Page 28 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

TWENTY

Mason

Sunlight slices through the window blinds, casting gold bars across Willow’s sleeping form.

I’ve been awake for almost an hour, just watching her breathe.

The rise and fall of her chest. The soft flutter of her eyelashes against her cheeks.

The way her body curls instinctively toward mine, even in sleep.

Ten days. Ten days since we arrived at Guardian HRS’s mountain fortress. Ten nights with her in my arms. Ten mornings waking up beside her, still half-disbelieving that she’s real.

That we’re real.

Bear snores softly at the foot of the bed, his massive body taking up more space than should be physically possible. Chaos is curled in the corner, one eye open, always on guard.

My boys. My team. And now, my woman.

Willow stirs, her body stretching languidly against mine. Even half-asleep, she moves with a new confidence that wasn’t there when I first found her in the Montana snow. She’s softer now in my arms—but stronger in every other way.

“Morning,” she murmurs, voice husky with sleep as her eyes flutter open. Green-gold and clear, meeting mine without fear .

“Morning, beautiful.” I brush a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. “Sleep well?”

She smiles, slow and satisfied. “Eventually.”

The memory of last night flashes behind my eyes—her body arched beneath mine, her wrists pinned above her head, her voice breaking as she begged for release. The way she surrendered to me so completely, her trust a gift I’m still not sure I deserve.

“You did at that,” I agree, my voice dropping an octave as I roll her beneath me.

Her laughter is breathless as my mouth claims hers. Not gentle. Not patient. But hungry in a way that still surprises me after ten days of having her. Of learning her body. Of watching her bloom under my touch.

She isn’t surviving anymore.

She’s learning how to fight.

How to want.

How to live.

And fuck, if it isn’t the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

An hour later, freshly showered and thoroughly satisfied, we make our way to the kitchen where the rest of the team has already gathered.

Skye stands at the counter, two mugs of coffee in hand.

She passes one to Forest, who’s hunched over a laptop, his massive frame somehow managing to make even the high-end wooden chairs look like doll furniture and the coffee mug like a child’s toy cup.

“Look who finally decided to join the land of the living,” Mitzy calls from her spot at the table, not looking up from her tablet. Her fingers fly across the screen with almost inhuman speed, lines of code reflecting in her glasses.

“Some of us actually sleep,” I counter, reaching for the coffee pot.

Skye snorts. “Sleep. Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Willow’s cheeks flush, but she doesn’t shy away from the teasing. Instead, she moves to the refrigerator and begins pulling out eggs and vegetables. “Anyone hungry besides us?”

The casual domesticity of the moment hits me like a freight train. This woman, who escaped a monster, carries evidence that could topple a federal judge and his entire network, yet she makes breakfast as if she belongs here.

Like this is home.

And maybe it is.

Brass strides into the kitchen, data pad in hand. Chaos immediately perks up at his entrance. “Morning, lovebirds. Got the overnight drone footage.” He tosses the device onto the table where Forest can reach it. “Site’s been cleared.”

“Cleared?” Willow asks, looking confused. “What does that mean?”

“Clean. Like it never happened.” Ryan helps himself to coffee. “Cabin too. Professional job.”

Forest’s massive hands dwarf the tablet as he swipes through the images. “They’re spooked,” he rumbles, voice like distant thunder. “Covering tracks means they’re afraid of what could be traced back to them.”

“Good,” Willow says, cracking eggs into a bowl with more force than necessary. “They should be afraid.”

The steel in her voice makes me glance at her, pride swelling in my chest. Every day, she grows stronger. Every day, the woman who was buried beneath years of abuse emerges more fully.

“Any movement on the Reynolds front?” I ask, moving to help her with breakfast, my hand brushing the small of her back in silent support.

Skye taps her own tablet. “His public schedule continues uninterrupted. Court appearances. Charity fundraiser. Not a hint that his wife is missing or that he’s under scrutiny. ”

“Classic narcissist move,” Willow says, not looking up from the vegetables she’s chopping. “He thinks he’s untouchable.”

“He’s maintaining his routine,” Forest adds, “but his security detail has doubled, and his communications have gone dark.”

“Encrypted channels only,” Mitzy confirms. “But I’m making progress cracking them.”

Ryan gestures toward the tech wizard’s tablet. “How’s the case build going?”

Willow answers without looking up from her chopping. “Slow but steady. I want every ‘i’ dotted and ‘t’ crossed. It’s not just about Reynolds anymore—his network touches half a dozen agencies, two federal courts, and God knows how many politicians.”

“And if we move too fast, we tip our hand,” Mitzy adds, her focus never leaving her screen.

“We move carefully,” Forest agrees. “Methodically.”

“In the meantime?” Ryan asks.

“In the meantime,” Skye says, moving to stand beside Willow, “we keep working. Legal prep, security protocols, extraction contingencies if things go sideways.”

The front door opens with a gentle click that would be inaudible to most people but sets both Bear and Chaos instantly on alert.

Bear launches himself off his cushion by the fireplace, bounding toward the entryway with surprising speed for his massive bulk.

Chaos moves to flank him, a low, happy growl rumbling in his chest.

“Right on time,” Ryan mutters, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

I nod. Martinez left two days ago to retrieve Cooper from the hospital. Their arrival this morning is right on schedule.

Cooper appears in the doorway, favoring his left leg but otherwise upright and whole.

