Ghost wouldn’t send a meaningless token of affection. Everything he does has a purpose. It’s part of an ongoing strategy.

This candle is a message.

So, what is he trying to tell me?

CHAPTER 26

It’s go time!

If only I could get some popcorn for the main event.

I lean against the wall flush to my bed, my attention solely fixed on the small screen in my hand. I’m cradling the phone, not just to keep it hidden from curious glances aimed at my cell, but because it’s my only link to Geneva.

The camera outside her building flickers to life as the ride share pulls up to the curb and my skin prickles. I don’t need the grainy image to tell me she’s arrived, since I was notified the moment her location pinged nearby. Still, I watch as she steps out of the vehicle, hungry for the sight of her.

My cell is musty and cold, but that doesn’t matter. Not with the way my blood heats whenever I look at Geneva. Even the stale air around me now vibrates with my anticipation. This might be the closest to happiness I’ve ever been…

Aside from the first time I saw her.

When Geneva reaches her apartment, I sit up straight, my fingers gripping the phone tightly as I watch her unlock the door. Her hesitation is subtle but there, the slightest pause before she steps inside. The second the door is locked behind her, she exhales, releasing a bit of stress.

I shift on the mattress, adjusting the brightness setting as the cameras inside her apartment flicker to life. After a quick sweep of the room, she strides to the back door, and I grin. I know what she’s after. Sure enough, she grabs the baseball bat propped in the corner.

“That’s my girl,” I murmur.

Geneva hefts the bat in her hands, testing its weight, tightening her grip as she moves through the apartment. The rigidity of her stance and the thorough sweep of her gaze over every inch of the place is entertaining. She’s preparing for a fight that isn’t coming.

At least, not yet.

When she finally moves to her bedroom, my breathing accelerates, my pulse drumming an unsteady cadence. The first camera angle in this room isn’t quite right, so I cycle through three more until it is. Until I can easily make out the stiffening of her body and the way her lips part on a gasp.

Her reaction is exquisite. The rush of satisfaction that slams into me is euphoric, and I groan from the pleasure. “Go ahead, Geneva,” I whisper, my voice hoarse. “See what I’ve left for you.”

When she finally sets the bat down to reach for the card, I bite my lip to keep from moaning again. Although, that doesn’t stop my dick from getting hard.

Her hands tremble as she unfolds the note, her lips moving silently as she reads my poem. Watching her unravel, caught between fear and anger, is perfection. I love the way her fingers tighten around the card right before her knees buckle and she sinks onto the mattress. I love the way she stares at the parchment in desperation, every fiber of her being dying to know why I left it and what it all means.

If she wants answers, she’ll have to come to me.

Geneva grabs the bat and jumps to her feet. She moves like a ghost herself, quiet, methodical, scanning her apartment for threats she’ll never find. It’s fascinating, really, how she’s caught between instinct and reason, how her mind tries to rationalize what her gut already knows…

I was there.

The camera allows me to follow her through every space until she returns to her bedroom and opens the box. She doesn’t destroy the candle. I knew she wouldn’t. She’s too curious, too tied to the connection she refuses to acknowledge. Instead, she sets it down carefully, like she’s afraid of breaking it, and clutches the card tightly.

“Why?” Her voice is barely audible, but I don’t need sound to know it’s filled with frustration.

I watch as she sits there, the bat forgotten at her side. The candle, the card, the scent—they’re all pieces of me, woven into her home, her life, her very breath. A satisfied smile spreads across my face. They’re not just a message. They’re a promise.

Geneva is mine.

The need to touch her gnaws at me, but I shove it aside. Patience is the result of control. And control means knowing when to wait. I may not be able to fuck Geneva yet, but that doesn’t mean it’s not time for the next step in my plan.

The clanging of metal echoes through the corridor, jolting me from my thoughts of Geneva. The sound grows louder as someone approaches my cell. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. The rhythm of the steps and the faint drag of a worn sole tell me it’s Officer Jennings. A man who prides himself on his authority but who’s insecure enough to overcompensate with posturing.

Although if we had a dick-measuring contest, he’d cry for sure.

When Jennings reaches my cell, he pauses, one hand gripping the bars while the other rests on the baton at his hip. He’s stocky, with a gut that spills over his belt, and a face that’s permanently red from alcohol consumption. His uniform is crisp, but his boots are scuffed and muddy. Attention to detail is only plausible when it suits him.

“Yard time,” he says. “Don’t make me regret it.”

A slow, easy smile spreads across my face. “You’re hurting my feelings, Jennings. When have I been problematic?”

His eyes narrow, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “Don’t play games with me. We both know you’ve got a reputation.”

“Reputation?” I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense. “I’m nothing if not a model inmate.”

Jennings snorts, glancing down the corridor to make sure no one else is listening. “Model inmate, my ass. I’m letting you out because it’s protocol, but the second you do anything sketchy, I’m throwing your ass in the hole.”

Here’s the thing about Jennings… he talks tough, but he’s easy to read. The way his fingers twitch near the baton and the way his gaze darts to the corners of the room when he thinks I might be watching too closely tells me he’s scared. Not enough to keep him from doing his job, but enough to put him on edge. He’s not afraid of a riot or a fight.

He’s afraid of me.

And I intend to keep it that way.

“I’ll behave,” I say smoothly, rising and sauntering over to the door. “Scout’s honor.”

“You’re no boy scout,” he mutters, unlocking the door and stepping back quickly, keeping a safe distance as I walk out. “Don’t do anything stupid. You don’t want to test me.”

I flash him another smile, this one colder. “Oh, Jennings. You act like I wouldn’t kill you just for the fun of it.”

He doesn’t respond, just jerks his head toward the corridor. I follow, my pace measured, my hands loose at my sides. He’s watching me closely, his body tense, ready to intervene at the first sign of trouble.

As we step into the yard, the air shifts. It’s charged, but what else can you expect when there’s a large group of murderers gathered? Inmates linger in small clusters, their voices low and their gazes sharp. The sun beats down on cracked concrete and deadened grass, and the smell of sweat clings to everything.

I scan the space, my gaze slipping over the clusters of inmates with practiced ease. They’re predictable, every group adhering to their roles: the posturing thugs, the opportunists watching for weakness, and the loners who think invisibility equals safety.

Off in the far corner is a lanky, wide-eyed inmate who’s pacing, his boots trampling the grass underneath. His movements are methodical, almost rhythmic, and his fingers twitch as he walks, like he’s counting steps or running calculations in his head.