Page 55 of Shadowed Vows: Ghost
The kitchen falls silent for a moment, broken only by the soft ticking of a clock on the wall and the hum of the oven. I take a deep breath, knowing I need to give him more.
"Losing Jenny, the first reporter I've ever mentored, that was tough. She was also a friend."
Ghost's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. "I'm sorry. That must have been difficult."
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. "It was. Is. I can't help feeling responsible. I encouraged her to pursue that story."
"We can't always protect the people we care about," Ghost's voice is low, controlled, but with an undercurrentof something raw. "All our sweat and tears amount to jack shit."
Something in his tone makes me look up sharply. "You've lost someone too."
It's not a question, but he answers anyway, his words measured. "My team. On a mission that went sideways. I had to make an impossible choice."
His words hang heavy in the air between us. For a brief moment, I glimpse the weight he carries beneath that controlled exterior.
The timer on the oven beeps, breaking the moment. Ghost moves with efficient grace to remove the cookies, his back to me as he arranges them on the cooling rack.
"So tell me then," I breathe, hoping to navigate toward slightly safer ground, "how'd you get into baking?"
He's quiet for a long moment, and I worry I've pushed too far. When he turns back, his expression is carefully neutral, a decision visibly made.
"I learned to cook in foster homes," he says, the words clinical, detached. "It was a survival strategy."
My heart clenches at the implications. Ghost watches my reaction closely, assessing my response.
"Food was often scarce," he adds, leaning against the counter in a deceptively casual pose. "I got efficient at stretching ingredients, making something from nothing."
I think of the fully stocked kitchen around us, the abundance of cookies. It paints his stress baking in a new light.
"And the baking?" I ask gently.
"Came later. Different skill set, same principle—control the variables, follow the procedure, achieve the desired outcome." His lips quirk. "Not unlike tactical operations."
There's something vulnerable in what he's sharing, but the way he presents it—factual, stripped of emotion—feels calculated. He's giving me just enough to build trust without truly exposing himself.
"Thank you for sharing that," I whisper.
Ghost nods once, then pushes a glass of milk toward me with deliberate precision. "Your turn. Tell me something about Alina Bennett that's not in your public bio."
I dunk a cookie in the milk, considering carefully. "I have a secret food blog," I admit. "Nothing fancy, just reviews of hole-in-the-wall places around the city. I use a pseudonym."
His eyebrows raise slightly. "A journalist with a secret identity? Interesting choice for someone dedicated to truth."
I laugh, the sound slightly defensive. "It's not that dramatic. I just... I like having something that's just for me, you know? No deadlines, no pressure. Just enjoying good food and sharing it with others."
Ghost studies me, his gaze penetrating. "Everyone needs something that's just for them. A space where they make the rules."
The comment feels loaded, personal in a way I can't quite define. We fall into silence again, but it's different now—not comfortable exactly, but less adversarial. A temporary ceasefire.
After a while, I yawn, the late hour and emotional day finally catching up to me.
"You should get some rest," Ghost's voice gentler but no less authoritative. "We have a lot to discuss in the morning."
I want to protest, to push for more information, but something in his expression stops me. He's set a boundary, and I sense testing it now would be unwise.
As I stand to leave, he steps into my path, close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his eyes.
"This conversation, doesn't change the situation, Alina. I decide what you need to know and when. For your safety and my team's."
