A trace of me.

She’s hiding it well. But I can still make out the tension in her shoulders, see the shadows beneath her eyes. She’s unraveling just like I am. That’s why she’s running.

But she won’t get far.

I won’t let her.

An hour later, I’m standing in front of her apartment with a baseball cap on, a knife in my pocket, and lockpicks in hand.

My pulse is thrumming with excitement, adrenaline flooding my veins. The anticipation is almost too much to bear. It takes every ounce of self-control not to break down the door and fuck her into submission.

No, this has to be done right.

This has to be done perfectly.

When the lock clicks, I slip inside, the darkness swallowing me whole. The apartment is quiet, the air heavy and still. I move silently, the familiarity of the space heightening my senses.

I’ve spent so much time here. In her life. In her head.

I creep down the hallway to pause outside her bedroom. The door is cracked open, the light spilling through. Geneva is sitting on her bed with a glass of wine in her hand, staring at a computer screen like she wants to murder it. I almost laugh. She’s so adorable when she’s pissed.

When Geneva shifts on the bed, I duck into the hallway bathroom and wait for her to pass me. She does, making her way to the kitchen, presumably to refill her wine glass. Leaving the bedroom empty.

I slip inside, my heart pounding as I step into her personal domain. It’s been a while. A quick scan reveals the usual items. A rumpled bed, a pile of books, a laptop, and that stuffed elephant which means a lot to her.

I walk to her nightstand, reaching out to stroke the soft fur. There’s something about the way she clutches it when she sleeps, like a child holding on to a security blanket. It’s oddly endearing, especially coming from a strong woman like her.

Her soft footsteps reach me, and I quickly duck into the closet, leaving the door cracked so I can watch her.

She’s back a moment later, her glass full and her gaze fixed on the computer screen. She doesn’t notice me. Yet.

Her sultry voice hits the air, and my dick gets hard. It’s Pavlov’s Theory; Geneva has trained my cock.

“Psychopathy is a condition defined by control,” she says.

I smile, watching her from the shadows as her voice carries through the room. The way she speaks—articulate, controlled, so damn authoritative—it makes my pulse race. The wine in her glass trembles in her hand, a faint, telling sign that she’s not as composed as she wants to be.

“Psychopaths thrive in environments where they can exploit weakness. They adapt, manipulate, and control with alarming precision,” she says, reading aloud.

Talk dirty to me.

Geneva pauses, her lips pressing into a thin line. The silence stretches, and then she exhales, taking a generous sip before setting the wine glass down on the nightstand.

She runs her fingers along the edge of her laptop absentmindedly, and I notice the subtle shift in her body. The way her shoulders relax. The way she presses her thighs together.

She’s not thinking about the keynote anymore.

My smirk fades, replaced by something darker. I lean forward, the crack in the closet door just wide enough for me to catch the flush creeping up her neck.

Oh, Doc. What are you thinking about?

She tilts her head back, closing her eyes for a moment. I don’t miss the way her breathing changes. It’s slower, heavier. She grips the comforter and her lips part on a groan. Of sexual frustration.

Heat coils low in my stomach, and my cock hardens painfully. I know what’s going through her mind. It’s written all over her.

She’s thinking about me.

At least, she better fucking be.

Geneva shifts, sliding her hand down to her pussy, and I bite back a groan. A shudder of pleasure ripples through her, and I catch a soft sound, a barely audible sigh that makes my blood roar in my ears.

That’s right, Geneva. Keep going. Don’t you fucking stop.

This moment is too good to interrupt. Watching her like this, watching her submit to the desire she’s feeling, is almost as intoxicating as touching her.

“Yes,” she moans loudly. “God, yes.”

She arches her back, falling deeper into ecstasy. My need to come is almost unbearable. So, I punch myself in the dick. It helps somewhat.

“Ghost.”

My whole body locks up as the sound of my name pours from her lips, raw and unrestrained. It’s like gasoline on an already raging fire, and I have to grip the edges of the closet door to stop myself from bursting out and finishing what she’s started.

Geneva doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me. How every low moan has me teetering on the edge of control. My breathing is ragged, my fists aching from how tightly I’m clenching the doorframe. I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood, anything to anchor myself. To stop me from losing my fucking mind and becoming an absolute savage.

Geneva collapses against the bed, her chest heaving as the aftermath washes over her. She looks wrecked, and it’s beautiful. Her hair splayed out on the pillow, skin flushed, and her legs still trembling. But it’s her face that does me in. The soft, dreamy expression, the smile tugging at her lips.

It’s too much to handle.

But then her expression morphs into something angry, her lips twisting with bitterness. For a split second I forget about how painfully hard my dick is, while trying to figure out what caused the sudden change.

“Fuck you, Ghost, for making me want you,” she says.

I blink. Does she know I’m here? Impossible.

“Fuck you for making me feel this way,” she says. “For making me question everything I’ve ever known about myself, about control, about boundaries. And most of all, fuck you for leaving me to deal with this… this obsession with you.”

Degradation kink unlocked.

Her insults, sharp as they are, can’t smother the satisfaction curling in my chest. She’s thinking about me. Obsessing over me. And no matter how much she fights it, she wants me.

I just want her more.

Her anger fuels something dark and primal in me. She’s raging against me, yes, but it’s because she hates what she’s feeling. The connection, the pull, the fucking obsession she just admitted out loud.

I sag against the closet wall, tension rolling through me like a bolt of lightning. Her frustration is intoxicating, her vulnerability even more so. It’s a potent combination that leaves me balanced on the edge of control.

She’s not just angry at me; she’s angry at herself for wanting me. For needing me. And I won’t let my girl go unsatisfied.

That’s just rude.

CHAPTER 38

Present

“Hello, Doc.”

I gasp, clutching the blanket to my chest, and find Ghost exiting my closet to stand at the foot of my bed, his form silhouetted by the moonlight streaming through the window.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I snap.

My overly defensive tone reveals the fear and disbelief colliding inside me. Ghost isn’t supposed to be here. Not in the room where I sleep. Not standing next to the bed where I indulge in my darkest fantasies of him.

He smirks, the expression both infuriating and enticing. “Does it really matter?”

“You’re right,” I say, forcing a confidence I don’t feel. “It doesn’t. Get the fuck out before I call the police.”