Page 17 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

fourteen

Alina

T he van screeches to a halt, and Ghost all but drags me out. We rush into a modern craftsman-style house nestled in what I recognize as Oakland Hills. As soon as we're inside, Blade approaches us, his face grim.

"Frost's hurt. It's serious, but not life-threatening."

My stomach drops. I may not know these men well, but I've seen how close they are. The worry etched on Blade's face speaks volumes.

Ghost's jaw clenches. "Where?"

"Medical room, second floor. Saint is working on him now."

We hurry upstairs, and I'm hit by the sharp smell of antiseptic. In a room that looks more like a small clinic than a bedroom, I see Frost lying on a gurney. His shirt is off, revealing a nasty gash across his ribs. Saint hovers over him, his movements quick and precise .

"Status?" Ghost barks.

Saint doesn't look up from his work. "Laceration to the left side, about eight inches long. Missed anything vital, but he's lost a fair amount of blood. I'm irrigating the wound now."

I stare at Saint, my eyes glued to his movements while worry gnaws at my insides. His skillful hands move methodically, cleaning the wound with a sterile saline solution. He reaches for what looks like a high-tech stapler.

"What's that?"

"Surgical stapler," he replies, his focus unwavering. "Faster than traditional sutures for a wound this size."

The device makes a series of clicking sounds as Saint closes the gash. It's both unsettling and impressive to watch.

Nitro bursts into the room, his usual energy subdued. "What can I do?"

"Set up the IV," Saint instructs. "We need to start fluids and antibiotics."

Nitro nods, moving to a nearby cabinet. His hands shake slightly as he prepares the IV bag, a drastic shift from his usual confidence.

Ghost stands at the foot of the gurney, his face unreadable. But his hands are clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension.

"He'll be okay," I say softly, surprising myself by reaching out to touch Ghost's arm. He doesn't pull away.

"Alina." Ghost's voice is low, his eyes not leaving Frost. "Let Saint check you over when he's done."

I start to protest, but he must sense it and the look he turns to give me silences any argument. I nod, suddenly aware of the aches and bruises from our earlier escape .

The door opens again, and the man who looks like a rugby player, who drove us from Chinatown, strides in. His eyes narrow as he takes in the scene.

"Report," he growls.

Ghost fills him in quickly, his voice clipped and professional. But the way the big man's shoulders tense, how his hand unconsciously moves to the knife at his belt.

These men may be dangerous, but they clearly care about each other. It's a dichotomy I'm not familiar with—lethal skills and unwavering loyalty.

Saint finishes with the staples and begins wrapping Frost's torso in clean bandages. "He'll need rest and monitoring, but he'll be fine."

There's a collective sigh of relief in the room. Ghost nods, some of the tension leaving his massive frame.

"Reaper is on his way back with the bike. Blade, I want a full perimeter check. Chaos, help him secure the area. Nitro, stay with Frost in case he needs anything."

"Good work," he tells Saint. "Now, check over our guest."

Saint turns to me, his professional demeanor softening slightly. "Any injuries I should know about?"

I shake my head. "Just some bruises, I think."

He gestures to a chair. "Have a seat. Let's make sure."

As Saint begins his examination, I marvel at the efficiency of this team. They may be intimidating, even terrifying at times, but watching them work together to save their friend... it's oddly reassuring.

I wince as Saint probes a particularly tender spot on my ribs.

"Sorry," he murmurs .

I nod, my gaze drifting to Ghost. He's speaking quietly with the muscular man he called Chaos now, their heads bent close together. I wonder what they're discussing, what all of this means for my investigation.

Saint finishes wrapping my ribs, trying not to wince at the pressure and handing me an ice pack. My mind races, attempting to process everything that's happened in the last twenty four hours. The warehouse, the chase, the fight in the restaurant—it all feels surreal.

"You're lucky," Saint says, his voice low. "No broken bones, just some bruising."

"What happens now?" I ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.

Saint glances at Ghost before answering. "That's not for me to decide. But I'd prepare for a long night if I were you."

My skin prickles with cold dread at his words. I'm suddenly very aware of how out of my depth I truly am. These men, with their callsigns and combat skills, operate in a world so far removed from my own. And yet, here I am, smack in the middle of it all.

Ghost breaks away from Chaos and approaches us. His eyes lock onto mine, and my heart rate quickens. Damn it.

"How is she?" he asks Saint, never breaking eye contact with me.

"Bruised, but nothing serious. She'll be sore for a few days."

Ghost nods, his expression unreadable. "Good. Alina, we need to talk."

I stand, ignoring the protest from my aching muscles. "I couldn't agree more. "

He leads me out of the medical room and down a hallway to what appears to be a small office. The walls are lined with monitors, each displaying different camera feeds from around the property.

Ghost closes the door behind us, and I fight the urge to step back as he turns to face me. The small office suddenly feels impossibly smaller with his massive frame blocking the exit.

"I know you have questions," he says, his voice low and controlled. "But before we get into that, I need you to understand something. The situation we're in is far more dangerous than you realize."

I cross my arms, refusing to be intimidated. "I think I got that message loud and clear when people started shooting at us. Again."

His eyes darken as he steps closer, invading my personal space. "Is that attitude how you've stayed alive this long? Or just how you cope with being out of your depth?"

Heat flares in my cheeks. "I'm a journalist. Collecting information is what I do."

