Strike
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne fanfic
The rain was a cold, relentless sheet against the jagged concrete of the abandoned shipyard. Morgan "Eve" Thorne moved like a blur, her all-black tactical gear slick with water, blending her into the shadows of the rusted containers. She was on high alert; she knew she was supposed to rendezvous with Price, but she also knew someone was hunting her through the labyrinth of steel. She had already spotted a massive shadow tracking her through the dark.
She didn't wait to be ambushed.
Eve pivoted, swinging her rifle up, but the shadow was faster. A heavy, gloved hand slammed into her weapon, knocking it aside. She lunged forward, leading with a sharp elbow, but it hit a chest that felt like solid marble. The force of the counter-strike sent her reeling.
She turned and ran, not out of fear, but to find a tactical advantage. She was fast—exceptionally so—weaving through the narrow gaps of the yard. But the heavy thud of boots behind her didn't fade. Ghost was a force of nature, a relentless predator that didn't seem to tire.
As she rounded a corner, Ghost launched himself. He tackled her mid-stride, his massive weight crashing into her and sending them both skidding across the wet gravel. He pinned her down, his forearm pressing hard against her throat to subdue her. Eve didn't panic. With a flick of her wrist, she unsheathed a tactical blade hidden at her hip. Before he could lock her arms, she drove the knife deep into the meat of his thigh.
Ghost let out a sharp, guttural growl of pain, his grip loosening just enough for her to scramble back. He reached for his sidearm, his finger on the trigger, his dark eyes burning with lethal intent through the skull mask.
Eve froze, her striking green eyes locked onto Ghost’s, her hand already reaching for her own sidearm to finish the draw.
"Lieutenant Thorne!"
The roar of Captain Price’s voice echoed through the shipyard, cutting through the tension like a gunshot. Price stepped into the dim light.
"Ghost, stand down!" Price commanded.
Eve blinked, her gaze shifting from the barrel of the gun to the man in the boonie hat.
"Captain Price?" she asked, her voice tight with uncertainty.
"Easy, Thorne. He's with us," Price said, his voice lowering to a calmer, grounding tone.
Ghost slowly lowered his weapon, but he didn't take his eyes off her. He reached down, gripping the hilt of the knife still embedded in his leg, and pulled it out with a sharp hiss. He stood up with visible difficulty, leaning heavily on his good leg, his posture radiating a cold, murderous fury.
Eve watched him, realizing she had just stabbed the most dangerous man in the unit. She didn't look terrified, though. Instead, a small, guiltily amused smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Sorry about that," she said, her voice dripping with a thick, unmistakable Manchester accent.
Without waiting for his reaction, she turned her back on the fuming Lieutenant and walked toward Price, her stride confident and rhythmic. "Good to see you, Captain. Your dog has a hell of a bite," she called out over her shoulder.
They walked toward the extraction point where Soap and Gaz were waiting on high alert. As Eve stepped into the light, both men straightened up, struck by how remarkably beautiful she was despite the grime of the shipyard. Her vibrant red hair was pulled back into a tactical ponytail, with a few damp, curly strands escaping the tie to frame a face that was as fierce as it was stunning.
"Johnny, Kyle, meet Lieutenant Morgan Thorne," Price announced.
Gaz blinked, then looked past her to see Ghost approaching, limping slightly with a dark, wet stain spreading down his tactical trousers. "Are you alright there, LT?" Gaz asked, his eyebrows shooting up.
Soap looked at the blood on Ghost’s leg, then back at Eve. She caught his eye and made a tiny, "guilty" face, shrugging her shoulders. Soap’s expression shifted into a hilarious look of pure, impressed disbelief.
Ghost reached the group, stopping next to Soap. He didn't say a word, but he turned his masked head to stare at Soap with an expression that clearly promised murder if he uttered a single joke.
"I see you've already met Ghost," Price remarked, his eyes lingering on the heavy trail of blood soaking through the Lieutenant's tactical trousers. He tilted his head toward his second-in-command. "You okay, Simon?"
Ghost didn't look at Price. He kept his dark eyes locked on Eve for one more heartbeat, his chest heaving with silent, cold fury.
"Fuckin' perfect," Ghost spat, his voice like gravel.
He turned and limped toward the waiting black SUV, hauling himself into the back seat with a heavy, metallic thud that signaled he was done talking for the night.
Eve just tucked a stray, wet strand of her vibrant red hair behind her ear, watching the SUV shake as Ghost slammed the door shut.
The interior of the SUV was thick with a silence so heavy it felt like physical pressure. Price sat in the front passenger seat, while Gaz drove through the rain-slicked roads. In the back, Eve sat in the middle, sandwiched between a grinning Soap and a Ghost who was radiating pure, unadulterated venom.
Ghost sat stiffly against the door, his leg roughly bandaged with a field dressing. He stared out the window, his frame rigid, refusing to acknowledge the woman who had just put him on the disabled list.
Soap leaned in, looking at the bloody bandage and then at Eve with an impressed glint in his eyes. "I have to say... to be fair to the LT here, he was convinced he was tracking a six-foot-five bruiser named Morgan. The paperwork didn't exactly mention a redheaded lass from the North."
"Is that right?" Eve asked, her Manchester lilt cutting through the tension. She looked at the back of Ghost’s masked head, her green eyes sharp. "You thought I was a bloke, did you? Explains why you tried to tackle me like a rugby prop instead of a professional."
