Page 12 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

eleven

Alina

G host releases my throat, and I set my coffee cup down, the ceramic meeting granite with a soft click. The air feels thick as I gather my courage. Ghost's ice-blue gaze locks onto me, his face giving nothing away.

No way I'm letting him see that he intimidates me. "I need to tell you about—"

"Jenny Martinez," he cuts in, his deep voice matter-of-fact. "Rookie reporter you were mentoring at The Bay Herald. She was digging into high-end escort rings before they found her dead in her car trunk near Hunter's Point."

My jaw drops. How the fuck does he know all this?

"The police ruled it a carjacking," he continues, watching me closely. "But you never bought that story. Not with her missing laptop and swept apartment. "

Blood pounds in my ears as anger floods through me. He's been investigating me. All this time, he's known exactly who I am. That's why he's been calling me by my name, even though I never introduced myself.

"You son of a bitch," I spit out. "You've been digging into my life?"

Something like amusement flickers across his face, one corner of his mouth lifting slightly.

"That's rich coming from the woman who broke into a warehouse, then tried to search my safehouse last night." His voice carries the barest hint of mockery. "Professional curiosity goes both ways, little hellcat."

Before I can fire back a retort, the front door swings wide.

Nitro walks into the room, his lean swimmer's build and vibrant blue-green eyes catching my attention. He flashes a mischievous smile at Ghost as he enters.

"Hey sweetheart, did you miss me?" He calls out playfully, his words flowing fast and light.

I bite my lip, barely holding back a laugh as Ghost glares at Nitro.

"Close your damn mouth," Ghost growls, his jaw clenched tight.

Behind Nitro, three more men enter. One carries a long, narrow case that immediately screams "sniper rifle" to me. The others bring gear that looks military-grade, not the kind of equipment civilians should have.

I look up as Ghost straightens, his body language shifting from confrontational to commanding in an instant.

"Alina, let me introduce you." He gestures to the three men who've entered .

"This is Frost," Ghost nods toward a lean man with watchful dark eyes. His posture is perfect—almost unnervingly so—and he acknowledges me with nothing more than a slight tilt of his head. The long case in his hands is carried with the reverence usually reserved for precious artifacts.

"Blade," Ghost continues, indicating a powerfully built Asian man with high cheekbones and intense focus. He moves with surprising grace for his size, each gesture precise and deliberate. His eyes assess me quickly, cataloging details with tactical efficiency.

"And Saint," Ghost finishes, motioning to a tall, lithe man with wavy blonde hair and vivid green eyes.

Unlike the others, he offers me a disarming smile that transforms his sharp features into something almost approachable.

His body language shifts slightly, softening his edges in a way that seems deliberate rather than natural.

I study each of them, taking in the details.

They're all tall, well-built, and exude quiet danger that makes my skin prickle.

My reporter's instincts catalog everything—the way they position themselves around the room, how they defer to Ghost without any verbal instruction, the casual way they carry weapons.

"What about Chaos and Reaper?" Ghost asks, his tone clipped.

Blade answers, his voice measured and diplomatic. "Stayed behind to monitor the situation. Reaper thought it best to maintain observation protocols."

After a round of nods and murmured greetings, I can't help myself .

"Are you making a rugby team or is this some kind of special ops height requirement?" I ask Ghost, waving my hand at the wall of muscle surrounding us.

Nitro erupts with laughter, his whole body shaking with genuine amusement. "She nailed it, boss. We should get jerseys made."

Frost's eyebrow ticks up a fraction—apparently his version of rolling on the floor laughing.

"Inefficient use of resources," he comments, voice clipped and precise.

I almost catch a hint of a smile tugging at Ghost's lips, but it's gone in an instant. "Not quite," he replies dryly. "We're a bit more... specialized than that."

I cross my arms. "Specialized how, exactly?"

Ghost stares me down, studying me with that penetrating gaze. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who nearly got shot last night."

"Occupational hazard," I shoot back. "But I'm a journalist. Questions are what I do."

Saint steps forward. "Professional curiosity. I can respect that." His voice carries a smooth, adaptable quality, like he could be equally comfortable in a board room or a bar fight, with a hint of an accent I can't quite place. "Though in our line of work, curiosity often leads to complications."

