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Something breaks open inside me at her words. My rhythm falters as I drive into her one last time, coming so hard my vision whites out. I feel her follow me over, her second climax milking every last drop from me as I fill her completely.

For a long moment, I stay like that, draped over her back, still buried inside her. Our breathing gradually slows, synchronizes. I press my lips to her shoulder, tasting salt and sunshine on her skin.

When I pull out, my come runs down her thigh, and fuck, if that isn’t the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen. I reach for the makeshift blindfold, gently untying it from her eyes.

She blinks, her gaze finding mine, clear and certain with no trace of regret. I methodically untie each knot, massaging life back into her limbs as I free them, pressing kisses to the rope marks that will fade all too soon.

“Next time,” I murmur against her ear as I help her to her feet, “run faster.”

A smile curves her lips, exhausted but playful. “Next time, I might let you catch me sooner.”

I help her dress in my shirt, gathering what’s left of her torn clothing. Her pants are salvageable enough to wear back to the cabin, though the cuts from my knife are visible along the seams. She leans against me as we walk back, my arm around her shoulders.

“I never knew it could be like this,” she admits, her voice soft.

“It only works when there’s absolute trust,” I stroke her hair. “Trust I’ve never earned from anyone before.”

She looks up at me, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw. “You’ve earned it. With every choice you’ve made since you found me.”

I lean down, capturing her lips with mine. This kiss differs from the others we’ve shared, not desperate, not claiming, not fueled by adrenaline or fear. Just us, choosing each other in the clear light of day. When we finally break apart, her eyes remain on mine, with a new certainty in them.

The sound of a vehicle approaching interrupts the moment. I’m immediately alert, but not alarmed. The distinct engine sound belongs to one of our own.

“Transport’s here,” I say. “Time to leave this place behind.”

We return to the cabin in comfortable silence, her hand in mine. The final preparations move quickly. My team has already packed our stuff, wiped down surfaces, and removed all traces of our presence.

“Safe house coordinates are in the GPS,” Jayce tells me, tossing me the keys to a nondescript SUV. “Killian wants you to check in once you’re settled.”

I nod, performing a last sweep of the property. Nothing left behind that could identify us. No traces of the people we used to be.

“Where are we going?” Molly asks as we stand on the porch one last time, the cabin empty behind us. I take her hand, feeling the weight of the new rings we’re both wearing, part of our cover, but somehow feeling more significant than mere props.

The gold bands we slipped on minutes ago. Physical symbols of our false history together.

“Wherever we want, Mrs. Taylor,” I answer, realizing the freedom in my own words. “That’s the point.”

The helicopter arrives for the guys, leaving us alone with our vehicle and new identities. As we watch it lift off, I wrap my arm around her, feeling her lean into me.

For the first time in my life, I’m not thinking about the next mission, the next threat, the next target. I’m thinking about the possibilities. About futures I never believed I could have.

“I’ve spent my life alone,” I tell her as we walk toward the SUV, “I never imagined finding someone worth keeping. Are you ready?”

“I’ve been ready since the moment you found me,” she says, looking up at me, her expression open and determined.

I open the door to the passenger seat for her, taking one last look at the cabin that has witnessed our transformation. Then I slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and point us toward the future.

She chose the monster. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure no one ever touches her again.

If Cole and Molly’s story left you craving more danger, obsession, and morally complex men who blur the lines between protection and possession, you’re in for a treat.

GHOST is the first full-length novel in the Shadow Series, and it’s where everything began.

Meet Killian Blackthorn, an assassin with a seven-year obsession and Dr. Eleanor Hart, the trauma psychologist who has no idea she’s been in his crosshairs for reasons that run deeper than she could ever imagine.

What starts as a court-ordered psychological evaluation becomes a deadly game of proximity, secrets, and forbidden desire when Killian ends up under house arrest in Ellie’s home. He’s supposed to be her patient. She’s supposed to heal him.

Instead, they’re about to discover that some obsessions can’t be cured, only fed.

Here’s how it all begins...

