Page 29 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

TWENTY-ONE

Mason

The ensuing days fall into a rhythm that feels both foreign and familiar. Mornings begin with Willow in my arms, our bodies learning each other with increasing intimacy. Sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce, always with a hunger that shows no signs of abating.

Breakfast with the team becomes a touchstone—Willow joking with Martinez, learning intel lingo from Skye, gradually integrating into this strange family of warriors and spies as if she’s always belonged.

Work sessions with Mitzy follow—legal analysis, reviewing evidence, and redacting sensitive names. Willow’s law degree emerges from the shadows of her abandoned career, her sharp mind finding connections and precedents that even Mitzy’s algorithms miss.

But as the days pass, her restlessness grows. The lodge, although spacious, remains a gilded cage. Security protocols mean she can’t set foot outside where surveillance might spot her. Some days, I find her at the window, staring at the mountains with such longing that it makes my chest ache .

“I have an idea,” I tell her one morning. “Meet me in the gym in fifteen.”

The training room is Forest’s pride and joy—a state-of-the-art facility with every piece of equipment an operator could want.

Mats cover one half of the floor, weight machines and cardio equipment the other.

A climbing wall dominates the far end, and reinforced glass separates a shooting range beyond.

Willow arrives precisely on time, dressed in the workout clothes Skye has acquired for her—leggings and a fitted tank top that reveal the subtle changes in her physique. Regular meals and reduced stress have filled out the hollows in her cheeks and added healthy curves to her frame.

“What’s all this?” she asks, eyeing the hand wraps I’m laying out on the mats.

“Training,” I say simply. “If you’re going to face Reynolds in court, you need to know you can face him anywhere.”

Fear flickers across her features, but she nods. “Okay. What do we start with?”

“Basics. Stance. Balance. How to fall.” I move behind her and adjust her posture with gentle hands. “Your center of gravity is here,” I place a palm against her abdomen. “Everything starts from this point.”

We begin slowly. How to stand. How to breathe. How to move without telegraphing intentions. She absorbs every lesson, her frustration visible only when her body can’t immediately perform what her mind understands.

“I’m never going to get this,” she mutters after an hour, sweat dampening her shirt, hair clinging to her forehead.

“You will,” I assure her, demonstrating the movement again. “Your body is learning a new language. It takes time.”

Days turn into a week. Each morning, the patterns become more fluid. Each afternoon, her strikes grow stronger, her footwork more precise. I watch her transform—not into a soldier, but into something equally powerful.

A survivor who refuses to be a victim again.

One afternoon, after a particularly grueling session with defensive moves, she collapses onto the mat, frustration etched into every line of her body.

“This is pointless,” she says, voice thick with unshed tears. “I’m never going to win a fight against men like Steffan. Against men like Drake.”

I crouch beside her, about to offer reassurance, when a better idea strikes me. “Mitzy!” I call. “CJ! Got a minute?”

They appear in the doorway moments later—Mitzy with her ever-present tablet, CJ looking mildly amused.

“Need your help with a demonstration,” I say, rising to my feet. “Willow needs to see something.”

Understanding dawns in Mitzy’s eyes. Without a word, she hands her tablet to CJ and steps onto the mat, kicking off her shoes as she goes.

“What’s happening?” Willow asks, confusion replacing frustration as she watches Mitzy roll her shoulders, stretching her neck.

“A lesson,” I reply, moving to stand beside CJ. “Mitzy, you ready?”

The tech wizard—all five-foot-three of her—nods. “Any boring rules to follow?”

“Ha-ha, Standard takedown. No permanent damage.” I wink at her. “Try not to hurt me too badly.”

“Wait, what?” Willow sits up straighter, looking between us in disbelief.

Before she can say anything else, I lunge at Mitzy with a controlled strike that would have connected with most opponents.

Instead, my hand meets air as she sidesteps, redirecting my momentum with a twist of her forearm.

In an eyeblink, I’m flat on my back, Mitzy’s knee pressing lightly into my sternum.

“Again.” I climb off the floor.

Mitzy backs away to reset.

This time, I approach more cautiously, feinting left before striking right. It makes no difference. Mitzy reads my movements like they’re written in neon, using my force against me. Three attempts, three takedowns, each more emphatic than the last.

By the final one, Willow is on her feet, mouth slightly open in awe.

“Your turn, CJ,” Mitzy says, gesturing him forward without breaking a sweat.

CJ hesitates only a moment before squaring off against her. Despite his greater size and obvious strength, the outcome is the same. In less than ten seconds, he’s on the mat, arm twisted behind his back, Mitzy’s expression never changing from mild boredom.

“How?” Willow breathes, looking at the diminutive woman with new eyes.

“Technique beats strength,” Mitzy says, releasing CJ and straightening her shirt. “Always. I’m never going to overpower a man like Mason or CJ. But I don’t need to. I just need to be smarter, faster, and better trained.”

“We train all our female operatives to capitalize on momentum over strength,” CJ explains, rubbing his shoulder where Mitzy manipulated a pressure point.

“It evens the playing field. In a direct contest of strength, you’ll more likely than not—lose.

However, we train our female operatives to minimize this as much as possible.

It’s all about force, momentum, and physics. Gravity takes care of the rest.”

“CJ’s right,” I add. “Men rely on power. We’re taught to dominate through strength. We train against other men. Rarely against other women. Women like Mitzy are taught to redirect our power, use it against us.”

Willow looks between us, then at her own hands, small like Mitzy’s, but growing stronger every day. A slow smile spreads across her face, determination replacing defeat in her eyes.

“Okay,” she says, retying her ponytail. “I’m back in. Show me again.”

The next day’s training session runs longer than usual.

