Page 3 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

Every muscle goes instantly pliant under my hand. Her breath catches, pulse leaping beneath my fingers. Recognition flares in those gold-flecked eyes. Not of me, but of what I am.

What she is.

The knowledge arcs between us like an electric current. That immediate surrender kicks my protective instincts into overdrive, along with other impulses I’ve kept locked down tight.

“Focus on my voice. You’re safe. I’m Mason. You’re in Montana, in a snowstorm. My dogs and I have your six.”

“I—” She swallows hard, eyes darting between me and the dogs. “Why am I wearing—where are my clothes?”

“Hypothermia. Your clothes were soaked. You’re in my spare thermals.” I maintain the steady pressure on her neck, feeling her pulse race beneath my fingers. “I’m former Special Forces. The dogs are trained protection animals. We found you in the storm. Brought you to shelter. Nothing more.”

She watches me like a cornered animal. Slowly, logic begins to win. Her eyes sharpen.

“You’re not one of them? You don’t work for him?”

“I don’t work for anyone.” Not anymore.

The words come out rougher than intended. “Just me and the dogs up here. Speaking of—Bear, ease up.”

The Newfoundland gives her a few inches of space but stays close enough to lend warmth. She watches him, then looks back at me with dawning understanding.

“You saved me.”

“That remains to be seen.” My hand falls away from her neck, and I immediately miss the contact. “Storm’s not over. Your pursuers might still be out there. And you’ve got some explaining to do.”

A shudder runs through her, but there’s trust in her eyes now. Trust I haven’t earned. Don’t deserve. But damned if I don’t want to keep it.

“I’m Willow,” she whispers, and the simple offering of her name feels more intimate than our shared body heat. “And I think—I think you just saved my life.”

Something shifts in the space between us.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, but in here, something far more dangerous is building—something that threatens the carefully constructed walls of my self-imposed isolation.

I’m already addicted to the way she yields to my command, and that’s inherently dangerous.

“How about we start with some hydration?” I maintain a steady and professional tone. It’s easier to focus on immediate survival needs than the way she unconsciously leans toward me, seeking protection.

I lift the canteen. One hand supports her neck as she drinks. Her throat works under my fingers, fragile and soft. She lets me guide her. The simple trust in that gesture hits harder than any firefight—the way she lets me control the flow, support her weight.

Something dark and possessive uncoils in my chest as her throat works beneath my fingers.

Lock it down, asshole.

The storm softens. Snow still falls, but the wind’s dropped. Chaos remains alert, but there’s no movement outside the shelter.

“I’m Willow Reynolds,” she whispers when I take the canteen away. Her eyes meet mine, fear warring with determination. “My husband?—”

“The one who gave you those bruises?” The words emerge as a combat growl.

She flinches but doesn’t withdraw. If anything, she leans closer, like she’s starved for protection rather than afraid of male aggression. Bear rumbles, responding to my tension, and I force my hands to unclench.

“Federal Judge Steffan Reynolds. He found my flash drive. Evidence. Witness tampering. Money laundering. Worse. I’ve been gathering proof of his corruption for months.

Years. Offshore accounts, doctored verdicts, connections to.

..” She swallows hard. “The men tracking me are his head of security. Drake and his men. They’re all Ex-Delta Force.

” Her fingers twist in the thermal shirt I gave her.

“They’re not here to bring me back alive. ”

I process this while checking the storm through the lean-to’s entrance. The snow’s lighter now, but visibility’s still shit. Wind chill is hovering around dangerous.

We’re on borrowed time.

“When’s the last time you ate?” The question surprises her, but I need to know what I’m working with. Her physical condition will determine our next course of action.

“I… Yesterday morning, I think. Everything after that is…” She shivers, and I automatically pull her close, sharing body heat.

“Here.” I dig through my pack, producing a protein bar. “Small bites. Slow. Let it settle.” My hand stays at the small of her back as she eats, monitoring her breathing, the way she favors her left side.

Combat medical training catalogs each detail: probable bruised ribs, mild concussion, severe bruising, and possible internal injuries.

She manages half the bar before her hands start shaking. Delayed shock, maybe, or just the weight of everything catching up. I take the wrapper, tuck it away—no trace left behind, automatic after years of spec ops.

“Can you walk?”

She nods, determination replacing panic.

I help her dress in the spare clothes from my pack, cataloging each wince and swallowed gasp.

The bruises on her skin burn in my tactical memory, building a target package I file away for future use.

Each mark feeds the predator I’ve kept caged, the one that wants to hunt down every man who hurt her.

“The evidence,” she says suddenly. “It’s on a thumb drive. I managed to—” She pats her pockets, panic flaring. “No, no, no?—”

“Inside pocket of your coat,” I tell her, remembering the way her fingers had gone slack when she collapsed, the gleam of metal catching my eye as the drive slipped free. I tucked it into her coat pocket myself, close to her heart. “It’s safe.

Relief hits her like a body blow.

She’s not just running from an abusive husband—she’s carrying proof that could bring down a federal judge. No wonder this Drake asshole was sent to eliminate the threat.

