Page 35 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)
TWENTY-FIVE
Willow
Six Months Later
Home is a renovated waterfront property north of Seattle—close enough to the city for our work, remote enough to provide the security and privacy we both crave. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook Puget Sound, the water reflecting the late afternoon sun in rippling gold.
I kick off my heels at the door, a small act of freedom that still brings me joy. In Steffan’s house, shoes were always worn, appearances always maintained, even in private. Here, with Mason, I exist without performance.
“Wine?” he asks, shrugging off his suit jacket and loosening his tie.
Today’s deposition was the last one—the final thread in the unraveling of Steffan’s criminal network.
Even with Steffan gone, the evidence I gathered over those three years continues to topple corrupt officials, one after another.
“Please.” I pad toward the bedroom, already unbuttoning my blouse. “I’m going to change. ”
He murmurs low in acknowledgment as I step into our bedroom—the space we’ve shaped over the past six months. Not his Spartan precision, not my carefully curated luxury. Something new lives here.
Comfortable yet elegant. Secure. Welcoming. Ours.
I pull on soft leggings and one of Mason’s worn T-shirts. The fabric carries his scent, a comfort I never tire of. In the adjoining bathroom, I wash away my makeup, revealing the woman beneath.
The mirror doesn’t lie. Six months have carved change into every line of my face.
The haunted shadow behind my eyes has lifted, replaced by something steadier—calm, anchored, resolute.
I don’t flinch when doors slam anymore. My spine holds straighter.
My gaze meets the world without apology.
And I move like someone who no longer expects pain for being seen.
I touch the fading scar at my temple—a souvenir from the crash in the Montana snow. It’s barely visible now, a thin white line hidden by my hairline. Mason says it’s my battle scar, proof of survival. I’m learning to see it that way too.
When I return to the living room, Mason has changed as well, trading court formality for jeans and a Henley that does nothing to hide the powerful build beneath. Two glasses of wine wait on the coffee table, along with a small, wrapped package I didn’t notice before.
Bear and Chaos lounge by the fireplace, the picture of contentment. They’ve adapted to Pacific Northwest living faster than any of us expected. Bear still chases waves at the private beach below our property, while Chaos patrols the perimeter with the same vigilance he showed in Montana.
“What’s this?” I gesture toward the package as I curl into my favorite corner of the sofa.
Mason hands me a glass of wine, then settles beside me. “Open it and see.”
The box is small, wrapped in simple blue paper. Inside, nestled in tissue, lies a delicate silver bracelet. A single charm hangs from the fine chain—a mountain peak crafted in polished silver.
“Mason,” I breathe, lifting it carefully.
“A year,” he says quietly. “Since Montana. Since you found me in that storm, or I found you—I’m still not sure which way it went.” His fingers trace the mountain charm gently. “Thought you might want a reminder that not all defining moments are painful ones.”
I extend my wrist, offering it to him silently. He understands immediately, securing the bracelet with careful fingers. The metal is cool against my skin, the weight barely noticeable yet somehow grounding.
“It’s perfect,” I whisper, blinking back sudden tears. “Thank you.”
His thumb traces my pulse point, that unconscious gesture of possession that still sends warmth flooding through me. “Have you decided what you want to do next?”
The question we’ve been circling for weeks. We’ve both focused so intently on dismantling Steffan’s network that we’ve neglected looking beyond. I sip my wine, gathering my thoughts.
“I want to finish setting up the new legal clinic,” I say finally. “The foundation approved the funding last week. I can start offering services to domestic violence survivors as early as next month.”
Pride flashes in his eyes. “You’re going to change so many lives.”
“That’s the plan.” I twist the bracelet absently. “And I think… I want to start writing. Not a memoir—the media circus around that would be unbearable. But maybe something that could help other women recognize the warning signs I missed.” I meet his gaze. “What about you? ”
He sets down his wine glass, expression thoughtful. “It’s time for me to return to Cerberus. Ryan’s done a great job during my self-imposed exile, but I’m ready for the work again.”
“Based here?” I try to keep my tone neutral, though the thought of him leaving sends a spike of anxiety through me.
“Based wherever I want,” he says, eyes never leaving mine. “And as it turns out, we’re headquartered in Seattle.”
Relief floods through me. “So you’re staying.”