Ghost’s head turned slowly, the skull mask inches from her face. "I thought you were a threat," he rasped, his voice a low, dangerous warning that vibrated in the small space. "I was right."
"Mmhmm..." Eve countered with a cold, mocking smile, her expression shifting into one of pure, dark amusement. "I think you thought I was an easy target. That’s why you’re the one bleeding now."
Ghost didn't respond with words. His dark eyes burned with a flicker of genuine hatred through the mask, his chest heaving as he turned back to the window, the silence in the SUV now vibrating with his unspoken fury.
"Alright, enough," Price barked from the front, though a faint, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. "The confusion was intentional. Keeping Thorne’s profile 'ambiguous' in the system was my call. It kept her alive in the field while she was digging up the intel we need."
Price turned serious, the commander’s mask locking into place. "Introductions over. Morgan, the shipment?"
Eve’s playfulness vanished. "It’s a mobile hub, Captain. They’re synthesizing chemicals on the move across the border, shifting grids every four hours to dodge your satellites."
"Which is why we needed a tracker planted up close," Price noted, catching Gaz’s eye in the mirror.
"I have the keys and schedules," Eve added firmly. "But we have a forty-eight-hour window. If we don’t hit them tonight, the trail goes cold."
Gaz tightened his grip. "So, she’s our ticket in?"
"She’s the only one who knows the layout," Price confirmed. "Thorne is Lead Intel for this op. Eyes on the objective."
Soap let out a low whistle, giving Eve an appreciative nod. "Lead Intel and a hell of a hand with a knife. Sounds like the pace just got a bit faster."
Ghost let out a sharp, dry huff and turned back to the window. His silence was no longer purely cold; it was the quiet, brooding frustration of a man who had finally met his match and knew he’d have to work twice as hard to keep his lead.
♤♡◇♧
The safehouse was groaning under the weight of the blizzard howling outside. Inside, the air was a frozen fog, barely stirred by the dying embers in the hearth. Morgan sat on the cold floorboards, her back against a moth-eaten sofa, legs stretched out toward the man sitting opposite her.
Between them sat a bottle of expensive Scotch, more than half gone. Eve held a cracked glass, swirling the amber liquid, while Ghost held the bottle by its neck, his large frame casting a jagged shadow against the peeling wallpaper.
The silence was thick, blurred by the haze of the alcohol. Eve let her gaze linger on the skull mask, her eyes heavy and unfocused. A lot had changed in the four months since she’d first driven a knife into his leg in that rainy shipyard.
"You’re staring, Thorne," Ghost rasped. His voice was lower than usual, slowed by the whiskey but still holding that dangerous edge.
Eve didn't look away. "So?"
Ghost held her stare, his dark eyes unblinking behind the mask. He looked like a statue carved from ice and shadow.
"I'm trying to imagine it," she murmured, leaning her head back against the sofa. "Your face. Trying to piece it together."
Ghost let out a short, dry huff of breath, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Don't waste your time."
"Why?" Eve challenged, a lopsided, drunken smirk pulling at her lips. "Are you ugly, Simon?"
He didn't answer. He just watched her with a terrifying intensity, the kind of look that usually made people turn and run. But Eve was too far gone—and too used to him—to care.
"Tell you what," she said, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial Manchester hum. She reached for the tactical knife strapped to her thigh. She pulled it slow, the steel glinting in the dim light. She pointed the tip toward a small, rusted iron ring hanging from a loose floorboard near the far corner of the room—a tiny target, barely an inch wide, at an awkward angle.
"If I hit that ring, from here... you take the mask off."
Ghost looked at the ring, then back at her. She was swaying slightly even as she sat, her face flushed from the Scotch. In her state, the shot was impossible. The alcohol should have stripped her of her precision. He took a long swig from the bottle, the whiskey warming his judgment just enough to let the guard down.
"Fine," he muttered. "Do it."
Eve stood up, her boots scuffing the wood. She stumbled once, catching herself on the arm of the sofa, looking every bit the drunk she was. Ghost watched her, almost ready to catch her if she toppled.
But then, she stopped.
Her shoulders squared. Her breathing went silent. In a heartbeat, the drunken haze vanished from her eyes, replaced by a cold, lethal focus that turned her into a living weapon. She didn't aim; she just moved.
The knife left her hand like a streak of silver.
THWACK.
The blade buried itself dead center into the rusted iron ring, quivering with the force of the impact.
The silence that followed was absolute. Eve stayed in her follow-through position for a second, then slowly relaxed, the drunken sway returning as she turned back to face him. She leaned against the sofa, her green eyes bright with victory.
"Mask off," she whispered.
Ghost sat frozen, his gaze moving from the vibrating hilt of the knife in the floorboard back to the woman leaning casually against the sofa. He let out a low, breathless huff of air—half-laugh, half-disbelief—and shook his head. The whiskey had softened the usual iron walls of his composure, leaving a rare, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Un-fuckin-believable," he muttered, the word thick with his deep, gravelly rasp.
He didn't make her ask twice. Ghost reached up, his gloved fingers catching the hem of the balaclava that was already bunched above his jaw. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the fabric up and over his head, discarding it onto the cold floor.
The flickering light of the dying fire finally hit his face—the rugged features, the pale skin marked by the shadows of war, and the eyes that suddenly looked much more human without the skull painted around them.
