3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Bri

W hy do I feel like I'm cheating on him?

As I enter the lavish hotel, I try my best not to appreciate how warm it is. The contrast to the air outside is noticeable and almost makes me feel human again. The floor-to-ceiling windows show the blanketed cityscape beautifully.

When Ghost revealed that Sebastian wasn't who I thought he was, it took everything I had to not physically retreat into myself. The cold seeped in and took root.

I can't do anything right.

What the hell was I thinking? ‘Sure, person I've never met. I will get into your car without asking for any credentials or checking with anyone to see if you are the right person.'

I'm a fucking idiot.

The sound of the door closing behind me pulls my attention.

"Sorry about the sleeping arrangements. I thought it was just going to be me," he says with a smile that shows how much this amuses him.

Sleeping arrangements?

I turn back toward the room and take in the king bed for the first time.

Mother. Fucker.

"No. Nope. Not doing this. Take me to my hotel. They can kidnap me."

"Awww, you slept with… what was it you called me? Snowball? Just fine." His smile is infuriating, and I have to hold back the urge to hit his perfectly square jaw.

"If I remember correctly, I sent you to the corner. On the floor. By yourself!" I spit back at him.

His laugh is surprising, and it catches me off guard.

"Don't worry, City. I'm perfectly fine on the floor. I'd hate to ruin anything with your ‘almost, sort of, kind of, a little bit, not anymore boyfriend,'" he chuckles, coupling the words with air quotes as he walks his bag to the opposite side of the room.

I fight the very tempting and very mature instinct to stick my tongue out at his retreating back. Instead, I huff out a sigh and move my bag, which was left sitting by the door, over to the bed and fling myself onto it. Making a point to moan audibly at how comfortable it is.

Enjoy the floor, Snowball.

"Careful, City. My bite is definitely worse than my bark," he follows the comment with a whispered ‘woof' and a lifted eyebrow.

"Yeah, well, I wish we could just get it over with. A bite might actually be the only thing that fixes all of this. Know any Alpha's in the area?" I joke, killing the light mood as I scoot myself back to lean against the headboard. Part of my value to Deacon is his need to take something away from Dante's pack. Awakening me would be a power play, making it hard for Dante to claim me as part of his pack.

Claim… like I'm property.

Ghost freezes, his shoulders tensing before he speaks without turning around, all humor gone from his tone.

"Be careful what you wish for, City. Sometimes those wishes get granted, but not in the way you want."

If I had a dollar for every vague-ass remark this man makes…

I scowl—a memory resurfacing.

"You told me once not to run from my Fate. How did you know what I was, or better yet, how did you know what would happen?" I ask, tilting my head and raising an eyebrow at his back, my tone accusatory.

"You know exactly how I knew what you were—the same way as everyone else in your circle. As for your Fate, this here sure looks a lot like running. How's that going for ya?" he asks.

He's an Alpha and an asshole too.

"Where is your pack? How come you aren't annoyingly in their business instead of here?" I sass.

"Haven't had one of those in a long time," he says, his voice low, almost somber, as he rummages through his bag methodically.

Why doesn't he lead a pack?

Dante told me about the dynamics in the Vegas Pack back when I was in the hospital. He told me about Cain's choice to be Second, about how most packs can't function with more than a few Alphas, but that Alphas are drawn to pack life, drawn to lead. He said their wolves push them into that role. I never thought to ask about Ghost after Dante said he wasn't in his pack.

"I prefer to be alone," he finishes, interrupting my speculation before crossing the room. "I'm going to shower. Try not to die until I get out." His eyes finally meet mine, and his charming Southern mask is back on—a smirk planted on his face.

I mirror his expression, no sweetness behind my snark, before pulling out my charger to revive my lifeless phone. I'd attempted to text Ethan from the car, but my signal wouldn't go through, and then it died from attempting.

This battery is on its last leg. Maybe if I take this job, I will splurge on a new phone.

My eyes glance over to Ghost's bag, nestled neatly in the corner. It's no larger than a carry-on and looks well used. The sound of the shower starting gives me the confidence to scramble quietly off the bed.

Tiptoeing across the floor, I put my ear to the bathroom door, attempting to verify he is actually in the water before I hustle over to the bag. Before I touch anything, I take a minute to ensure I remember its exact position on the chair.