“If that’s what you want.” There’s a hesitancy in his voice I rarely hear—a vulnerability that reminds me he carries his own doubts and fears.
His biggest fear is that he might hurt me, but since that first time in the cabin, he hasn’t had a single PTSD flare.
He says it’s me. I say it’s all the exceptional sex he’s having.
I set my wine aside and move closer, eliminating the space between us. “You’re what I want.” My hand cups his face, feeling the stubble beneath my palm. “These past six months, building a life together—it hasn’t always been easy, but it’s been right.”
His arms encircle me, drawing me against the solid warmth of his chest. “Even the hard parts?”
“Especially those,” I say softly, thinking of our early struggles—the nightmares that used to wake me, the moments when trauma intruded on healing, and the careful negotiation of boundaries and needs.
His hand slides to the nape of my neck, exerting just enough pressure to make my breath catch—that perfect balance of dominance and care that speaks directly to my deepest needs.
“And this part? Still figuring this out too?”
The subtle shift in his tone sends a shiver down my spine.
In Montana, our connection had been immediate, intense, almost desperate—two broken people finding unexpected salvation in each other’s arms. Here, in the aftermath, we’ve moved more carefully, rebuilding trust and relearning intimacy without crisis as its catalyst.
“I think we’re getting pretty good at that part.” I tilt my head to give him better access as his lips find the sensitive spot beneath my ear.
“Good enough that I can try something new tonight?” His chuckle vibrates against my skin.
“What did you have in mind?” Curiosity and heat stir low in my belly.
His fingers thread through my hair, tightening just enough to guide my gaze to his. “Something we’ve talked about but haven’t tried yet. But tonight should be about celebration, about reclaiming something for ourselves. If you want that.”
I search his face, finding only open desire and careful restraint—the hallmarks of the dominant I’ve come to trust implicitly. With Steffan, dominance was a weapon, a tool of control and punishment. With Mason, it’s an exchange, a gift freely given and received.
“Yes,” I whisper, the word carrying all the trust I’ve rebuilt over these months. “Show me.”
His eyes darken, pupils dilating as he reads the desire in my response. “Go to the bedroom.” His voice drops to that commanding tone that makes my knees weak. “Take off your clothes and kneel by the bed. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The instructions thrill me, and anticipation builds as I stand. This is nothing like the fear-based submission Steffan demanded. This is a conscious choice, freely given—the surrender of control to someone who has earned my absolute trust.
In our bedroom, I comply with his instructions, removing my clothes before kneeling beside the bed, back straight, hands resting on my thighs. The position feels natural, right—a physical manifestation of the dynamic we’ve been carefully exploring.
When Mason enters, I feel his presence before I see him—that shift in the air that accompanies his focused attention. He moves around me, not touching, just observing with appreciation that feels tangible on my skin.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, finally coming to stand before me. “Look at me, Willow.”
I raise my eyes, finding him changed—still in his jeans but shirtless now, his powerful upper body bearing the scars of his military service.
The contrast between his clothed state and my nakedness emphasizes the power dynamic in a way that sends heat flooding through me.
The bulge straining beneath his zipper shows his arousal and need.
“Tonight is about reclamation.” He reaches out and tilts my chin. “Taking back what was stolen from you—the joy of submission freely given, the pleasure of surrender on your terms.” His thumb traces my lower lip. “Do you trust me to guide you through that?”
“Yes, Sir.” The honorific comes naturally now, no longer shadowed by past abuse.
Approval warms his expression. “Good girl. Remember your safe word?”
“Snowbound,” I confirm, the word we chose together—a reminder of where we began, a symbol of moving from danger to safety.
“Use it if you need to, without hesitation,” he reminds me, as he always does. “Ready?”
At my nod, he guides me to my feet and toward the bed, arranging me as he likes—on my back, arms stretched above my head. From a drawer in the nightstand, he retrieves soft leather cuffs I haven’t seen before.
“May I?” he asks, the simple request for permission underscoring that this exchange remains mine to control, even in surrender.
“Yes,” I breathe, offering my wrists willingly.
The leather is butter-soft against my skin as he secures the cuffs, then attaches them to hidden anchors on our headboard. The restraint is secure but not tight, a symbolic restriction rather than a genuine confinement.
“Test them,” he instructs, watching me pull gently against the bonds. “Comfortable?”