Eve didn't blink. She leaned forward, her eyes tracing every line and scar with an intensity that made the air between them hum. A soft, genuine smile spread across her face, bright and victorious.
"Nice to meet you, Simon Riley," she whispered, her Manchester accent warm and honeyed by the Scotch.
She raised her cracked glass toward him, offering a silent, respectful toast. Ghost didn't look away, his gaze every bit as piercing as hers. He lifted the heavy glass bottle, nodding once in return before the glass and the bottle clinked in the freezing air.
He took a long swig, his eyes never leaving hers, acknowledging the woman who had finally managed to unmask the Ghost.
The morning light was harsh, reflecting off the white expanse of the blizzard-buried world outside. Morgan groaned, the dull thrum of a hangover pulsing behind her eyes. She stirred on the moth-eaten sofa, straightening up with visible effort as she rubbed her face with both hands, trying to scrub away the fog of the Scotch.
Ghost was already up, seated at the small wooden table. The skull mask was back in place, cold and impenetrable as ever. He didn't look up from the tactical tablet in his hand, his thumb scrolling through data with mechanical precision.
"You’re late, Thorne," Ghost rasped. His voice was back to its usual gravelly friction, showing no trace of the night before. "The world didn't stop turning just because you decided to drown yourself in amber."
Eve squinted at him, shielding her eyes from the glare. "Bloody hell, keep it down, will you?" she muttered, leaning her head back. She paused, a fuzzy memory tugging at her. "I had the strangest dream... I dreamt I actually saw you without that mask."
Ghost didn't flinch. He kept his eyes locked on the tablet, his posture rigid. "Alcohol-induced hallucination. Forget it."
Eve was about to agree when her gaze drifted toward the far corner of the room. Her eyes widened. There, still buried deep in the rusted iron ring on the floorboard, was her tactical knife.
A slow, delighted smirk spread across her face. "Bloody hell!" she breathed, a quiet laugh escaping her. "It wasn't a dream. I did see your face." She leaned forward, ignoring the protest from her head, her green eyes dancing with mischief. "Quite handsome, let me say. A bit of a waste to keep it under wraps, Simon."
Ghost stood up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floorboards. He finally looked at her, but his gaze was professional, icy, and completely dismissive of her comment.
"Stow the chatter, Lieutenant," he commanded, sliding the tablet into his vest. "Extraction is ten mikes out. Gather your gear and clear the site. We’re moving."
He turned his back on her to check the perimeter, his movements sharp and efficient. Eve didn't move immediately; she just sat there with a guilty, amused smirk, watching the "Ghost" try to pretend the previous night had never happened.
"Aye, aye, sir," she whispered to his back, her voice dripping with silent laughter. She stood up, walking over to the far corner and crouching down to retrieve her weapon. She yanked it from the floorboard with a satisfying shink.
"I definitely need my knife back, though," she called out, sliding the blade back into its sheath with a click. She looked up at him, her eyes bright. "Who knows? I might need to toss it again just to see if that face is still there."
Ghost didn't say a word. He gave her one long, unreadable look through the lenses of his mask before turning and walking out of the safehouse into the blinding snow. Eve stayed behind for a second, her face still split by that irrepressible, mischievous grin.
He stepped out of the safehouse first, his boots crunching heavily into the fresh, powdery snow. He scanned the tree line, the cold wind whipping against his mask, but the perimeter was clear. He began to turn, expecting to wait for a groggy Lieutenant to stumble out behind him.
Instead, the door swung open and Morgan emerged much faster than he had anticipated.
She stepped into the blinding white glare of the morning with effortless confidence. She had swapped her disheveled look for her full tactical gear—black carbon plates and straps hugging her frame—and her long, curly vibrant red hair was completely loose for once, flowing over her shoulders like a banner of fire against the snow. She had slipped on a pair of dark aviators to block the blizzard's reflection, and she gripped her rifle with the casual ease of a natural-born predator.
Ghost went still. He stared at her for a few long seconds, genuinely taken aback. He had seen her in the mud of the shipyards and the grime of the field, but seeing her like this—the tactical gear, the dark lenses, and that loose red mane—she looked like a force of nature. She looked spectacular.
Eve caught his stare and offered a sharp, mischievous grin that proved the hangover wasn't going to slow her down.
"All set, sir," she said, her Manchester lilt dripping with a playful, mocking edge since they both held the same rank of Lieutenant. She adjusted the strap of her rifle and began to walk past him, her stride rhythmic and steady. "Let's not keep the Captain waiting, shall we?"
She didn't look back as she headed toward the extraction point, leaving Ghost to adjust his gear and follow a step behind, his eyes lingering on the red hair catching the wind.
♤♡◇♧
The planning room was dimly lit, the blue glow of the holographic tactical map illuminating the tired faces of Task Force 141. They had been at this for hours, dissecting the layout of a high-end, heavily fortified club in Milan.
"The server is on the third floor, tucked behind the VIP lounge," Price said, pointing his cigar at the schematic. "The target is Lorenzo Valli. He’s paranoid, dangerous, and never goes anywhere without a twelve-man security detail. If we kick the door down, he’ll wipe the drive before we even clear the lobby."
"We need a ghost run," Gaz added, leaning over the table. "Two men slip upstairs while the target is occupied. But Valli has eyes everywhere. The club itself is on the second floor; all access to the third is strictly monitored by his personal guard. If his security team doesn’t report in, they'll spot the breach on the stairwell immediately."
