches, marked only by the howling wind and the steadily warming body in my arms. The professional part of my brain monitors her vital signs: stronger pulse, better color, regular breathing.

The rest of me catalogs things I shouldn’t: the delicate curve of her neck, the way she unconsciously burrows closer, seeking heat.

Dawn creeps in, barely visible through the thick clouds still spitting snow. The storm’s fury has ebbed, but the snowfall continues—lighter now, almost peaceful. Nature’s perfect camouflage for whoever might be tracking her.

Her cheek brushes my chest. My fingers twitch.

Don’t move. Don’t react.

She stirs.

Whimpers.

Then her eyes open.

Green. Gold-flecked. Sharp and too clear.

She sees me.

Panic detonates.

She jerks upright. Cries out. Collapses.

I catch her before she hits the ground.

“Easy.” The command voice comes naturally, pitched low but authoritative. “You’re safe.”

The words feel like a lie.

No one’s safe with me.

Her eyes snap open—sharp intelligence cuts through the confusion and fear.

For a moment, she’s perfectly still. Then recognition hits—not of me, but of the situation.

Of being restrained, confined. She jackknifes upward, then crumples with a cry of pain.

My arm shoots out, combat reflexes catching her before she can aggravate those ribs.

The contact sends electricity through my system, awakening hunger I’ve denied for too long. But there’s no time to dwell on it. She’s panicking, her breath coming in sharp gasps as she registers the strange clothes, the emergency blanket, the confined space.

“No, no, no—” She thrashes. Voice rising in terror. “You can’t… He sent you… I won’t go back…”

Bear whines but maintains position, rock-steady under his training. Chaos moves to the threshold.

I recognize the panic response—mine mirrors hers on the bad nights. But I also see something else: how she instinctively stills at my touch, even in her panic. The way her body unconsciously responds to authority.

“Stop.” The word cracks with parade-ground authority. My hand cups the back of her neck, exerting precisely calculated pressure. The dominance flows without conscious thought, a part of me I’ve tried to bury.

She freezes at my command, the reaction instantaneous. Her pupils dilate, breath catching for a different reason now. The submission in her response is like a key clicking into a lock I thought I’d thrown away.

Something primal stirs in my chest at how perfectly she yields to that tone. It hits like a tactical breaching charge.