Page 32 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

Steffan emerges from the middle SUV, hanging back as his security team secures the approach. Even at a distance, I recognize the set of his shoulders, the way he holds his head. The casual confidence of a man who expects the world to bend to his will.

My mouth goes dry; ancient instincts scream warnings that my mind no longer heeds. I force myself to remain still, visible in the window. Letting him see his target.

Radio chatter from Mason’s position confirms what I’m seeing. Steffan’s team has breached the outer perimeter. They’re pushing toward the house, moving in coordinated pairs. Two men break off to flank the building while four approach the front entrance directly.

The sound of splintering wood echoes through the house as they breach the door. Boots on hardwood. Tactical commands shouted room to room.

“Clear!”

“Clear! ”

I remain rooted in place, breathing controlled, eyes forward. Any moment now.

The living room door opens. Two men in tactical gear enter, weapons raised. They sweep the room, then one speaks into his radio.

“Primary target located. Room secure.”

Then Steffan fills the doorway.

He’s exactly as I remember and nothing like I remember. Impeccable charcoal suit. Silver temple wings accentuating his distinguished looks. That same commanding presence that once made me feel small.

But now I see what I couldn’t before—the coldness in his eyes. The cruelty etched into the lines around his mouth. The emptiness behind the facade.

For a moment, he stares, clearly shocked to find me standing calmly before him rather than cowering or fleeing.

“Willow.” My name in his mouth sounds wrong somehow. Possessive. Entitled. “This is—unexpected.”

“Hello, Steffan.” My voice remains steady, giving nothing away.

His surprise transforms into that familiar smile—the one that once preceded pain.

“There’s my wayward wife. Though I must say, I’m disappointed to find you standing alone.” His gaze sweeps the room. “Where are your protectors now?”

“I don’t need protection from you anymore.”

His laugh is genuine, which makes it all the more chilling. “Is that so?” He turns to his security team. “Secure the rest of the house. I’d like a private moment with my wife.”

The men nod and exit, closing the door behind them. I know what they’ll find—empty rooms and prepared ambush points where Ryan and the others wait.

Steffan loosens his tie slightly as he approaches. “You’ ve led me on quite a chase. Weeks of considerable inconvenience.” He circles me slowly, maintaining distance. Assessing. Looking for weakness. Finding none.

“The evidence you stole—” he begins.

“I didn’t steal anything. I documented the crimes you committed. There’s a difference.”

His nostrils flare—the first sign of the temper simmering beneath his controlled exterior. “Semantics. You took confidential documents from my home office.”

“Our home,” I counter. “And those documents are evidence of arms trafficking, judicial corruption, and collusion with terrorist organizations.”

“My God.” He shakes his head with mock admiration. “Listen to you. So righteous. So certain.” The smile returns, sharper now. “Tell me, did you practice this speech for your new boyfriend? The mountain man who’s been hiding you?”

I say nothing, which irritates him more than any response.

“You think I don’t know about him? About your— protector ?” Steffan sneers the word. “Did he enjoy my leftovers? Did you spread your legs for him as easily as you did for me?”

The words are designed to humiliate. To reduce me to the powerless, frightened woman I once was, but they slide off me like water, leaving no mark.

“You always did talk too much.” I take a single step forward. “It’s time to end this.”

His smirk falters at my advance. “Yes, it is.” His hand moves to his jacket, and I tense, expecting a weapon. Instead, he pulls out his phone. “One call, and Drazen’s men eliminate your little band of mercenaries. One call, and you come home with me. Where you belong.”

“I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“No?” He moves closer, confidence restored by my apparent defenselessness. “And how exactly do you plan to stop me? You’re alone. You’ve always been alone. That’s what you never understood.”

He reaches for my arm, fingers extended to grasp, to control, to hurt—just as they have countless times before.

But this time, I move.

Sidestep. Redirect momentum. Just as Mitzy taught me.

His hand grasps empty air as I pivot away, sending him slightly off-balance. The surprise on his face is almost comical.

“What the?—”

I don’t let him finish. Strike palm-heel to sternum. Quick. Efficient.

Steffan stumbles back, more shocked than hurt. His expression morphs from surprise to rage in an instant.

“You little bitch.” He lunges forward, abandoning pretense, reaching for my throat with both hands.

I duck under his grasp, using his forward momentum to push him further off balance. But Steffan recovers faster than I anticipated, years of racquetball and martial arts training evident in his reflexes. He pivots, catching my arm in a painful grip.

“Did you really think a few days of training could match years of experience?” he snarls, twisting my arm behind my back.

Pain lances through my shoulder. From Mason’s hiding place comes the faintest sound—the whisper of movement, quickly stilled. He’s fighting the instinct to intervene. Trusting me to handle this.

I slam my heel down on Steffan’s instep, simultaneously throwing my head back toward his face. He dodges the headbutt but loosens his grip enough for me to twist free.

We circle each other, both breathing hard. A thin trickle of blood runs from his split lip where my earlier strike connected better than I realized.

“You’ve changed,” he says, eyes narrowing. “Someone’s been teaching you bad habits.”

“You have no idea.”

He attacks again, faster this time—a boxer’s combination targeting my face and solar plexus. I block the first blow, absorb the second against the body armor beneath my sweater. His knuckles connect with the ballistic plate, and he hisses in pain.

“What the hell?”

I use his confusion to counter, driving my knee toward his groin. He blocks, catching my leg and shoving me backward. I stumble, my back hitting the wall hard enough to rattle picture frames.

Steffan advances, fury transforming his handsome face into something monstrous. “I’m going to enjoy breaking you all over again.”

He grabs my throat, pinning me against the wall, his other hand drawn back to strike. From the corner of my eye, I see movement—Mason, unable to remain hidden, starting to emerge.

But I don’t need rescue.

As Steffan’s hand tightens around my throat, I drive my palm up under his chin, snapping his head back. Simultaneously, I bring my knee up into his diaphragm.

Air whooshes from his lungs. His grip loosens. I twist away, creating distance.

“That’s new,” he wheezes, genuine surprise in his eyes.

“I’ve learned a lot since I left you.”

He straightens, reassessing. This time, when he attacks, it’s with cold calculation rather than rage. A precise strike to my kidney, followed by an attempt to sweep my legs.

I dodge the kidney punch, but the sweep connects, sending me sprawling onto the hardwood floor. Pain radiates through my hip where I land. Mason shifts forward again—I see his shadow move—but I shake my head minutely. No.

This is my fight .

Steffan stands over me, that familiar smirk returning. “Back where you belong. On the floor at my feet.”

I roll as his foot lashes out, barely avoiding the kick aimed at my ribs. The body armor absorbs a glancing blow to my side, the impact dulled but still jarring.

“Enough games.” Steffan reaches inside his jacket and pulls out a small pistol. “Get up.”

The sight of the gun changes the equation.

“Drop it, Reynolds.” Mason is visible now, his sidearm raised, stepping from concealment.