"So, we need a diversion," Soap muttered, crossing his arms. "Something big enough to pull his entire security focus toward the main floor."
The room went silent as they mentally cycled through tactical options—flashbangs, decoys, false alarms. None of them were subtle enough to keep Valli from hitting the 'delete' button.
"Living bait," Eve murmured, her voice barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was different. It was heavy. One by one, Price, Gaz, and Soap turned their heads to look at her. Ghost, who had been leaning against the back wall in the shadows, shifted his weight, his unblinking stare burning through his mask.
Eve looked up, her expression perfectly flat. "What? I’m the only one here who can wear a dress and look good. Unless Soap wants to try his luck in heels, I’m the only play we’ve got."
"It's a dangerous play, Eve," Price said, his voice dropping into a low, warning register. "Valli isn't just a businessman. He's a predator. If he figures out you’re a plant, you won’t have an exit strategy."
"I know," Eve responded, her Manchester lilt steady and devoid of fear. She looked toward Soap and Price. "That's why you'll have to be fast. I’ll get him to clear the floor, give you the window you need. But the second that data is in the air, I’m out."
Soap looked at Gaz, who blew out a long, tense breath. No one liked it. The idea of putting one of their own in the middle of a shark tank without a weapon was a bitter pill to swallow.
"Absolutely not," Ghost rasped. His voice was like grinding stones, cutting through the room's hesitation. He stepped forward into the light, his massive frame looming over the table. "We find another way."
Eve didn't flinch. She turned her head slightly to look at him, a faint, challenging smirk playing on her lips—the same look she had the morning she told him his face was 'quite handsome.'
"There is no other way," she said softly. "You’ll be on the overlook with a long rifle. You’ll be my guardian angel. Unless... you don't think you can hit a target from that distance?"
Ghost’s chest heaved with a silent, cold fury. He hated the plan. He hated the risk. But as he looked at the map and then back at her determined green eyes, he knew she was right.
"Tonight," Price finalized, his voice signaling the end of the debate. "Gaz, you’re on the van for encryption. Soap, you’re with me on the breach. Ghost... you don't miss."
The hangar was bustling with the final mechanical checks of the transport vehicles, the air thick with the smell of diesel and anticipation. Price, Soap, and Gaz were already geared up, their rugged tactical vests and weapons a stark contrast to the mission's high-society setting.
Soap was checking his sidearm when the sound of sharp, rhythmic clicks echoed against the concrete floor. He looked up, and his jaw practically hit the floor.
Morgan emerged from the shadows of the locker corridor like a vision. She was wearing a metallic black dress that clung to her curves like a second skin, the fabric shimmering with every confident stride. The deep neckline and the high slit of the dress were daring, but it was her vibrant red hair, flowing in loose waves over her shoulders, that truly commanded the room. With her makeup done to enhance the sharp green of her eyes, she didn't look like a soldier—she looked like a goddess.
"Bloody hell, Morgan," Soap breathed, a wide, impressed grin breaking across his face. "If the mission fails, it’s because Valli’s heart stopped the second you walked in. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe, and I’m on your side!"
Ghost, standing near the back of the SUV, didn't utter a word. He remained as still as a statue, but his dark eyes were locked onto her, tracking her movement with an intensity that felt electric. Ghost felt his entire body lock up, a sudden, sharp tension coiling in his gut that had nothing to do with the mission. Beneath his tactical gear, his heart hammered a rhythm that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the woman standing before him.
Eve caught Ghost's unblinking stare. She held his gaze for a long, heavy moment, her green eyes searching his through the lenses of his mask, acknowledging the silent storm between them. Finally, she broke the contact and moved toward Price.
Price stood by the lead vehicle, his arms crossed. He looked at her not just as her commanding officer, but with a paternal flicker of concern in his gaze. He took in the dress, the heels, and the lack of armor, knowing exactly how exposed she was about to be.
"Are you sure about this?" Price asked, his voice low and heavy with the weight of the risk.
Eve met his eyes and nodded once, her jaw set in a firm line. "Yes, Captain."
Price studied her for a moment longer, seeing the steel behind the silk. He reached out, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder for a brief second before nodding to the team.
"Right then," Price announced, his voice regaining its command authority. "Let’s go."
The team split toward the convoy. Gaz headed for the van packed with high-end encryption servers and monitoring gear. Soap and Price climbed into the sleek sedan that would serve as their primary breach vehicle. Ghost opened the door of the black SUV, waiting as Eve slid into the leather seat beside him, the silence between them vibrating as they prepared to head into the heart of the lion's den.
The SUV slowed to a crawl a block away from the pulsing neon lights of the Milanese club. Ghost kept his hands tight on the wheel, his gaze fixed forward.
"I'm dropping you here," he rasped, his voice strained. "I need three mikes to reach the overlook. Do not—repeat, do not—enter until I give the green light."
Eve checked the hidden comms unit disguised as a delicate pearl earring. The metallic black dress felt heavy with the weight of the mission, her vibrant red hair a bold target against the dark silk. "Copy that. I'm waiting on you."
Once Ghost signaled he was in position on a towering overlook overlooking the club’s upper levels, Eve stepped into the shark tank.
The air inside was thick with expensive cologne and danger. She moved like a ghost in silk, her presence drawing every eye in the room on the second floor.
