Page 19 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

sixteen

Alina

I toss and turn in the unfamiliar bed, my mind racing with questions about this bizarre situation I've found myself in. Sleep eludes me as I replay the events of the past day over and over.

Gunshots. Motorcycles. Dim sum and danger.

Just as I'm considering getting up to do some snooping around this strange house, a tantalizing aroma wafts through the air.

Cookies? At 3 AM?

My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten much since this whole ordeal began. Curiosity wins out over caution, and I quietly slip out of bed. Following my nose, I pad down the hallway and stairs toward the kitchen.

To my surprise, I find Ghost in the kitchen, his broad shoulders squared as he methodically pipes perfect rosettes onto a batch of cupcakes. Another tray of chocolate chip cookies sits cooling on a rack, while a third batch bakes in the oven.

Despite the domestic setting, nothing about his presence seems diminished. Even in a plain black apron, he radiates controlled power, his movements as precise with the piping bag as they likely are with a weapon.

"Fourth stair creaks. You might want to remember that if you're trying to move undetected," Ghost's voice rumbles without turning around, filling the kitchen space.

I freeze, startled by his awareness. "How did you—"

"I hear everything, little hellcat." Now he turns, those intense eyes assessing me. "Couldn't sleep, or were you planning another reconnaissance mission?"

Heat rises to my cheeks. "The smell lured me down." I nod toward the cooling rack. "Since when do deadly men bake?"

His expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes. "Stress baking. Old habit."

He places the piping bag down with deliberate care. "You going to stand there all night, or do you want a cookie?"

I hesitate briefly before taking a seat at the island. Ghost's gaze tracks my movement, missing nothing.

"Where is everyone?" I ask, breaking the tense silence.

"Frost is resting. His injury needs time to heal." Ghost's jaw tightens slightly. "The others are taking turns patrolling the perimeter."

I nod, processing this information. "So it's just us?"

His sharp blue eyes meet mine. "For now." The words carry an unmistakable warning .

Ghost slides a plate of still-warm chocolate chip cookies towards me, the movement precise. I take a bite and can't help the small moan of pleasure that escapes.

"These are incredible," I mumble around a mouthful of gooey chocolate.

He raises an eyebrow. "Don't sound so surprised."

I swallow and grin. "Sorry, it's just... you don't strike me as the baking type."

"There's a lot you don't know about me, little hellcat." His tone makes it clear this is both an observation and a boundary.

I take another cookie, savoring the sweetness while gathering my courage. "So," I begin, unable to resist my reporter's instincts. "Since we're both awake, want to fill me in on what's really going on?"

Ghost's eyes narrow at my question. He turns back to the oven, checking the timer with a glance. When he faces me again, he's positioned himself strategically—back to the wall, clear view of all entrances.

"You know I can't give you all the details yet," his voice neutral but firm.

I sigh, frustration bubbling up. "Come on, Ghost. I'm already in this mess. Don't I deserve to know what's going on?"

He crosses his arms, the gesture pulling his shirt tight across his muscular chest. "It's complicated, Alina. And dangerous."

"I think I've figured out the dangerous part," I mutter, rubbing my bruised arm.

He moves suddenly, covering the distance between us faster than seems possible. He's not touching me, but his nearness makes my heart pound .

"Let me be clear," he says, voice dropping low. "The danger you've seen is nothing compared to what we're dealing with. I need to know I can trust you completely before I risk my team with further disclosures."

The air between us crackles with tension. I hold his gaze, refusing to be intimidated despite the way my heart hammers against my ribs.

"Okay, what do you want to know?"

Ghost pulls up a stool, sitting across from me at the kitchen island. Despite sitting, he somehow maintains his commanding presence.

"How long have you been a journalist?" His seemingly offhand question lands with weight, but his gaze locks onto me with the intense concentration of a hawk tracking its prey..

"Eight years professionally. But I grew up in a newsroom, so it feels like my whole life."

He nods, expression thoughtful, as though he's mentally filing away what I've just told him. "And what made you choose investigative journalism?"

"I've always been too curious for my own good. Plus, I believe in exposing the truth, even though sometimes it gets ugly."

"Even when it puts you in danger?" His tone sharpens.

My smile fades. "Especially then. If someone's trying to hide something, it usually means it needs to be brought to light."