"What line of work is that, exactly?" I press, unable to help myself.

The men exchange glances, a silent conversation passing between them.

Ghost clears his throat. "That's need-to-know information, little hellcat. And right now, you don't need to know. "

I bristle at the patronizing tone and unwelcome nickname. "I think I do need to know, considering someone just tried to kill me. And I bet this links back to Jenny's murder." I straighten my back, meeting his gaze head-on. "The pieces are falling into place, and it's not looking good."

The room falls silent, the playful atmosphere evaporating instantly. Ghost's eyes narrow, his gaze intense as he studies me. I stand my ground, refusing to be intimidated.

"Jenny Martinez," Blade says softly, recognition dawning on his face. "I remember that case. It never sat right with me."

My heart leaps. "You know about Jenny?"

Blade nods slowly. "We keep tabs on certain... situations. Her death raised some red flags."

I turn back to Ghost, hope surging through me.

"See? This is all connected. You can't shut me out of this investigation."

Ghost's jaw clenches, conflict clear in his eyes. He towers over me, using his considerable size to remind me of the power imbalance between us.

"Look," I say, trying to keep my voice level, "I get that you're trying to protect me. But I'm already involved, whether you like it or not. And I have skills that could help."

Ghost's eyebrows furrow slightly. I can almost see the gears turning in his head as he weighs his options.

Frost steps forward, his voice cool and clipped like winter ice. "We don't have time for this debate. Every second spent arguing decreases operational effectiveness by approximately twelve percent. "

I blink at the oddly specific calculation, turning to face him. There's something about the way he carries himself that screams 'military precision' to me.

"Frost is right," Blade chimes in, each word carefully selected. "We need to focus on the primary objective. Time constraints are significant."

Primary objective? Time constraints? My fingers itch for a keyboard, a notebook, anything to document these details. There's clearly more going on here than just a simple protection detail.

Saint, who's been quietly assessing the situation, speaks up. "Perhaps we should consider her potential value as an asset. If she's connected to the Martinez case, she might possess information outside our current intelligence framework."

I shoot him a grateful look, noticing the way his green eyes seem to take in everything at once. There's something fluid about him, a way of bending without breaking that makes Ghost's iron grip over everything seem almost brittle by comparison.

Nitro, still lounging against the counter, grins broadly. "I say we keep her. She's feisty. I like that in a woman."

His words come rapid-fire, matching his apparent need for constant movement as he fidgets with a knife, flipping it between his fingers.

Ghost's head whips around, fixing Nitro with a glare that could freeze a man in place. "Watch it," he growls, voice dropping an octave.

Interesting. I file away that reaction for later analysis. Ghost's possessiveness suggests something beyond professional concern .

"Look," I address the group. "I'm not asking to be part of your... whatever this is." I gesture vaguely at their tactical gear. "But I might see connections you don't. And I'm not going to just sit on the sidelines while you investigate something that might be connected to Jenny's death."

Ghost steps closer, using his height to tower over me. The move is deliberately intimidating, but I refuse to back away.

"You think this is a game?" His voice is low, dangerous. "People are dying, Alina. This isn't some story you can chase for a byline."

"You think I don't know that?" I snap back, temper flaring. "Jenny isn't just a headline to me. She was my responsibility."

Something shifts in Ghost's expression—recognition, maybe even respect.

The men exchange glances, another silent conversation passing between them. I watch, fascinated by their non-verbal communication.

Ghost sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Fine," he says finally. "But you follow our lead. No going off on your own, no contacting anyone without clearing it with me first. Got it?"

I nod, trying to hide my excitement. "Got it."

"This is a bad idea," Frost mutters, but doesn't argue further. His dark eyes assess me with clinical detachment.

As the team unpacks their gear, I admire the way they move around each other, perfectly in sync. There's a rhythm to their actions, a well-practiced dance that speaks of years working together.

But there's something else, too. A tension underlying their easy camaraderie. I catch Ghost watching Nitro with a furrowed brow, and Frost keeps throwing wary glances my way.

What have I gotten myself into? But as I think about Jenny, about the truth waiting to be uncovered, I know I'm exactly where I need to be.

"Sweep the ground floor," Ghost orders, his voice low and commanding. "Check for any signs of intrusion or surveillance."