"And getting answers is what I decide," he counters, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that sends unwelcome tremors through my body. "In this room, in this house—you don't call the shots."

I tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze despite our height difference. "Then why am I here? Why not just dump me somewhere and be done with it?"

He plants his hands on either side of me against the desk, caging me between his arms without touching me. The scent of him—sandalwood, leather, and something uniquely male—surrounds me .

"Because somewhere in that stubborn head of yours is information we need," he says, his face inches from mine. "And because whoever's trying to kill you might be connected to something much bigger."

My mouth goes dry, but I refuse to look away. "And what does all of this have to do with Jenny's death?"

Something flickers in his eyes at the mention of Jenny's name—recognition, perhaps even sympathy—before his expression hardens again.

"We're still piecing that together. But I can tell you this—the tech company you were investigating, Apex Solutions, is just the tip of the iceberg."

My mind whirls with possibilities. "Human trafficking?"

He nods grimly, straightening up but still maintaining his imposing presence. "Among other things. We believe there's a larger organization at play, one with connections in places you can't even imagine."

I take a deep breath, trying to process this information while ignoring how my body reacts to his proximity. "So where do I fit into all of this? Why keep me around instead of just... making me disappear?"

Ghost's eyes narrow slightly. "Is that what you think we do?"

"I don't know what to think anymore," I admit, frustration creeping into my voice. "You won't give me straight answers, and every time I think I'm getting close to the truth, something explodes or someone starts shooting."

He moves to one of the monitors, his fingers flying over a keyboard. Images flash across the screen—surveillance photos, documents, maps covered in annotations .

"We're not the bad guys here, Alina," he says finally, his voice softer than before, though no less commanding. "But we're not exactly the good guys either. We operate in the gray areas, doing what needs to be done."

I move towards the displays, their data pulling me in.

Suddenly, I'm back in my office two years ago, the phone slipping from my numb fingers as Detective Wilson's words echo. "I'm sorry, Alina. Jenny's body was found this morning."

My stomach lurches violently and I barely make it to the trash can before emptying its contents, acid burning my throat. Shaking, I wipe my mouth and force myself back to the present moment.

"And Jenny? Was she one of those people you were trying to protect?"

Ghost's shoulders tense. "We didn't know about her until it was too late. But now that we do, we're not going to let her death be in vain."

My throat tightens, constricting as if gripped by invisible fingers. "So what now? You can't expect me to just sit back and do nothing while you investigate."

He turns to face me, his expression intense. "What I expect is for you to understand the gravity of the situation. Your skills as a journalist could be valuable, but they could also get you killed if you're not careful."

"I'm not afraid," I say, lifting my chin defiantly.

A faint smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth. "I believe you. That's what worries me."

We leave the room and Ghost guides me down the hallway, his hand hovering near the small of my back without actually touching me. Even in my exhausted state, I'm acutely aware of his presence .

"You need rest," he says, his voice low and firm. "We have a lot to discuss, but it can wait until morning."

I want to argue, but my body betrays me with a massive yawn. "Fine, but don't think I'm letting this go."

He opens a door, revealing a simple but comfortable-looking bedroom. "I wouldn't expect anything less, little hellcat."

I step inside, taking in the neutral decor and plush bedding. It's nicer than I expected for a safe house, but I'm learning these guys don't do anything halfway.

"Ghost" I turn to face him, curiosity overriding my fatigue. "Before you go, can you at least give me something? Any information about what's really going on here?"

He leans against the doorframe, his massive frame filling the space. His blue eyes study me for a long moment before he speaks.

"Get some sleep. We'll talk in the morning, I promise."

I cross my arms, frustration bubbling up. "That's not good enough. My friend is dead, people are shooting at us, and once again I'm stuck in some secret safe house with a bunch of... whatever you guys are. I deserve answers."

"And you'll get them," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. He steps close again, those impossible blue eyes holding mine captive. "But not tonight."

I reach out, grabbing his forearm. The hard muscle beneath my fingers reminds me of just how dangerous this man truly is.

"How am I supposed to trust you?"

His gaze drops to my hand on his arm, then back to my face. "You shouldn't." A hint of a smile touches his lips. "But you will. "

I snatch my hand back like I've been burned. "Don't count on it."

Then a thought strikes me. "Wait, my family. I need to let them know I'm okay. They're used to me disappearing for work, but by now they'll be worried."

Ghost's expression remains hard, but he nods. "Give me a minute."

He disappears down the hallway, returning moments later with a sleek black phone. "It's untraceable. You can send one message, then I need it back." His voice is all business, but his eyes linger on my face a moment too long.

I take the phone, our fingers brushing. A jolt of electricity passes between us that has nothing to do with static, and I quickly pull my hand away.

"Thank you," I mumble, suddenly very aware of how the air between us seems charged with something I'm not ready to name.

My hand hovers above the keyboard. What can I possibly say that won't raise more questions? I settle for something simple.

Working on a big story. Might be out of touch for a few days. Don't worry. Love you all.

I hand the phone back to Ghost, and he nods, pocketing the phone.

"Get some sleep, Alina. You're safe here." The way he says my name—like he's tasting it—makes my stomach flip.

As he turns to leave, I ask one more question. "Ghost... is that really your name?"

He pauses in the doorway, looking back at me with an expression that's both warning and promise. "It's the only name you need to know."