Page 4 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

THREE

Willow

Each step through the deep snow slices fire through my ribs. I match Mason’s pace, forcing each foot to follow his tracks. Only his stride is much longer than mine.

He set me down as we neared this cabin of his. A cabin, deep in the wilderness. Sounds safe. I’d laugh if I had any energy left.

The wind cuts through the borrowed thermals, but it’s his presence that steals my breath. The way he moves, deliberate, powerful, silent. The way his hand reaches back to steady me when I stumble.

I shouldn’t be noticing him. Not like this. Not when Drake and his men could be closing in.

But something in me—something bruised but not broken—recognizes safety in him. Strength in his hands. Calm in his voice. Authority wrapped in restraint.

When he carried me through the storm, I felt weightless and anchored all at once.

Mason’s authority feels different. Natural. Safe. Trusting.

It hits me—how easily I yield to his voice. How instinctive it feels to obey .

He scans the woods with lethal focus. His dogs melt into position—one flanking, one guarding.

The storm thins just enough for me to see him.

Scars cut across one side of his face, but they don’t mar his looks—they tell a story.

Strength. Survival. His eyes, pale steel, land on me with heat I feel in my knees.

“Almost there.”

His hand touches the small of my back, and a current sparks across my skin. I lean into the contact, craving it like warmth and life.

I must be delirious.

A cabin emerges from the swirling snow like a fever dream of safety and strength—all raw power masked by rustic charm, just like its owner.

Mason’s hand settles at the small of my back, guiding me up the covered porch. That simple touch sends electricity arcing through my nervous system. My body recognizes safety in his strength even as my mind catalogs potential threats—a survival reflex beaten into me by Steffan.

But where Steffan’s touches carried underlying cruelty, Mason’s speak of protection and salvation.

When I dare to look up, I find his eyes on me—something dangerous flares in that steel-gray gaze—not threat but banked heat.

Recognition floods me. He feels this too, this crackle of electricity between us.

A magnetic pull that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with primal attraction.

Mason disarms three different systems before unlocking the door. Each beep and click echoes in the storm-muffled air like a combination lock tumbling open.

The dogs take up defensive positions without command—Bear pressing against my legs while Chaos prowls the perimeter.

“Clear.” His voice is a growl of certainty. Commanding. Grounding. Pure alpha male, natural dominance, and protective instinct.

Inside, heat wraps around me, stealing the air from my lungs.

Mason secures multiple locks and security systems. I watch, transfixed, as he strips off layers of gear. Each movement is efficient and practiced, yet unconsciously sensual.

The thermal shirt beneath clings to his torso, revealing a chest broad enough to make my mouth go dry. His arms flex as he hangs his gear—arms that could easily pin me against the wall, that could…

I can’t stop the flush that creeps up my neck.

Whoa, where the hell is my head at?

The cabin’s interior takes my breath away.

Sophistication and survival blend seamlessly, with clean lines and modern technology hidden within mountain aesthetics.

A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, radiating bone-deep warmth that makes me realize how cold I am.

Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves line another wall, crammed with everything from military tactics to medical texts.

A single king-sized bed commands the far corner, partially screened by a rustic partition. Heat floods my cheeks as my body remembers the feel of him carrying me from the snow.

Those powerful arms could so easily…

I shut down that train of thought, but not before Mason notices my reaction. His jaw tightens, muscles ticking beneath his scars.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take the floor.” His voice drops an octave, rough with unspoken things.

But Mason doesn’t give me time to gawk. He’s already moving, securing locks, and checking systems. The fluid grace of his movements—economical, purposeful, like a predator comfortable in his territory—mesmerizes me.

He commands this space with absolute authority, and my gaze lingers longer than it should .

Bear shakes snow from his coat and immediately claims a spot by the fire. Chaos prowls the perimeter, alert but relaxed.

“Sit,” Mason says, and it’s not a request.

His hand settles on my lower back—firm, decisive, guiding me exactly where he wants me. The warmth of his palm burns through the borrowed jacket, and something deep in my belly clenches in response.

I shouldn’t feel this. Not after everything Steffan and Drake did to me. Not after the way they?—

But this is different. This touch doesn’t take. It gives.

I sink into the chair he’s chosen for me, and part of me—a part I thought was dead—responds to his quiet authority with something that feels dangerously close to submission. The realization should terrify me. Instead, it awakens something I didn’t know I was capable of feeling anymore.

Mason retrieves a first aid kit—military grade, not the basic drugstore variety.

He kneels beside my chair. Pine soap, leather, and something uniquely masculine fill my nostrils, making my pulse quicken and my thighs clench involuntarily.

His movements are careful and clinical as he examines the cut on my temple, but his breathing changes, and his hands aren’t as steady as they were moments ago.

“Look at me,” he says softly, and I obey without thinking. The command in his voice is gentle but absolute, and my body responds before my mind can protest.

“Concussion?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light, trying to ignore how his proximity affects me, how something low and needy is stirring to life.

“Mild, maybe. Your pupils are responding normally.”

His fingers probe gently around the wound, and I have to bite my lip to keep from making a sound. When our eyes meet, there’s something there—a flicker of dark awareness that has nothing to do with medical assessment and everything to do with the way I’m looking at him like I want to be devoured.