The bandages that had wrapped his thigh are gone, replaced by a compression sleeve just visible beneath his cargo pants.

He carries a duffel slung over one shoulder, and his face splits into a wide grin as Bear nearly knocks him over with an enthusiastic greeting.

“Easy, you beast,” he laughs, scratching behind the Newfoundland’s ears. “Don’t rip out my stitches.”

Willow is across the room in seconds, surprising everyone—maybe even herself—with how quickly she moves to hug him. “You’re okay,” she breathes, relief evident in her voice.

“Takes more than a little lead to keep me down, darlin’,” Cooper drawls, returning her hug with his free arm.

I follow more slowly, letting her have her moment before clasping forearms with my sniper, my brother. “Good to have you back in one piece.”

“Good to be back,” Cooper replies, his eyes conveying what words can’t—gratitude, brotherhood, the unbreakable bonds forged in battle. “Started climbing the walls after three days in that hospital bed.”

“Climbing the nurses, more like,” Martinez quips, appearing behind Cooper with a smirk. “Had to drag him out before someone married him.”

Laughter ripples through the room, genuine and warm, breaking the tension that’s been building for days. The team is whole again.

I watch them interact. Cooper settles at the table, wincing only slightly as he extends his injured leg; Martinez recounts the hospital escape with theatrical embellishment.

Jackson enters from the training room to complete our circle.

Ryan leans against the counter, steady as always. My brothers. My team.

And Willow, finding her footing among them, laughing at Cooper’s outrageous flirtation, her shoulders relaxed in a way they haven’t been since we arrived. The sight of her there, comfortable among these dangerous men, fills me with a fierce pride I can’t quite name .

Skye steps into the kitchen, her expression shifting the mood instantly. “Briefing in fifteen,” she announces. “We’ve got movement.”

Forest follows, nodding toward Cooper. “Glad you’re back. We’ll need all hands for this.”

The easy camaraderie fades, replaced by the focused energy that precedes action. We’ve been in a holding pattern for days—building the case, preparing Willow, waiting for the right moment to strike. That moment is approaching; I can feel it in the air like the static before a lightning strike.

Breakfast forgotten, we move as one unit toward the war room—the reinforced chamber at the center of the lodge where our most sensitive operations are planned.

Forest takes his position at the head of the table.

Skye and CJ flank him like sentinels. Mitzy immediately connects her tablet to the main display, fingers flying as she pulls up file after file.

“Let’s review what we know,” Forest begins, his deep voice commanding attention without effort. “Reynolds has maintained his public persona without interruption. No missing persons report for Willow. No sign he’s concerned about his security breach.”

“But his movements tell a different story,” CJ adds, tapping a command that brings up a series of surveillance photos.

“Increased security. Closed-door meetings with known associates. And this…” He taps again, enlarging an image of Steffan Reynolds entering what appears to be a nondescript office building.

“That’s Drazen Kostic’s front company,” Willow says, leaning forward. “Serbian arms dealer. I documented at least three meetings between them last year.”

Mitzy nods. “The USB confirms it. Reynolds has been facilitating weapons deals through his judicial position— sealed warrants, evidence ‘lost’ in transit, cases dismissed on technicalities.”

“Not just weapons,” Skye adds. “Human trafficking. Drug smuggling. Anything that pays.”

I watch Willow’s face as she absorbs this information. Ten days of suspicion confirmed. Three years of documenting his crimes while suffering his abuse. Her expression hardens, not with fear, but with righteous anger.

“We’ve discussed our options,” Forest says, his massive hands flat on the table. “But let’s be clear on how we’re proceeding. Option one: we build the case quietly. Feed information to trusted DOJ contacts. Let them handle the takedown.”

“Safer,” Ryan notes. “Less exposure for Willow.”

“But slower,” Jackson counters. “And more room for Reynolds to wriggle out.”

“Option two,” Forest continues, “direct testimony. Willow presents the evidence herself, publicly. No room for coverups. No bureaucratic delays.”

“But dangerous,” I say, the words tasting like ash on my tongue. “Reynolds would know exactly where to strike.”

Cooper leans forward, wincing slightly. “What about Kostic? If we move on Reynolds, Kostic won’t sit idle.”

“Precisely the concern,” Forest rumbles. “We expose Reynolds, we potentially set off a reaction from everyone in his network—including an arms dealer with resources that rival small countries.”

“We’ve been monitoring Kostic’s movements,” CJ confirms. “If he gets wind that we’re moving on Reynolds, we need to be ready for him to activate his own assets.”

All eyes turn to Willow, who sits perfectly still, processing. The room falls silent, waiting for her to speak.

“I still want to testify,” she says finally, her voice firm. “Direct testimony. Public record. No shadowy dealings that can be dismissed as conspiracy theories.”

I take her hand under the table, squeezing gently in silent support.

The pride I feel threatens to burst through my chest. I’ve seen men crumble under less pressure, seen hardened operators balk at half the risk she’s willingly taking on.

Yet here she stands, bruised but unbroken, choosing to face her monster head-on.

“Then we prepare,” Forest declares, the matter settled. “Mitzy, full analysis of the USB contents. CJ, security protocols for a public appearance. Skye, medical and psychological prep.”

“And us?” Cooper asks, gesturing to our Cerberus team.

“Training,” I say, my eyes still on Willow. “Starting today. We’re officially on protective detail.”