"Target in sight," Eve whispered into her earring, leaning casually against the marble bar. "Valli is at the center table. Twelve o'clock. Six security guards on the floor, four more on the balcony level."
"I see them," Ghost’s voice crackled in her ear, hyper-vigilant from his perch. "Two guards moving to the left corridor. Another on the stairs. Price, Soap, the target is distracted. Move on the third floor access now.”
Eve caught Valli’s gaze, offering a slow, devastating smile before turning to the bartender. Valli was hooked. As he approached her, his security detail shifted their focus, creating the gap Price and Soap needed to breach the private stairwell.
"He's moving," Eve murmured. "Price, Soap... go."
While Price and Soap neutralized the third-floor guards with surgical precision, Eve played the role of the enchanting distraction on the level below. But the tension skyrocketed when Valli gripped her arm.
"He’s taking me upstairs," Eve reported, her voice steady despite her racing heart.
"Soap, status!" Ghost barked over the radio, his tone laced with urgent friction. "She's moving to the server level. I've lost visual—there are too many blind spots in the external structure. Tell me you have it, Johnny”.
"Almost there, Ghost!" Soap’s voice crackled back, strained and breathless over the sound of muffled scuffles. "Just a few more seconds! Hold your position!"
Inside the private office on the third floor, the air turned frigid. Valli opened the door and froze, seeing a downed guard on the floor near his desk.
"Cosa...?"
He lunged for the server's kill-switch on his desk, but Eve was faster. She pivoted in her heels, slamming her palm into his jaw and snatching the bypass device from his hand. Valli roared, throwing a heavy punch that caught her lip. Eve spun, blood blooming on her face, but she managed to kick his legs out from under him.
"Valli’s down but reinforcements are coming!" she yelled into her comms.
Through the massive office windows, Ghost saw the movement in the hallway. "Two men in the hallway”.
THWACK. THWACK.
Two high-caliber shots from Ghost’s rifle shattered the glass, dropping the men before they could enter the office.
"Data is secure! Eve get out!" Price’s voice cut through the chaos.
Eve bolted. She tore through the back hallways, her heels clicking frantically against the marble before she hissed and kicked them off. She was a blur of metallic black and red hair, her lungs burning as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the club.
A guard rounded the corner, raising a radio to his mouth, but Eve didn’t slow down. She used her momentum to drive her shoulder into his chest, slamming him against the wall. Before he could recover, she delivered a sharp, precision strike to his throat and a knee to his gut, leaving him gasping on the floor as she kept moving.
Further down the hall, two more men emerged from a side exit, blocking her path. Eve didn't hesitate. She ducked under the first man's swing, grabbed his arm, and used his own weight to hurl him into his partner. As they stumbled, she delivered a spinning back-kick that sent one into a decorative vase, shattering it into a thousand pieces. She was breathing hard, her knuckles bruised, but the cold focus of an operative hadn't left her eyes.
She rounded the final corner, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, and slammed hard into a wall of solid tactical gear.
She moved with a lethal intent, ready to claw her way through whatever stood in her path.
But the "wall" moved first.
Ghost’s large, gloved hands shot out with lightning speed, catching her wrists in mid-air and pinning them against his chest with effortless strength. He held her firmly, neutralizing her strike before she could connect.
"Eve, it's me!" Ghost’s voice grounded her, deep and commanding even amidst the sirens.
He didn't let go, his grip steady and grounding as he stared down at her.
"Holy fuck!" Eve gasped, her chest heaving as the adrenaline surged, her eyes wide as she finally registered the skull mask and the dark, familiar gaze behind it.
Ghost's gaze held hers for a fraction of a second, his eyes narrowing as they flickered to the crimson smear on her split lip and the trail of blood tracing down from her temple. His jaw tightened visibly behind the mask, he drew his sidearm with a lethal fluidity.
"Stay close," he growled, his voice dropping into that dangerous, protective rasp.
They burst through the heavy maintenance doors into the service corridor. Bullets immediately began to chew into the concrete walls around them, sending chips of stone flying like shrapnel. Ghost didn't hesitate; he moved like a wall of living shadow, keeping his massive frame positioned between the incoming fire and the path they were clearing. He worked his sidearm with mechanical precision, dropping two guards at the end of the hall before they could even level their weapons.
Eve stayed on his heels, her movements sharp and synchronized with his. As they rounded the final corner toward the alleyway, a hail of gunfire shattered a nearby window, showering the asphalt in glass. Ghost suppressed the last line of Valli's men with a rapid, rhythmic succession of shots, providing the cover she needed to move.
"To the car! Now!"
They broke into a full sprint, two shadows moving in perfect tandem. Eve reached the SUV's passenger side just as Ghost reached the driver’s door. She yanked it open, diving into the seat and slamming the door shut in one fluid motion. Ghost was behind the wheel in a heartbeat, the engine roaring to life before the door had even fully latched. The tires screamed against the pavement as he floored it, the vehicle fishtailing slightly before gripping the asphalt.
"They're on us!" Eve shouted, checking the side mirror as the headlights of two black sedans swung aggressively into view behind them.
Without waiting for an order, Eve scrambled into the back seat, grabbing Ghost’s discarded rifle from the floorboard. She rolled down the window, the freezing Milanese air rushing in, her vibrant red hair whipping wildly in the wind. Bracing her shoulder against the frame, she opened fire. The rhythmic crack-crack-crack of the rifle echoed through the narrow streets as she targeted the lead car’s tires and engine block.