“Listen carefully.” I cup her face, making sure I have her full attention. “My cabin is three miles from here. Uphill most of the way. It’s defensible, stocked with supplies. But getting there won’t be easy. Tell me now if you can’t make it, and we’ll figure out another option.”

She stares at me like I’ve just rewritten her world. “You’d do that? Change your plans based on what I can handle?”

The question carries weight beyond its obvious implications. I hear the years of being ignored, her limits dismissed, and her needs trampled. My jaw clenches.

“I protect what’s mine.” The words slip out before I can catch them.

Shit! Rein it in, Mason. Not now.

Her eyes widen, pupils dilating.

“We work within your limits, but you have to be honest about them. Can you do that?”

“Yes.” The word comes out soft but certain. There’s trust in her eyes, mixed with something else—something that calls to the dominant I’ve kept locked away.

“Good g—” I barely hold in the Good girl that comes as naturally as breathing. But she’s not mine. Not like that. Never like that. “Um, that’s good.”

God help me, I want to keep her. Keep her safe. Keep her protected. Make her mine.

A stranger.

I’m so fucked.

We break shelter. Chaos clears ahead. Bear makes the trail.

“Stay behind me. Step where I step. If I say drop, you drop. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Two simple words. They slam into me like a physical blow. Rachel used to say them the same way—soft, trusting, completely surrendered. Until the night I woke from a nightmare about Syria, watching my team die while I survived, and found my hands around her throat.

The absolute horror in her eyes as I came back to myself… I swore then I’d never put another submissive at risk. Never trust myself with that kind of power again.

But Willow’s “yes, sir” does things to me I can’t control.

The delicate curve of her neck as she bows her head slightly.

The way her breath catches when I move close.

The subtle softening of her entire body at my command.

Even injured, even terrified, she responds to dominance like she was made for it.

Made for me.

STOP IT!

Fuck.

The snow’s thigh-deep in places, each step a battle against nature itself.

Bear forges ahead, his massive bulk creating a path, but it’s a double-edged sword.

The trail he leaves might as well be a neon sign pointing straight to my cabin.

Behind us, Chaos ghosts through the white, covering our tracks as best he can, but it won’t buy us much time against experienced operators like Drake and his team.

Willow stumbles for the third time in ten minutes, a soft cry of pain escaping before she can bite it back. Those ribs are slowing her down more than she wants to admit. She keeps pushing, trying to match my pace, but her body’s reached its limit.

“Stop.” I turn back, catching her before she can fall. Her small frame fits perfectly against me, triggering every protective instinct I’ve spent years suppressing. “New plan.”

“I can keep going.” She looks up at me, snowflakes caught in her lashes, cheeks flushed with cold and exertion. “I’m not weak?—”

“No, you’re injured.” My voice comes out rougher than intended. “Pushing through pain is different from pushing through damage.”

The ridge ahead looms like a white wall. The easier path will take us around, adding an hour to our trek. The direct route requires climbing—nothing technical, but with her injuries…

A sound escapes her—frustration mixed with fear.

“They’ll find us.”

“Let them try.” The words emerge as a growl. I shouldn’t enjoy how she shivers at that tone, or how her body unconsciously yields to my authority. “Bear, break trail. Chaos, sweep, and clear.”

The dogs respond with years of training evident in every movement. I turn back to Willow, forcing myself to focus on the tactical rather than how perfectly she fits against me.

“New plan. Arms around my neck.” When she hesitates, I add the command tone that makes her pupils dilate. “ Now .”

She obeys instantly, the response so natural it hurts.

I lift her easily—she weighs nothing compared to my combat load—but the intimacy of the position is dangerous. Her breath against my neck. The way she instinctively burrows closer. Every subtle submission chips away at defenses I thought were ironclad.

We climb.

The snow hides treacherous footing, and the wind picks up, driving ice crystals like needles against any exposed skin.

It takes three times as long as it should, but we finally reach my cabin.

One room, one bed, minimal comfort.

I’ve kept it that way deliberately, part of my self-imposed exile .

Now it will become torture with no escape from this hunger she’s awakening in me. The part of me that wants to heal every mark on her skin and replace them with my own.

The cabin’s dark shape emerges through a curtain of snow—my fortress against the world.

High-tech sophistication hidden beneath the wilderness facade.

Motion sensors gleam dully beneath snow-laden eaves.

Reinforced shutters wait to transform windows into armor.

Solar panels peek through frost, powering a military-grade security system.

“Almost there.” I adjust my grip, hating how naturally she yields to the movement.

She doesn’t know that the same instincts driving me to protect her could easily turn destructive. One flashback, one nightmare, and all that control shatters.

Bear leads and Chaos flanks us. Everything in me screams to get her inside, to shelter her, and make her mine.

That’s what makes me dangerous. The same drive that makes me want to protect can instantly turn deadly.

Whatever, there’s nothing to do about that now. My fortress waits.

One room. One bed.

No escape.

From her.

From myself.

Until those men come hunting.

And they will come hunting.

But when they come, they’ll find something they didn’t expect.

Not a helpless victim.

They’ll find me, and all the parts I’ve tried to bury.

The monster I’ve been keeping leashed, the one that already sees her as mine to protect.

God help us both.