Page 9 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost (Nightfall Syndicate #1)

eight

Alina

" G oddamn it," I mutter, yanking on the window latch again.

It clicks open smoothly, but when I push against the glass, it might as well be concrete. Nothing budges.

I move to the next window and try the same trick. Same result—latches that open, windows that don't. These security-obsessed bastards have thought of everything.

With a frustrated sigh, I abandon my escape plan and turn my attention to the hallway stretching before me. Multiple closed doors line both sides, and my reporter's curiosity is piqued. If I can't get out, I might as well find out what I'm trapped with.

I try the first door handle—locked. A frown tugs at my lips as I move to the next one. This door swings open, revealing a home gym that would make any fitness influencer weep with envy.

"Of course," I mutter, rolling my eyes at the gleaming equipment. "Muscle heads and their toys."

The next two doors refuse to budge under my attempts. My curiosity burns hotter with each locked door. What exactly are they hiding?

Finally, the last door yields to my touch. I step inside what appears to be a bedroom, sparsely furnished but clean. The queen-sized bed with dark bedding looks sinfully inviting after the day I've had.

Is this the one Ghost directed me to? An en-suite bathroom catches my eye, and suddenly I'm acutely aware of how grimy I am. A shower sounds like heaven right now.

The bathroom is compact but well-organized—everything perfectly aligned, not a thing out of place. Even the tiny first-aid kit sits at a perfect right angle to the edge of the shelf.

Control freaks, the lot of them.

I turn on the faucet, waiting for the water to warm up. As steam fills the space, I peel off my filthy clothes, dropping them in a rebellious heap on the immaculate floor. There's something satisfying about messing up their perfect system.

Under the hot spray, my mind drifts to Ghost despite my best efforts. Those muscular arms, piercing blue eyes that see too much...what would he look like with water cascading down that broad chest? Would his hands feel as strong and commanding on my naked body as they did when he tackled me?

My own fingers trail down my stomach at the thought, and I jerk them away like I've been burned .

What the hell am I doing? This is Ghost I'm thinking about .

Yet my body betrays me, tingling at the memory of his hands on me, firm yet careful even during that tackle. I grab the soap, scrubbing harder than necessary, as if I can wash away these unwanted thoughts.

I've interviewed enough psychologists to recognize what's happening. Adrenaline, confined spaces, physical contact with an attractive man—it's textbook. Nothing more than biology and circumstance.

The soap slips from my fingers, clattering against the tile. I bend to retrieve it, and Ghost's voice echoes in my head—that deep rumble that seems to vibrate through my entire body.

"Get it together," I mutter, rinsing off, letting the hot water take the edge off my tension. "He's just a man. An annoyingly built, irritatingly commanding man who thinks he can keep me here against my will."

The worst part? A tiny voice in my head whispers that I'm not entirely opposed to staying.

Like how totally screwed I am if he's not telling the truth. Or how screwed I might be if he is.

Reluctantly stepping out, I reach for a perfectly folded towel only to realize my predicament—I have no clean clothes. The thought of putting on my filthy outfit makes my skin crawl.

"Fuck it," I mutter, tossing the towel aside. I leave the bathroom and pad over to the bed, pull back the covers, and slide between the sheets. The cool fabric against my naked skin sends a shiver through me that's not entirely from the cold .

Sleep eludes me. My mind races, replaying the day's events on an endless loop. Ghost saved my life, that much is clear. But can I trust him? Or Nitro? How can I put my faith in men whose real names I don't even know?

With a frustrated sigh, I throw back the covers. The cool air pricks at my skin as I stand, completely naked and completely restless.

I need answers.

I pad across to the closet, easing the door open. Empty hangers greet me, but there's something on the shelf above. I stretch up on my tiptoes, fingers grasping at folded fabric. I pull it down, shaking it out to reveal a black t-shirt.

"Shocker," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Always with the black."

I slip it over my head, instantly engulfed in soft cotton that falls to my thighs. I catch a hint of laundry soap mixed with something else—a rugged, manly scent that tightens everything low in my belly. My nipples harden against the fabric, and I cross my arms over my chest.

Is this Ghost's shirt?

The thought sends unexpected heat straight between my legs.

Fuck. What is wrong with me? The man's dangerous, controlling, and infuriating. So why does wearing his shirt make me feel like I'm wearing his hands?

At the desk, I rummage through drawers until I find a notepad and pen. Perfect. I settle cross-legged on the bed, the journalist in me taking over as I start to list my questions:

? Tech company - wage theft? Or something bigger?

? Warehouse - what's really happening there ?

? Ghost domineering, mysterious, and somehow bypassing all my defenses like they're made of tissue paper.

"Tell me to stop." His voice is a command as his fingers slide under the shirt, trailing fire along my inner thigh.

I should. I absolutely should. Instead, I press my thighs together, trapping his hand. "Make me."

Something flashes in his eyes—triumph, hunger, something darker. His fingers slide higher, brushing against my slick folds.

"So fucking wet," he growls, circling my entrance with a teasing touch.

I whimper, hating myself for it even as my hips buck forward .

"Tell me what you want, Alina," he demands, his fingers continuing their torturous exploration without giving me what I need.

"I..." My voice catches as his thumb barely grazes my clit. "I want..."

"Say it," he commands, applying the slightest pressure. "Tell me exactly what you need."

"I need you to…" I gasp, pride dissolving under his skilled touch. "Please…make me come."

His eyes darken with satisfaction. "There it is. The 'please' I wanted to hear."

Then, abruptly, he steps back, removing his hand entirely. The sudden loss of his touch leaves me gasping and disoriented.

"Go to bed, Alina," he orders, his voice rough with restraint.

Fury and frustration surge through me as I realize he's played me, gotten me to beg only to leave me wanting.

"You fucking asshole," I spit, pushing off the wall.

"Think of it as punishment for snooping," he says, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "Actions have consequences."

"Fine," I snap, pushing past him. "I'll take care of myself."

I storm toward my room, cheeks burning with both arousal and indignation, my thighs slick with evidence of my humiliating response to him.

Once I reach the door, I turn back for one last glare. "Fuck you, Ghost."

His expression hardens. "No, little hellcat. That's exactly what's not happening tonight. "

I slam the door behind me and lock it, leaning against it for a moment as my body vibrates with need. Fine. If he wants to play games, I know how to handle this myself.

I move to the bed, pulling the shirt up as I lay back, spreading my legs. My fingers slide between my thighs, finding myself impossibly wet from his touch.

I've barely started to circle my clit when the door suddenly crashes open, the wood splintering around the lock. Ghost fills the doorway, his massive frame vibrating with fury and desire.

"Oh no, you don't," he growls, stalking toward the bed.