Ghost's expression remains neutral, but I sense a hint of approval. He reaches for a cookie, breaking it in half with deliberate precision before speaking again.

"Tell me about your family. "

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. But if I want him to trust me, I need to open up.

"My parents run an independent newspaper. They taught me everything I know about journalism and integrity. My grandmother is a civil rights activist. I guess fighting for justice runs in the family."

Ghost nods, his eyes never leaving my face. "And what about personal relationships? Anyone special in your life?"

The question feels invasive, calculated. I tense slightly. "Not at the moment. My work doesn't leave much room for dating."

"Or you're afraid of getting close to someone," he observes quietly, the accuracy of his assessment landing like a precise strike.

Anger flares. "What about you? I don't see a ring on your finger."

The corner of his mouth lifts in what might be amusement, but his eyes remain cold. "Fair point. We all have our reasons for keeping people at arm's length."

The kitchen falls silent for a moment, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the hum of the oven. I take a deep breath, knowing I need to give him more.

"Losing Jenny, the first reporter I've ever mentored, that was tough. She was also a friend."

Ghost's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. "I'm sorry. That must have been difficult."

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. "It was. Is. I can't help feeling responsible. I encouraged her to pursue that story."

"We can't always protect the people we care about," Ghost's voice is low, controlled, but with an undercurrent of something raw. "All our sweat and tears amount to jack shit."

Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "You've lost someone too."

It's not a question, but he answers anyway, his words measured. "My team. On a mission that went sideways. I had to make an impossible choice."

His words hang heavy in the air between us. For a brief moment, I glimpse the weight he carries beneath that controlled exterior.

The timer on the oven beeps, breaking the moment. Ghost moves with efficient grace to remove the cookies, his back to me as he arranges them on the cooling rack.

"So tell me then," I breathe, hoping to navigate toward slightly safer ground, "how'd you get into baking?"

He's quiet for a long moment, and I worry I've pushed too far. When he turns back, his expression is carefully neutral, a decision visibly made.

"I learned to cook in foster homes," he says, the words clinical, detached. "It was a survival strategy."

My heart clenches at the implications. Ghost watches my reaction closely, assessing my response.

"Food was often scarce," he adds, leaning against the counter in a deceptively casual pose. "I got efficient at stretching ingredients, making something from nothing."

I think of the fully stocked kitchen around us, the abundance of cookies. It paints his stress baking in a new light.

"And the baking?" I ask gently.

"Came later. Different skill set, same principle—control the variables, follow the procedure, achieve the desired outcome." His lips quirk. "Not unlike tactical operations. "

There's something vulnerable in what he's sharing, but the way he presents it—factual, stripped of emotion—feels calculated. He's giving me just enough to build trust without truly exposing himself.

"Thank you for sharing that," I whisper.

Ghost nods once, then pushes a glass of milk toward me with deliberate precision. "Your turn. Tell me something about Alina Bennett that's not in your public bio."

I dunk a cookie in the milk, considering carefully. "I have a secret food blog," I admit. "Nothing fancy, just reviews of hole-in-the-wall places around the city. I use a pseudonym."

His eyebrows raise slightly. "A journalist with a secret identity? Interesting choice for someone dedicated to truth."

I laugh, the sound slightly defensive. "It's not that dramatic. I just... I like having something that's just for me, you know? No deadlines, no pressure. Just enjoying good food and sharing it with others."

Ghost studies me, his gaze penetrating. "Everyone needs something that's just for them. A space where they make the rules."

The comment feels loaded, personal in a way I can't quite define. We fall into silence again, but it's different now—not comfortable exactly, but less adversarial. A temporary ceasefire.

After a while, I yawn, the late hour and emotional day finally catching up to me.

"You should get some rest," Ghost's voice gentler but no less authoritative. "We have a lot to discuss in the morning. "

I want to protest, to push for more information, but something in his expression stops me. He's set a boundary, and I sense testing it now would be unwise.

As I stand to leave, he steps into my path, close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes.

"This conversation, doesn't change the situation, Alina. I decide what you need to know and when. For your safety and my team's."

I should be annoyed at his high-handedness, but after what he's shared, I understand it better.

"I know," I reply. "But it's a start."

Ghost's eyes hold mine for a beat longer, then he steps aside. "Sleep well, little hellcat. Tomorrow won't be easy."