Page 5 of Ghost (Cerberus Personal Security #1)

FOUR

Willow

The hot water is a revelation, but I can’t stop thinking about Mason’s hands on my skin, the way he looked at me like he wanted to map every bruise with his tongue.

I shouldn’t be feeling this. After what Steffan did, after Drake’s brutality, I should be terrified of male attention. Instead, I touch myself under the spray, imagining Mason’s hands replacing mine, his mouth on my throat where Steffan left his marks.

The borrowed soap smells like pine and something uniquely masculine, and using it feels like being claimed in the most intimate way. When I finally emerge, wrapped in a towel that could double as a blanket, the clothes he left are indeed enormous.

Thermal underwear, wool socks, and a flannel shirt that hangs to my knees. But they smell like him, and wearing them without anything underneath feels unexpectedly erotic.

He’s in the kitchen, stirring something that smells like heaven. He’s removed his jacket, and the play of muscles under his shirt shouldn’t be legal. The way the fabric stretches across his broad shoulders entices .

When he turns to look at me, his eyes darken as they take in the sight of me in his clothes, and I can see him imagining what’s underneath—or what isn’t.

“Better?” Mason asks, his voice rougher than before, his gaze lingering on the way his shirt hangs loose on my frame.

“Much.” I settle into the chair he indicates, hyperaware of how his gaze follows my movements, how the flannel rides up slightly when I sit. “Your cabin is—not what I expected.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, while I stare at his mouth, wondering what his lips would feel like against mine.

“What did you expect?”

“Honestly? A one-room shack with a wood stove and maybe a sleeping bag.” I gesture at the high-tech security panel, the sophisticated electronics, trying to distract myself from the way he’s looking at me like he wants to strip his shirt right back off me.

“This is like something out of a spy movie.”

“Former military contractors tend to be particular about their security.” He ladles stew into a bowl and sets it in front of me. When he hands me the spoon, his fingers deliberately brush mine, lingering longer than necessary.

The contact sends heat shooting up my arm and straight between my thighs.

“Venison stew. Easy on the stomach.”

I take the first spoonful, and he watches me eat with an intensity that makes me squirm.

There’s something almost predatory in the way he observes every swallow, like he’s cataloging my responses, learning what I need.

The soup is rich and warming, but I’m more focused on the way Mason’s attention makes my skin feel too tight, makes me want to arch into his gaze.

“Good girl,” he murmurs when I finish half the bowl.

The praise lands on me like a physical caress. My thighs clench involuntarily, and from the slight smile that curves his lips, he notices.

“The dogs,” I say desperately, trying to focus on something other than the way two simple words have made me wet. “They’re not just pets, are they?”

“Working dogs. Bear’s a Newfoundland—trained for search and rescue, though he thinks his main job is comic relief.” Mason’s smile is genuine when he looks at Bear, but when his attention returns to me, there’s something darker there. “Chaos is a Belgian Malinois. Military working dog, like me.”

“Like you are, or were?” I ask gently, studying the way the firelight plays across his features.

His expression shuts down slightly, but there’s something vulnerable there. “Some things you never stop being.” His eyes meet mine. “Some instincts never fade.”

The way he says it, the weight behind the words, makes me wonder what instincts he’s talking about. The way he’s looking at me suggests they have nothing to do with military training and everything to do with the tension building between us.

“You built this yourself?” I ask, impressed despite myself, trying to ignore the way my body is responding to his proximity.

“Most of it. Took about a year.” He refills my bowl without asking, his movements bringing him closer. When his knuckles brush mine, neither of us pulls away immediately. “Good project for a man with too much time and too many things to forget.”

The honesty in that statement hits me like a punch to the chest. This isn’t a cabin—it’s a fortress. A sanctuary. A place to heal from whatever haunts him. And he’s brought me into it.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “For bringing trouble to your sanctuary.”

Mason’s eyes meet mine, steady and sure, and the intensity there steals my breath.

“You’re not trouble, Willow.” He reaches out, cups my chin with fingers that are gentle but firm, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. “You’re someone who needed help, and I was in a position to give it. That’s all that matters.”

But it’s not all that matters, and we both know it.

My mouth opens to argue, but his thumb traces along my lower lip, stealing the words.