All zippers are in the middle. Every clip fastened, every snap snapped.

With extreme care, I pull on the tab of the main compartment zipper, hoping to minimize the noise. It slides easily to the opposite side, and I let out my breath as I peer inside. It's filled to the top, and I gently remove things to dive in further. I find neatly folded shirts, shorts, boxer briefs, and joggers, a book that looks like it's seen better days, a wallet, a grocery bag containing his shredded shirt and bloody gloves from the car, a small utility bag stuffed full, and several pairs of black utility gloves.

I investigate the wallet and find several driver's licenses, all with Ghost's face and description, but from entirely different states around the country. The names on each are distinct: Todd McNulty, Arkansas; Brian Hasterly, Montana; Dominic Miles, New York; Evan Green, Oregon; William Sharington, Colorado; and Robert Fredrick Rutherford III, Pennsylvania. In addition to his multiple identities, he has a wad of cash, business cards for each, and a single receipt from a gas station for two cokes from over a decade ago.

Weird.

Everything else is meticulously organized, so holding onto an old receipt makes zero sense.

Closing the wallet, I pull the book out to look at the cover— The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. The edges of the detective novel are slightly curled up, and a crease is etched in the spine. I notice a bookmark halfway through, and I open to the page he is reading. Before I can look at the words, I gasp as I recognize Ghost's smiling face looking up at me.

His bookmark is actually a picture, worn out over time, of two smiling teens, a boy and a girl, standing outside a building labeled Bridgestone Arena. A banner behind them boasts ‘Nashville Rising Benefit Concert.' The girl looks about sixteen and wears a sky-blue summer dress with embroidered cowboy boots. Her jet-black hair is wavy and falls to her shoulders. Her eyes are exactly the same color as his, and they have an air of mischief.

Next to her is a much younger and more carefree version of Ghost. He stands a whole foot taller than her and has his arm draped over her shoulder. He appears to be almost laughing at something she just said, as his smile lights up his whole face, making him even more handsome than I could have imagined. The sun reflects off his pure white hair, which he has grown long, almost like a surfer, and his skin holds a golden tan. He, too, is wearing cowboy boots but pairs them with stiff-looking blue jeans and a navy button-down short-sleeved shirt.

I never would have pictured him in jeans.

My eyes scan the picture, trying to find the story and the truth behind how the boy in this photo became the man I know today. The Ghost I know is the cranky, lonely, strong-silent type with a strategically flirtatious mask that seems like a form of distraction rather than interest. He's bossy, vague as shit, and incredibly infuriating.

The boy in this picture looks relaxed, happy, fun.

"Find what you were lookin' for?" his voice behind me causes me to yelp, dropping the picture and the book.

Well, shit.

I spin, apologies loaded on my tongue, when I realize he's standing in nothing but a towel, water still beading off his chest and shoulders. He catches my attention, and his damn lopsided grin slides into place as he repeats his words but puts them into a very different context.

"Find what you were lookin' for?" His eyes glance down to his body and the towel wrapped around his waist before slowly returning to me.

"I'm sorry," I finally sputter before doing the only thing I can think of and spin completely around, giving him my back. My skin's hot from the flush creeping up my neck, and I move as far away from his bag as I can without facing him.

Damn. Damn. Damnit.

I chastise myself for not paying more attention to the shower, for not being faster with the items, and for checking him out.

I'm not interested in Ghost. Not like that, but I'd be lying if I said his body wasn't something to marvel at.

"Feel free to look your fill, City. I know things aren't exactly going well for you in that department," he says before chuckling to himself and waltzing over to his bag to get dressed.

"I don't know what you're referring to, but I was simply looking for your phone since mine wasn't charged," I lie, ensuring my face is solidly pointed at the wall.

"And my wallet and book being out and open…" he says, leaving the question hanging in the air, taunting me because he knows I was snooping.

"Curiosity and all that," I shrug, hearing his zipper close.

"Didn't peg you for a kitty cat, but I guess the adage fits otherwise," he adds, and I roll my eyes before crawling back onto the comforter, attempting to keep space between us as I dare a look in his direction.

He's clothed again, and I breathe a sigh of relief. He grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge and tosses it at me before grabbing one for himself and sitting at the makeshift office desk on his side of the room.

"I didn't know you had a sister," I say, stating my assumption, hoping I can find out more about him.

