The second officer frowns, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before turning to Ghost. “You have anything to say for yourself?”

“Just that I’m an exemplary citizen,” Ghost drawls, his grin widening. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”

The officer snorts, clearly unimpressed. “Cuff him to the table,” he orders. “We’ll sort this out.”

As the guards move toward Ghost, the tension in the room shifts again. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t flinch as they secure him to the table, but the air crackles with unspoken words. He’s letting them handle him now because it suits him.

“Let’s go, Dr. Andrews,” Barlow says, urgency lacing his tone. He steps closer, the weapon still in his hand but his body language shifting to guide rather than threaten.

I move quickly toward the door, acutely aware of Ghost’s gaze on my back. It’s so strong it’s like a physical touch and my skin prickles with the memory of his hands on me.

When I reach the doorway, I can’t help myself. I turn and look at him over my shoulder. Ghost is watching me, but there’s no sign of his typical mocking smile. This time his face holds something else.

Longing. No, pain. Acute, excruciating pain.

It guts me where I stand. I’ve never witnessed vulnerability in Ghost. Not even when he kissed me.

“Dr. Andrews,” the guard says, his voice harsh this time. “We need to go.”

I nod, though my feet are rooted to the spot, my chest tight as Ghost’s gaze holds me captive. He doesn’t speak, but the raw desperation in his eyes says a lot. And it’s overwhelming.

Why is he looking at me like that? Like I’m a breath of air and he’s drowning? Like he’ll die without me?

And then it hits me, all at once, with a force so sharp it stills my heart. Ghost cares about me. That’s what this is, what his eyes are saying, what that raw, unguarded emotion is screaming.

This isn’t possible.

Men like Ghost don’t feel things like this. They’re wired differently, incapable of true connection or genuine emotion. Psychopathy doesn’t allow for it. I’ve spent years studying it, dissecting it, cataloging every trait and symptom.

He shouldn’t be capable of this.

And yet, Ghost is looking at me as if I’m the only thing holding his world together. No, like I am his world.

My mind scrambles to make sense of it, to reconcile the impossible contradiction. He shouldn’t care about me. He can’t. But the emotion in his eyes is too real to ignore.

“Dr. Andrews,” the guard says again, his tone firm, almost impatient. “We need to go.”

Barlow steps closer, his presence breaking the fragile connection between me and Ghost. The man clamps his hand around my arm. “Now.”

On instinct, I glance at Ghost.

His entire body stiffens, his hands raised but not in surrender. His jaw clenches, his shoulders coil like a predator about to strike, and his eyes—the raw, unguarded pain from moments ago—darkens with something else entirely.

Rage. Protective, territorial rage.

I see it in every part of him. His taut muscles. His hands twitching against the cuffs. But in this moment, it’s not the metal that binds him.

It’s me.

Ghost is mentally calculating, judging how to close the distance between him and the guard, and how to neutralize the perceived threat to me. My body stiffens when I realize what’s about to happen.

“Ghost, don’t,” I say sharply.

His eyes snap to mine, but the fury doesn’t subside. His gaze flickers to the guard’s hand on my arm, his intent clear: Remove it, or I will.

Barlow doesn’t notice. “Let’s go,” he says again, tugging me toward the door.

I yank my arm free. “Don’t manhandle me.”

The guard frowns, his eyes darting between me and Ghost. My pulse is erratic, my skin clammy, but I manage to summon enough authority in my tone to encourage him to back off.

“I can manage without your assistance.”

Reluctantly, Barlow steps back, his hand falling to his side. I don’t miss the way Ghost’s body relaxes ever so slightly, though his eyes remain fixed on me, watching my every move with an intensity that leaves me breathless.

One of the guards mutters something about procedure, but I don’t hear it. My focus is locked on Ghost. His breathing is uneven, his jaw tight, but his rage is fading, replaced by something quieter and more measured. He’s still watching me, his eyes bright and assessing, as if making sure I’m okay.

Ghost would have risked his life to stop a man from touching me. And I just saved him, in the most subtle way I could, by taking control before the situation spiraled out of hand and he got hurt.

Or killed.

“I’m ready,” I murmur, though my words are hollow.

Before I leave, I glance back one last time. Ghost is still watching me, his expression unreadable now, but his eyes—God, his eyes—are alive with something I can’t name, something that tangles with the confusion and yearning swirling inside me.

“Go,” Ghost says quietly, his voice low and rough. It’s not an order. It’s permission. A way of telling me that he’s all right, even if neither of us really believes it.

The door closes, and the sterile brightness of the hallway momentarily blinds me. Barlow stands beside me, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside my heart. My hands are trembling, but I keep walking, forcing my feet forward even as my mind races back to the man I just left.

Ghost cares about me. He saved my life. And I just saved his.

Does that mean I care about him too?

Neither should be possible. Or permissible.

The guard ushers me out, guiding me through the maze of hallways toward the relative safety of the administration area. Sirens wail in the distance, a discordant symphony that heightens the surreal feeling enveloping me. I mentally piece together the fragments of the last hour, trying to make sense of what happened, and what it meant. Not just to me, but what it meant to the man who saved me.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Dr. Andrews?” Barlow asks after a long moment, his voice quieter now. “That inmate didn’t hurt you, right?”

“Yes,” I say quickly, too quickly. “I just—never mind. I’m fine.”

He doesn’t look convinced but gives me a nod. “That guy’s dangerous. Don’t let him fool you into thinking otherwise.”

Dangerous.

The guard says it like it’s a warning, like it’s a threat I need to protect myself from. As the word echoes in my mind, all I can do is laugh internally. Ghost isn’t dangerous in the way the guard means.

He won’t use his words to hurt me; he’ll use them to entice me.

He won’t use his power to oppress me; he’ll use it to embolden me.

He won’t use his hands to harm me; he’ll use those very hands to pleasure me.

The memory of his touch, his lips, and the way he made me feel… it’s been seared into every part of me, impossible to ignore. That’s the danger. Not because of what he’s done or what he’s capable of, but the way he’s turned me into a woman who risked everything.

Just for one taste of the chaos he offers.

CHAPTER 34

The office is quiet except for the ticking of a clock on the far wall. My mind likens the sound to the ticking of a bomb.

I sit on the edge of a leather chair, the kind meant to be inviting but too structured to actually relax in. Across from me, Dr. Linton waits patiently, her pen poised over a notepad. She doesn’t push, doesn’t prod. The clinical psychologist simply waits, her calm, expectant expression making it harder for me to avoid the reason I’m here.