“This needs cleaning, but it’s not deep enough for stitches.”

The antiseptic stings, but his touch is so gentle I barely notice. My gaze travels over his face—the strong jaw, the way his dark lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones, the tiny scar near his left temple. My body betrays me, responding to his nearness with a heat I thought was dead forever.

When his fingers trace the bruises on my throat, his jaw tightens, and something dangerous flickers in his eyes. His touch becomes impossibly tender, but there’s a possessive quality to it too, as if he’s claiming what someone else has damaged.

“Your husband did this?” The question comes out deadly quiet, but there’s something in his voice that makes arousal pool between my thighs despite everything.

“Steffan. Yes.” I meet his eyes, see the flash of something protective and possessive that should frighten me, but doesn’t. Instead, it makes me wet. “Among other things.”

Something dark and predatory flickers in his gaze—not just anger, but decision. Like he’s already decided I’m his to protect, his to heal, his to…

The thought sends heat racing through me.

“Show me,” he says quietly.

The command is soft but implacable, and I find myself obeying before I can think about it. My hands move to the buttons of the jacket before the decision fully forms. His eyes track every movement, dark and hungry.

When I reveal the bruises on my ribs, the marks on my arms, he makes a sound low in his throat that sends liquid heat straight to my core.

“These ribs—lift your arms above your head.” It’s phrased as an instruction, not a request, and my body responds to his authority even as my mind reels .

I try, wince, and shake my head. His hands hover near my ribcage, not quite touching, but the heat radiating from his palms makes me shiver with want.

“Bruised, not broken. You were lucky.” He sits back on his heels but doesn’t move away. His gaze travels over my exposed skin with clinical assessment that somehow feels more intimate than any touch. “When’s the last time you had a proper meal? A shower? Real sleep?”

The questions are so practical, so concerned with basic human needs, but it’s the way he’s looking at me—like I’m something precious that needs tending—that undoes me completely.

Like, I’m his responsibility now.

His to care for.

“I… It’s been a while.”

Mason studies my face, seeing too much. His thumb brushes away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen, the touch so gentle yet possessive it makes my breath catch and my nipples tighten against the fabric.

“Shower first. Then food. Then we’ll talk about what comes next.”

The way he decides for me, takes control so effortlessly, should make me panic.

Steffan’s control was suffocating—every decision stripped away to isolate me, to diminish me, to make me smaller until I disappeared entirely.

His dominance was about ownership of my fear, feeding on my helplessness like a parasite.

But this… Mason is different.

Mason’s control doesn’t take from me.

It gives.

Where Steffan demanded submission through terror, Mason earns it through protection.

Where Steffan made decisions to trap me, Mason decides to free me from the burden of choice when I’m too broken to bear it.

His authority doesn’t diminish me—it cradles me, holds me steady while I remember how to breathe.

Instead of panic, it makes me ache. For the first time in years, someone else is making the decisions, and my body is responding with a hunger that terrifies and thrills me.

Not because I’m afraid of him, but because I’m afraid of how much I want to yield to him.

The realization hits me like a physical blow. Submission is woven into my DNA like breathing. I yield to authority—always have, even before Steffan weaponized it against me.

It’s why I followed his commands for so long, why I stayed when every instinct screamed to run.

Here I am, doing it again with Mason when it’s the last thing I should do, when I should be running, fighting, and protecting what’s left of my fractured independence.

But there’s something about Mason that makes it feel—safe.

Natural.

Inevitable.

Like I can finally exhale and let someone else carry the crushing weight I’ve been dragging. He won’t hurt me. I know this with a certainty that defies logic, that bypasses every rational defense I should have.

Where Steffan took my submission and twisted it into something ugly, Mason handles it like something precious.

I know it’s probably a trauma response. I should fight this instinct that’s gotten me into so much trouble, but with Mason, yielding doesn’t feel like losing myself.

It feels like coming home.

He leads me to a bathroom that’s surprisingly luxurious for a wilderness cabin. Heated floors, a rainfall shower, and thick towels stacked neatly on shelves.

As he sets clean clothes on the counter, I’m acutely aware of the small space we’re sharing, the intimacy of him preparing these things for me. The way he’s taking care of me.

“Take as long as you need,” he says, but when he turns to leave, our bodies brush in the narrow doorway. The contact is electric, and for a moment, we’re frozen, looking at each other with something raw and hungry.

I see the moment he notices my hardened nipples through the thin fabric, the way his pupils dilate.

“These will be too big, but they’re warm. I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

The promise in those words—that he’ll be listening, that he’ll come if I call—sends a rush of warmth and comfort through me that leaves me breathless.

“Mason.” I can’t look him in the eye. He’s too much, too caring, too devastatingly perfect.

He pauses at the threshold, his knuckles white where he grips the doorframe like he’s fighting not to turn back.

“Thank you. For—all of this.”

Something softens in his expression, but there’s heat there too, possession.

“Get clean. I’ll take care of the rest.”

The way he says it—like it’s already decided, like I’m already his to tend—sends shivers through me that have nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with the ache building between my legs.