After a final, precise burst, the first sedan swerved violently, colliding with a parked car and blocking the path for the second. Eve kept her eyes locked on the wreckage until the distance swallowed the smoke. She pulled herself back inside, chest heaving.
"I think we're clear," she panted, squinting through the rear glass. "The road's empty. No more headlights."
Ghost kept his eyes locked on the rearview mirror, his knuckles white as he took a sharp turn into a dark alley. "Confirmed. We lost them." He keyed his comms.
"Bravo 0-6, this is Bravo 0-7. Primary rendezvous is burned. Too much heat. We’re diverting to the backup safehouse in the outskirts. We'll hole up there until the city cools down."
"Copy, Bravo 0-7," Price’s voice crackled. "Stay off the grid. We’ll wait for your signal. Out."
Ghost tossed the radio aside and spared a quick, dark glance at Eve through the mirror, noting her split lip and the blood on her temple.
"Check the bag in the footwell for the medkit," he rasped, his voice dropping an octave. "We need to clear that safehouse before we step inside. We’re going to be stuck there for a while."
Inside the hollow shell of the apartment, Eve finally collapsed against the wall. Her hands were shaking uncontrollably, the adrenaline crash hitting her like a physical blow. She looked down at the blood staining her dress, her breathing ragged and shallow. Her knuckles were raw and bloodied from the fight, and the copper scent of the blood on her face felt heavy in the stale air.
"Fuck... fuckin' shit..." Eve hissed, her voice quivering as she stared at her trembling hands.
Ghost closed the distance in silence, his presence grounding the room. He didn't hesitate; he caught her wrists to stop the shaking, his gloved grip iron-clad but controlled. Shifting his hands, he framed her face, his large palms forcing her head up until she had no choice but to meet his stare.
He didn't offer empty words. He simply held her there, anchoring her with a steady, unwavering gaze through the eye slits of his mask. He waited, commanding her pulse to match his own, until her breathing finally leveled out.
"Clean the wounds first," he finally rasped, the order low and absolute. "Move."
Eve looked into his eyes. She didn't trust her voice to speak, so she simply gave a small, weary nod
Ghost moved away for a second, returning with the medkit she had pulled from the SUV. He walked into the small, cramped dining area of the apartment and pulled out one of the mismatched chairs, gesturing for her to sit directly in front of him; his knees brushing hers as he positioned himself in the tight space.
With a deliberate movement, he reached for the velcro straps at his wrists. The sound of the material tearing felt loud in the small room. He pulled his tactical gloves off, one finger at a time, and tossed them onto the table.
He opened the kit with practiced efficiency. His movements were methodical, but as he reached for a sterile wipe with his bare hands, they hesitated for a fraction of a second. He was used to patching up bullet wounds on soldiers, not cleaning the delicate skin of a woman’s face while she wore a shimmering evening dress stained with the grime of a back-alley brawl.
"Tilt your head up," he commanded softly.
Morgan obeyed, her green eyes never leaving his mask. As he leaned in to dab at the cut on her temple, the warmth of his fingers against her skin felt like an electric current.
"You took a risk with Valli," Ghost muttered, his thumb brushing near her jaw as he cleaned the blood from her lip. "A second later and those shots through the window wouldn't have mattered."
Morgan let out a small, sharp breath as the antiseptic stung. "But you didn't miss, did you? "I knew you had my back, Simon."
Ghost’s hand stilled. He looked at her, and for a moment, the war, the mission, and the Task Force felt a million miles away.
"Don't make me prove it twice," he rasped.
Ghost’s hand lingered near her jaw for a second longer than necessary before he finally pulled back to dispose of the stained wipe. He reached back into the kit, pulling out a fresh compress and a bottle of saline.
"Hands," he commanded, his voice a low vibration.
Morgan extended her arms, her hands settling into his large, bare palms. He didn't comment on the tremors; he just held them steady, his rough skin a stark, solid anchor against her own.
He worked in silence, cleaning her knuckles with deliberate, clinical efficiency. When the saline hit the raw skin and Morgan winced, her fingers twitching to pull away, Ghost’s grip simply tightened. He just held her in place, refusing to let her recoil.
"Stay still," he muttered, his voice a low, gravelly command
"Messy work," he muttered, his head bowed as he focused on the task. "But effective. You tore through them, Thorne. Even without a sidearm, you were a goddamn whirlwind."
"I had my hands," Morgan replied, her voice regaining some of its usual silkiness, though it still held a weary edge. "And I had you watching my back. I knew I wouldn't have to hold them off forever."
Ghost didn’t look up, his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. He moved to her other hand, his movements faster now, wiping away the grime to reveal the deep purple of the bruising underneath.
"Valli’s men are amateurs, but they have the numbers," he rasped, the protective edge in his voice turning sharp. He gripped her hand for a split second, a brief, crushing pressure, as his eyes flickered to the blood on her temple. "You stayed in the open too long. Another second without eyes on you and—"
He snapped his jaw shut, the sentence dying in a cold, jagged silence. He didn't finish it. He didn't need to. The tension in the room shifted, turning heavy with everything he wasn't allowed to say.
He lifted his head to lock his dark gaze with her green eyes. "The mission is over. But we’re not out of the woods yet."
