Page 4 of Ghost's Angel

She's heading out and the thought of her walking alone in this rain, tired and vulnerable, plays on every primal protectiveinstinct I possess. She makes me want to do something I’ve never done with any other woman—put her on the back of my bike. But I know that if she rides behind me even once, I'll never be able to let her go, so I bite my tongue and watch her rush out into the rain.

"You following her?" Blade asks as I throw cash on the table.

"Someone has to." I don't wait for his response, just head to where my bike waits in the shadows.

The rain has mostly stopped, but the streets are slick as I trail her from a distance. She's on foot, of course. I know she doesn't have a car. Probably can't afford one. Each block she walks feeds the rage building in my chest—rage at a world in which a living angel has to walk alone through dangerous streets at night just to survive.

When she finally reaches her destination, I pull my bike into a shadowed alcove across the street, hidden from view but with a clear line of sight to the building's entrance.

My decision to keep my distance, to protect her by staying away, crumbles like ash as I watch a skeevy fucker in an expensive suit let her in.

Everything about him sets off warning bells in my head—the way her posture changes. It’s subtle, but I notice the way she shrinks into herself. The lascivious smile he gives her as she passes. The way his eyes linger too long on her ass.

For weeks I've told myself she's better off without the darkness I'd bring to her life. That someone as pure as her has no place in my world of violence and power plays. But watching her walk into a predator's den—I'm done pretending I can stay away.

She's mine. Has been since the first time I saw her—saw the light she carries inside that shines brighter than the noonday sun.

The security camera catches my eye. State-of-the-art system, probably installed to protect whatever shady shit this bastard's hiding. Not that it matters. I earned my road name because just like a ghost, I can disappear and reappear as if from out of nowhere. And as an encore, I make others disappear.

I’d bet my Harley this fuckface is planning to corner my angel and then make his move.

Quick as a flash, a vision of his broken bones and pleas for mercy flits through my mind.

Not tonight, motherfucker. My grin is feral in the dim streetlight. If this guy remains breathing after tonight, if by chance I allow it, it'll be through a tube.

I swing my leg over my bike, decision made. The time for watching from the shadows is over.

No one touches what's mine.

Chapter 3

Ghost

The back door's electronic lock is child's play. Twenty years of breaking and entering—both for the Corps and the club—have taught me that the most sophisticated security systems are only as good as their weakest point. In this case, that's the emergency exit's wiring.

Two minutes later, I'm inside, moving as silently as the Grim Reaper through the darkened hallways. The cleaning cart near the entrance tells me where Mira started her work. But the sound of raised voices from deeper in the building has my hackles rising and my hand instinctively reaching for the blade at my hip.

"Come on, sweetheart. I'm offering you a much better deal than minimum wage." The lawyer's oily voice drifts from his office. "All you have to do is be...friendly."

My angel's response is too quiet to decipher, but the tremor in it lights a fuse in my brain that leads straight to a powder keg of rage.

I round the corner just as the bastard has her backed against his desk, one hand reaching for her face while the other blocks her escape route. The fear in her beautiful eyes makes my vision go red.

"Get. Your fucking. Hands. Off her." My voice is laced with a tone that makes hardened criminals fall to their knees.

The lawyer spins around, his face going from lecherous to terrified in the space of a heartbeat. Smart man.

"Who the hell—" he starts, but I'm already moving.

One moment I'm in the doorway, the next I've materialized beside him like my name implies. My hand closes around his throat, lifting him clear off his Italian leather loafers.

“You?” Mira's surprised whisper barely registers through the blood pounding in my ears.

The lawyer claws at my grip, his face turning a deep shade of purple. It would be so easy to squeeze just a little harder, to feel that satisfying crunch beneath my fingers. But Mira's watching, and I won't traumatize her by killing this piece of shit in front of her.

I’ll be back for him later.

I lean in close, my voice pitched for his ears alone. "Touch her again—even look in her direction—and they'll never find all the pieces of you.” I squeeze just enough to make my point before releasing him. He crumples to the floor, gasping and retching.

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