The urge to suck it into my mouth, to taste his skin, overwhelms me.

The air between us is charged with possibility, with want, with something that feels inevitable.

“Finish your stew,” he says softly, but there’s command in it, and my body responds before my mind can protest. I obey, taking another spoonful, and the approval in his eyes makes warmth spread through my chest.

We fall into comfortable silence, but the tension between us is palpable.

Every glance feels loaded, every accidental touch electric.

I finish the second bowl of stew, feeling more human than I have in months, more alive than I’ve felt in years.

But underneath the contentment is something else—a building need that has nothing to do with food or shelter.

Mason moves around the kitchen, cleaning up. I should offer to help, but I’m mesmerized by the economical grace of his movements, the way he commands even this domestic space. When he catches me staring, his eyes darken.

“The bookshelves,” I say, fighting the urge to ask him to touch me again. “Law books. Are you studying something specific?”

Mason pauses in his dishwashing, his shoulders tensing. “International maritime law. Jurisdictional issues. Extradition treaties.” He doesn’t elaborate, but I catch the implication—and the danger that still surrounds him.

“Preparing for something?”

“Always.” He meets my eyes, and there’s something in his expression that makes my pulse quicken and my thighs clench. “A man in my line of work needs to understand the legal landscape.”

The reminder that he’s dangerous, that he lives in a world of violence and shadows, should frighten me. Instead, it intensifies the ache between my legs. After Steffan’s weak cruelty, after Drake’s mindless brutality, there’s something intoxicating about Mason’s controlled strength.

Exhaustion is creeping back in, but underneath it is something else, something that makes me want to stay awake, to explore this connection building between us. My eyelids are growing heavy, but I’m fighting it, not wanting to break this spell.

“Rest,” Mason says, noticing my drooping eyelids. His voice is gentler now, but there’s an undercurrent of command. “I’ll keep watch.”

“I should help with?—”

“You should rest. That’s an order.” But he moves closer, and when he adjusts the chair so I can recline slightly, his hands linger on the armrests, caging me in.

The position should trigger every alarm in my system.

Steffan used to trap me like this—hands braced on either side of me, using his size to intimidate, to remind me how small and helpless I was beneath him.

Drake’s version was worse—pinning me down while I fought, holding me captive while he took what he wanted, my struggles only feeding his excitement.

But Mason’s cage feels nothing like theirs. Where Steffan’s proximity felt like a storm cloud ready to break, Mason’s presence is steady warmth. Where Drake’s weight was crushing, suffocating, Mason’s body creates a shelter rather than a prison.

His arms aren’t bars—they’re walls protecting me from everything beyond this moment. I should be panicking, should be flashing back to all the times being trapped meant pain was coming.

Instead, I feel safe. Cherished. Like something precious being carefully contained, not to control, but to protect .

For a moment, we’re frozen like that, his face inches from mine, both of us breathing a little too hard.

The scent of his skin, the heat radiating from his body, surrounds me. My lips part slightly, and his gaze drops to my mouth. The moment stretches, taut with possibility. My body leans forward before my mind catches up, wanting…

He pulls back abruptly, but not before I catch the hunger in his eyes. “Sleep, Willow.”

The command in his voice makes my body go pliant, makes me want to obey in ways that have nothing to do with exhaustion.

I settle back in the chair, and someone—Bear, probably—has arranged himself so I can rest my feet against his warm bulk.

But it’s Mason’s presence I’m most aware of as my eyes drift closed, the way he watches over me like a sentinel.

Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just until the storm passes.

But sleep claims me anyway, deep and dreamless and safe. And in my dreams, it’s Mason’s hands on my skin, Mason’s voice commanding my pleasure, Mason claiming what Steffan broke.

I wake to the sound of Mason moving quietly around the cabin, checking locks, monitoring his security systems. The fire has been stoked, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

There’s a blanket draped over me that wasn’t there before—soft wool that smells like him.

Outside, the storm still rages, but here in this fortress of warmth and safety, it feels like nothing can touch us.

For the first time in three years, I’m not afraid. But I am aware…

Of Mason’s presence.

Of the way my body responds to his nearness.

Of the attraction that’s been building since the moment he touched me.