"I know," Morgan whispered, her voice finally steadying as she looked down at the ruined dress. She managed a small, tired smirk, the sharp edge of her humor returning. "Besides this dress is currently more blood than metallic black. I think it’s time for something with actual pockets."
Ghost’s gaze didn't waver. He stayed seated on the chair, his bare, scarred hands resting on his knees. The corner of his mouth—hidden beneath the fabric of his mask—seemed to twitch.
"Dangerous distraction, Thorne," he rasped, his voice a low, jagged warning. "Almost made me forget the mission."
Morgan froze for a heartbeat, her green eyes widening at the unexpected admission. She huffed a short, breathless laugh and shook her head.
"Shut up, Simon," she muttered, though there was no bite in her tone.
She stood up, her joints protesting the movement, and grabbed the tactical bag she’d hauled from the SUV. Without another word, she turned and walked toward the small, dimly lit bathroom at the end of the hallway.
Ghost didn't move. He sat in the silence of the dining area, his eyes locked on her back until the bathroom door clicked shut. The sound of the lock turning echoed in the quiet apartment. He looked down at his bare hands, still feeling the ghost of her warmth on his palms, and let out a long, slow breath. For a man who lived in the shadows, the memory of her under the club’s neon lights—sharp, blood-stained, and far too loud for his peace of mind—was becoming a problem he didn't know how to solve
Four hours had passed since they breached the service corridor in Milan, and the high-tension hum of the mission had settled into a weary, heavy quiet.
Ghost stood by the darkened window of the living area, his frame a massive silhouette against the faint city lights reflecting off the rain-streaked glass. He adjusted his headset as Price’s voice crackled through the secure line.
"Bravo 0-7, status," Price’s voice was steady, the background noise suggesting he was already aboard a command transport.
"Holding at the backup safehouse. The city is quiet, but we’re staying dark," Ghost reported, his voice a low rasp that barely carried across the room.
"Good. Watch your six, but the heat is dissipating," Price replied. "Gaz has localized the drone feeds. We’ve got eyes on the perimeter—three layers of aerial surveillance patrolling your sector. You’re in the clear for now. Extraction is scheduled for twenty-four hours from my mark. Sit tight until then."
"Copy that. Twenty-four hours. Out."
Ghost disconnected the feed and turned his head slightly. In the kitchen, the soft clatter of cabinets broke the silence. Eve was rummaging through the upper cupboards, her vibrant red hair flowing freely over her shoulders. The metallic black was gone replaced by a pair of dark sweatpants and an oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame. Her face was scrubbed clean of makeup, revealing the raw bruises and the small, neat cut on her temple that Ghost had tended to earlier.
She reached the back of a deep shelf and pulled out a dusty, unlabeled bottle of dark rum. She stared at the liquid for a moment before letting out a long, weary sigh.
"I need a fuckin' drink," she muttered, her voice low but carrying clearly in the small apartment.
Ghost didn't move from his position by the window, his arms crossed over his chest. "Price said the perimeter is secure, Thorne. He didn't say it was a holiday."
Eve grabbed a glass, poured a generous measure of the amber liquid, and began walking toward the living area. She collapsed onto the worn sofa directly across from Ghost. She took a slow, appreciative sip of the rum before looking up at him, a mischievous glint returning to her green eyes.
"Relax, Simon," she said, her Manchester lilt softened by exhaustion. "Even half-drunk, I can still put a knife exactly where I want it. You know that."
She punctuated the sentence with a slow, deliberate wink.
Ghost remained still for a heartbeat, his dark eyes locked on her from behind the mask. Then, a short, huffed sound—the closest thing to a laugh she had ever heard from him—escaped his throat. He shook his head slowly, a gesture of silent, resigned amusement, before turning his gaze back to the rainy street below.
♤♡◇♧
The hum of the server room was a low, electric drone, vibrating beneath the soles of their boots. Blue light flickered across the rows of black towers as Gaz and Soap secured the perimeter, leaving Eve and Ghost to extract the final encryption keys.
Eve was hunched over the main console, her fingers flying across the keys, her vibrant red ponytail swaying slightly as she worked. Ghost stood just behind her, his eyes scanning the room, his hand resting on the grip of his Holger.
"Almost through," Eve whispered, the green glow of the screen reflecting in her eyes. "The final layer is dropping now."
The progress bar hit 100%. But instead of the schematics they expected, a restricted file flared to life. Ghost’s gaze narrowed as he looked over her shoulder. At the very top of the list, flashing in a deep, accusatory red, was a single string of data:
ASSET IDENTIFIER: MORGAN THORNE - STATUS: ACTIVE DISCLOSURE / EXTERNAL PAYROLL.
Ghost froze. The air in the room seemed to vanish, replaced by a sudden, freezing vacuum. He stared at her name—her real name—linked to a deep-cover betrayal.
In a heartbeat, the silence snapped.
Ghost lunged. He spun her around with a violent jerk, his massive hand fist-tight in the front of her tactical vest, slamming her back against the server rack. The metal groaned under the impact. Before she could even gasp, the cold, hard muzzle of his sidearm was jammed brutally under her chin, forcing her head back.
"What the fuck, Simon?!" Eve shouted, her voice a mix of shock and sudden, sharp adrenaline.
"Why the fuck is your name in there?" Ghost rasped, his voice a guttural, terrifying snarl. His dark eyes were blown out, burning with a lethal betrayal that felt worse than a bullet.