By the time we finish, the lodge has emptied—Forest and Skye gone to a secure meeting in Missoula.

Mitzy is locked in her tech lab, working on a secret project.

The rest of the team are on various assignments.

The blessed quiet feels like a stolen luxury after days of constant company.

“You’re improving,” I tell Willow as she towels sweat from her face. “Your form is solid.”

She flexes her fingers, examining the calluses beginning to form on her palms from striking the pads. “Still a long way from taking down Steffan.”

“That’s not the goal,” I remind her, checking her hands for any serious bruising. “You’re learning to defend yourself, to buy time. You’ve got an entire team of killers ready to handle the rest.”

She laughs softly, the sound still new enough to make my chest tighten. “My own personal army.”

“Damn right.” I brush my thumb across her knuckles, the simple contact sending heat through my veins despite the exhaustion of training. “These look good. No serious bruising.”

“I don’t mind bruises if they’re from you,” she says quietly, her eyes lifting to meet mine.

I freeze, my thumb still tracing circles on her skin.

The words, innocent on the surface, carry layers of meaning that make my pulse quicken.

We’ve established a certain dynamic in our intimate moments—her calling me “Sir,” me taking control—but we’ve never ventured into anything more intense than that.

“Willow,” I say, my voice dropping lower. “What exactly are you saying?”

She steps closer, tilting her face up to mine. “I’m saying I like it when you overpower me. When you take control. And I don’t mind a few bruises when the sex is steamy.”

“After what Steffan did…” I choose my words carefully. “I never want to trigger those memories.”

“This is different.” Her fingers trace the line of my jaw. “With him, I had no choice. With you—I choose to submit. But…” She looks down, appearing deliciously shy. “What if I get to fight a little first? Let you overpower me.”

My breath catches. “You want me to make you work for it?”

She rises on tiptoes, her lips brushing my ear as she whispers, “I’m yours to command. Yours to claim. But I want to make you earn it.”

The dam breaks.

My hands find her waist, lifting her against me with a growl that comes from somewhere primal. Her legs wrap around my hips as I carry her to the wall, pinning her there with my body, my mouth claiming hers in a kiss that is pure possession.

“Tell me what you need,” I demand against her lips, my control fraying with every soft sound she makes. “Tell me what you want.”

“You,” she gasps as my teeth find the sensitive spot where her neck meets her shoulder. “All of you. Don’t hold back.”

Those three words unleash something I’ve been keeping reined in tight.

I lower her slowly, letting her feel every inch of my restraint—then step back.

Not because I’m done, but because she asked for a fight.

“Prove it,” I say roughly. “You want me to earn it? Then make me.”

Willow’s eyes flare with heat. She doesn’t hesitate.

She rushes me.

The first move is sloppy—too much emotion in it—but her follow-up is clean. Low sweep to the knee, sharp twist of her hips. I let her take me down, rolling with the fall to gauge her momentum. She lands on top, trying to pin my arm.

“Good,” I grunt. “But you’re leaving your flank open.”

I flip her.

She hits the mat with a thud but grins as she kicks out, catching me in the gut. I rip off her shirt, then stumble back a step, laughing.

She’s not just playing now. She’s fighting.

And she’s damn good.

She dodges my grab and throws her shoulder into my ribs, using my weight against me. It almost works—almost. But then I plant, pivot, and catch her wrist mid-strike, yanking her off balance.

She goes down again.

This time, I follow.

I pin her beneath me, knees bracketing her hips, wrists caught in my hands and pressed to the mat above her head.

Her breath rushes out in a gasp, eyes wide, cheeks flushed, chest heaving beneath me.

She struggles.

Twists.

Fights.

It turns me on like nothing else.

“Fight all you want, Willow,” I growl, voice thick with arousal. “You want to lose. You want to be overpowered. Admit it. ”

Her pulse flutters beneath my fingers. Her thighs tense around my hips, but she doesn’t buck me off.

Her thighs squeeze me tighter.

“And you just lost, little warrior.” I use one hand to pin her hands over her head. The other one strips her bare. I shove down my workout shorts, cock already thick and ready. She whimpers, eyes locked on mine, chest arching up into me.

I thrust into her in one long, claiming stroke, driving the breath from her lungs.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps, body bowing.

“Say it again,” I rasp, hips rolling deep and slow. “Say you don’t mind the bruises. Say you like when I take what’s mine.”

“I love it,” she moans, arching beneath me. “God, Mason—please—don’t hold back.”

And I don’t.

I fuck her hard, pinning her wrists, pressing her into the mat like the weapon she is—polished and fierce and mine. Her sounds grow ragged, desperate, echoing in the empty training room like music made of surrender.

Her climax slams into her with a strangled cry, her inner muscles clenching around me, dragging me with her. I thrust harder, deeper, until I break apart inside her, spilling with a growl that sounds more animal than human.

We stay like that for a long beat—panting, trembling, skin slick with sweat.

Then I slowly release her wrists, bringing one to my lips.

“You still with me?” I murmur, voice gentler now.

She nods, eyes shining. “That was—everything.”

I kiss her forehead, then roll beside her on the mat, pulling her into my arms.

“You’re dangerous,” I murmur into her hair.

“So are you, Sir,” she whispers, smiling against my throat.

And just like that, we’ve crossed another line.

Not into darkness. Into something real.

Something that belongs to us.

Once is never enough with Willow. I take her again, accepting the responsibility that comes with her surrender, only this time, she doesn’t fight me. I claim her on the mat again.

Each touch is a celebration of what we’ve found in each other’s arms.

Each kiss is a promise.

Each command given and obeyed a step further away from the shadows of her past.

And afterward, as we lie tangled together on the mat, her body curled against mine like she belongs there, I hold her as though she’s sacred. Because to me, she is.