"I don't," he says, taking a long pull from his water.

"Her eyes suggest otherwise," I state, watching him flinch ever so slightly at the statement.

For a long moment, he doesn't respond. He just sits sipping occasionally and taking note of the wall decor in the room.

Okay, I guess we're done talking.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand, hoping it has gotten enough charge to restart so I can send some messages and let someone know I'm okay.

"I wouldn't bother with your phone. I'm jamming it. You won't be able to get any messages out," he says with as much importance as if he were discussing the weather or a grocery list.

"You're WHAT?!?" I shout.

"Jamming it. With a transmitter, so you can't make or receive calls. A Faraday cage would be preferable but with limited notice and all." He shrugs, noncommittal. His words are clear, but their meaning is lost as my anger builds.

"I… You…. Argh…" I stumble through, trying to collect my thoughts. I'm in a strange city hundreds of miles from home, and I have no way to contact anyone, including the company I'm here to see.

My fingers fist the comforter, grounding me as I try to communicate my needs, a tactic my old therapist recommended.

"I need a phone. No one knows I'm safe, and I need to contact the company to find out when I need to be there tomorrow morning," I say.

"Need is a strong word. No one needs a phone, and if I remember correctly, a phone is the story you used to lure me in an attempt to get me to and invite you back to my place last time we were together." His smug expression makes me want to punch him square in the face.

"First, we've never been together, at least not in the way you are implying. A thing you shouldn't continue because if Cain heard you, I don't think I could stop him from killing you, joke or not. Second, I didn't lure you; I begged for help, which you did not give." He cuts me off, laughing out loud before I can give him my third thing.

"Oh boy, City, you have quite the imagination, and your memory must be spotty from the hit to the ground. How do you think Dante knew where you were, huh? Or when you were being handed over to the Reno Pack so he could make an offer? I may not have ridden in on a white horse in a cape to save the day, but make no mistake, you are alive because of me. You aren't headed right back to that pack today because of me. And."

Now, it's my turn to cut him off.

"And what's in it for you, huh? You say you have no pack and like to be alone, yet you keep inserting yourself into this mess. My mess. Why save me at all? What's in it for you?" I shout at him, standing up off the bed in my anger.

His jaw clenches, a challenge looming in his eyes, and for a single moment, I think he's going to snap at me. Yell, shout, answer me.

Instead, his face calms, all emotion leaving it as if it were never there.

What in the psycho shit is this?

"Why is it so hard for you to let people help you? People are actively trying to abduct you in a supernatural political game of chess, and you're here bound and determined to let them succeed. You don't have a signal because your phone can easily be tracked, and I don't feel like adding to my body count attempting to keep you or me alive."

"I never asked you to keep me alive," I mumble, most of my anger gone after his calm and logical statement.

"Well then, I guess it's good that I'm doing it for me and not you. I'm a selfish asshole, not a hero. I don't do anything unless it serves my agenda. Currently, you being alive happens to align with what I need. If that ever changes, trust me, I will let you stumble through your messes all on your own," he finishes his tone cold for the first time, and it's at that moment I see the legend that is Ghost and not the man.

Bullshit.

If there's one thing I'm good at, it's reading people. The foster system teaches you to look for signs, minuscule tells that reveal the people who have bad intentions—the ones who are morally corrupt.

Ghost may be capable of some fucked up things, and I believe the few things I've heard that he's done, but inside, he still has a soul.

The picture of his sister told me all I needed to know.

Releasing my fists, I let out a sigh. I need to compose myself because he isn't going to talk to me right now. He isn't the type to yell, and his control is honed in. I won't get any answers this way.

Turning, I grab my suitcase, place it on the bed, and open it to grab what I need before silently walking into the bathroom to shower.

I need to contact Boston Digital, let Liv and Keith know I'm safe, and let Cain know I'm okay. I can't have him fly across the country to rescue me again. If Ghost wants to play this close to the vest, then he can be my escort this week while I'm here. Maybe I can get him to trust me enough to tell me what the hell is going on and why I seem to be the center of it. Maybe I can get him to tell me the truth.

For now, all I know is that this is starting to feel too much like deja vu, and I'm tired of being a pawn in a game I never asked to play, one that no one gave me the rules for.

He's right about one thing, though: curiosity does kill the cat; I guess I just need to remember that I'm a wolf.