Prologue

Killian

Crystal chandeliers and marble floors polished to a mirror shine, cast dancing light across the ballroom of the Grand Metropolitan Hotel.

It glitters like a jewel box. Decades of planning high-society events have taught the staff to create perfection, and tonight’s Annual Criminal Justice Reform gala is no exception.

Classical music drifts through the air as the city’s elite mingle in their finest attire, champagne flutes catching the light.

Illuminated faces painted with expensive makeup and artificial smiles.

The atmosphere hums with conversation and the clink of cut glass.

Designer perfume blends with the scent of white roses from elaborate centerpieces.

I adjust my black tie and survey the crowd with the trained eye of a predator on the prowl for its prey.

My jaw tightens as I watch the false camaraderie, the perfected smiles.

Restlessness coils inside my chest tonight, an edge that has nothing to do with the job ahead.

Senators mingle with police commissioners.

The academic elite chat with philanthropists.

The city’s most powerful and influential people all gathered to celebrate criminal justice reform and write checks for causes that make them feel virtuous.

How fitting that one of them will die tonight.

I stand in the shadows, my expensive suit allowing me to blend seamlessly among the wealthy donors. The tailoring is impeccable but understated, precisely as I intend. In my world, being forgettable is often more valuable than being memorable.

I lift my champagne flute, untouched, merely a prop, and check my watch through the crystal face of my Patek Philippe that costs more than most people’s cars.

9:47 PM. Dr. Gregory Hart will excuse himself from the main floor in exactly thirteen minutes to review his keynote speech preparation in the Jefferson Suite.

A habit I’ve observed during methodical surveillance.

“Status report,” Julian Ross’s voice crackles through the undetectable Bluetooth earpiece I’m wearing.

My jaw tightens imperceptibly. “Target is working the room as expected. Security positioned at predetermined locations. Timeline unchanged.”

“Good. Remember, it needs to look natural. Hart’s been under stress, drinking more lately. Heart attack, stroke, something believable.” Ross’s tone carries the cold satisfaction of a man who’s orchestrated countless such removals. “No fucking loose ends, Blackthorn.”

As if I need the reminder. Ross’s instructions echo in my mind like a mantra: Dr. Gregory Hart knows too much. His research is getting uncomfortably close to our operations. When criminologists start connecting the dots between unsolved cases, they become liabilities.

For three weeks, I’ve shadowed Hart with surgical precision.

I know the man’s routines, his security protocols, the way he favors his left knee when the weather turns cold.

I’ve cataloged his habits: the way he always reviews his speeches alone, his preference for red wine over white, his tendency to work late into the night.

Every detail has been weaponized, every vulnerability exploited.

Hart laughs at something a bow-tied benefactor says, his hand coming to rest on the man’s shoulder with rehearsed political warmth.

I note the gesture. Hart is a toucher, a man who uses physical contact to establish dominance under the guise of charm.

Useful information, though it will hardly matter after tonight.

“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

I turn to find an elderly woman in pearls beaming at me, her eyes bright with the enthusiasm of someone who’s had just enough champagne to approach strangers. My mouth curves into a smile that’s opened doors and lowered guards for years.

“Indeed. The cause is certainly worthy,” I reply, my voice carrying just the right note of educated refinement.

“Oh yes, Dr. Hart’s work has been revolutionary. Such a brilliant man.” She gestures toward the stage, where Hart is currently speaking with the event coordinator, his silver hair catching the chandelier light. “Though I must say, his daughter has been equally impressive in her own field.”

Every nerve snaps alert. “Daughter?”

“Eleanor Hart. She’s here somewhere, lovely girl, follows in her father’s footsteps with that rehabilitation work of hers.

” The woman’s eyes sparkle with a particular joy of sharing gossip.

“Quite the idealist, that one. Though I suspect she and her father don’t always see eye to eye on methodology. ”

Daughter. The word ricochets through my mind. The Order’s intelligence made no mention of a daughter. In my world, family members are one or the other: assets to be leveraged or obstacles to be removed. This omission is more than an oversight. It’s a potentially dangerous blind spot.