Page 27 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
The soap slips from my fingers, clattering against the tile. I bend to retrieve it, and Ghost's voice echoes in my head—that deep rumble that seems to vibrate through my entire body.
"Get it together," I mutter, rinsing off, letting the hot water take the edge off my tension. "He's just a man. An annoyingly built, irritatingly commanding man who thinks he can keep me here against my will."
The worst part? A tiny voice in my head whispers that I'm not entirely opposed to staying.
Like how totally screwed I am if he's not telling the truth. Or how screwed I might be if he is.
Reluctantly stepping out, I reach for a perfectly folded towel only to realize my predicament—I have no clean clothes. The thought of putting on my filthy outfit makes my skin crawl.
"Fuck it," I mutter, tossing the towel aside. I leave the bathroom and pad over to the bed, pull back the covers, and slide between the sheets. The cool fabric against my naked skin sends a shiver through me that's not entirely from the cold.
Sleep eludes me. My mind races, replaying the day's events on an endless loop. Ghost saved my life, that much is clear. But can I trust him? Or Nitro? How can I put my faith in men whose real names I don't even know?
With a frustrated sigh, I throw back the covers. The cool air pricks at my skin as I stand, completely naked and completely restless.
I need answers.
I pad across to the closet, easing the door open. Empty hangers greet me, but there's something on the shelf above. I stretch up on my tiptoes, fingers grasping at folded fabric. I pull it down, shaking it out to reveal a black t-shirt.
"Shocker," I mutter, rolling my eyes. "Always with the black."
I slip it over my head, instantly engulfed in soft cotton that falls to my thighs. I catch a hint of laundry soap mixed with something else—a rugged, manly scent that tightens everything low in my belly. My nipples harden against the fabric, and I cross my arms over my chest.
Is this Ghost's shirt?
The thought sends unexpected heat straight between my legs.
Fuck. What is wrong with me?The man's dangerous, controlling, and infuriating. So why does wearing his shirt make me feel like I'm wearing his hands?
At the desk, I rummage through drawers until I find a notepad and pen. Perfect. I settle cross-legged on the bed, the journalist in me taking over as I start to list my questions:
? Tech company - wage theft? Or something bigger?
? Warehouse - what's really happening there?
? Ghost & Nitro - who are they really? What's their connection?
? Shooting at warehouse - who wants me dead? Why?
? This safe house - what's behind those locked doors?
The mysteries taunt me. Sitting here isn't getting me answers.
"Screw it," I mutter. "Time for some reconnaissance."
I ease open the bedroom door and listen. Silence. The hallway stretches before me, shadowy and still. My heart pounds as I tiptoe out, all too conscious of how the shirt creeps up my thighs with every movement.
One by one, I try each door again. Still locked tight. Frustration bubbles up inside me.
What are they hiding?
That's when I notice it—a small trapdoor in the ceiling with a bit of rope hanging down. Attic access. My heart races with excitement. This could be my chance.
I stretch up on my toes, fingers just grazing the rope. If I could just reach a little higher...
"What exactly do you think you're doing?"
I whirl around, nearly losing my balance. Ghost stands at the end of the hallway, arms crossed over his massive chest. His blue eyes darken as they travel slowly up my bare legs to where his t-shirt barely covers the tops of my thighs.