Eve’s eyes flickered sideways toward the monitor, catching the red text. Her face went pale, her expression a mask of pure, genuine bewilderment. "I don’t know!"
"You are a fuckin' traitor, Morgan?!" Ghost roared, his finger tightening on the trigger, the pressure under her jaw increasing until it bruised.
"What the fuck are you saying?!" she spat back, but then she saw it. For the first time, she saw it in his eyes: doubt. The man who had held her in the dark in Milan, the man who had let her see his face, was looking at her like a target.
She knew him. She knew that if she didn't move now, his training would override him.
Eve acted. With a lightning-fast, practiced motion, she brought her arm up, breaking his grip on her vest while simultaneously twisting her body to the side, away from the barrel of the gun. She used her momentum to drive a hard, calculated palm-strike into his chest, pushing him back just enough to create a gap.
Ghost stumbled, his boots scraping the floor, but he didn't stay down. He was a predator in full combat mode, his reflexes snapping back into place before Eve could even reach the first row of servers.
"Thorne!" he roared, the sound echoing like a thunderclap in the cramped space.
Eve didn't look back. She knew the layout of the room was her only advantage. As Ghost lunged again, his massive hand nearly catching the collar of her vest, she dove under a low cable-bridge, sliding across the floor and kicking a heavy equipment cart into his path. The metal cart slammed into Ghost's shins, slowing him for a fraction of a second—the only second she had.
She scrambled up, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn't just run; she parkoured through the narrow aisles, her smaller frame allowing her to squeeze through gaps that Ghost had to shoulder-charge through. The sound of metal groaning and servers shattering followed her as Ghost tore through the obstacles like a freight train.
She reached the service ladder, swinging herself up with a frantic, rhythmic strength. Below her, Ghost reached the base of the ladder, his hand catching the heel of her boot.
"Don't make me shoot you, Morgan!" he hissed, his voice a terrifying mix of duty and raw, bleeding betrayal.
Eve kicked back with a desperate force, her boot connecting with the hard plastic of his mask. The impact jarred him just enough for her to lose his grip. She vaulted onto the upper catwalk, her breathing coming in jagged, burning lunges.
She saw the exit—a heavy steel door leading to the roof access. She threw herself toward it, but behind her, the sound of Ghost’s heavy boots on the metal grate was closing in with impossible speed. He wasn't just chasing her; he was hunting her, cutting off her angles with mechanical precision.
The only sound was the metallic click of his safety being flicked off—a sound Eve knew better than her own heartbeat. She froze, her hand gripping the door handle, her back exposed. Ten feet away, Ghost had his sights settled exactly between her shoulder blades.
"Don't," he rasped.
It wasn't a command; it was a warning from a man who was fighting his own nature. His arms were steady, his grip perfect, and the "Ghost" behind the mask was screaming at him to eliminate the threat. Every second she stood there was a second he was failing his mission. His finger tightened on the trigger, taking up the slack, ready to put a round through her thigh to end the chase.
But the muscle wouldn't commit. He looked at the silhouette of her red hair against the steel door and he didn't see a traitor—he saw the only person who had reached for Simon Riley.
Eve didn't wait for him to find his resolve. She knew that silence was the sound of Ghost losing the battle with himself.
She threw the door open and vanished into the blinding rain of the night.
She tore across the roof, the wind whipping her red ponytail wildly. She reached the fire escape, sliding down the wet metal railings, her hands raw and stinging. She hit the alleyway floor, her boots splashing into the oily puddles. She was half a second from the perimeter—nearly free—when the screech of tires drowned out the storm.
A black SUV drifted into the alley, its headlights blinding her. Two men in unmarked tactical gear exploded from the side doors. Eve fought like a cornered animal, her movements a blur of desperate strikes and tactical counters, but she was exhausted and outnumbered. As she turned to strike the first man, the second lunged from her blind spot.
A heavy rifle butt slammed into her temple with a sickening, wet crack.
The world shattered into darkness. They hauled her limp body into the vehicle, the door slamming shut just as Ghost vaulted over the fire escape railing and hit the pavement.
He reached the spot where she had fallen, his lungs burning. The alley was empty, save for the rain and the crushing weight of the silence. She was gone.
The atmosphere in the briefing room was suffocating. The file was pulled up on the main screen, glowing like a radioactive wound. Price, Soap, and Gaz stood in a grim semi-circle, staring at the data logs that showed Morgan's credentials being used to leak classified movement patterns.
"It’s all here," Gaz muttered, his voice hollow. "Access codes, bank transfers... it looks airtight."
"It looks too goddamn perfect," Soap snapped, pacing the floor. "You saw her in Milan. You saw her in the shipyard. You’re telling me that was all an act?"
The heavy security doors hissed open with a sharp hydraulic sigh. Kate Laswell strode into the room, her tactical tablet in hand and her expression pinched with a cold, professional urgency. She didn't head for the console; she walked straight to the center of the group, stopping just beneath the glow of the monitors.
"Listen up. We just intercepted a high-priority transmission from an Shadow Company splinter cell. They’ve moved a high-value prisoner to a black site in the Urals."
She paused, looking directly at Ghost. "It’s Thorne. They didn't kill her, which tells me they need her for something only she can provide—likely those biometric keys to the chemical hub."
Laswell tapped a command on her tablet, and a map of the Urals replaced the accusatory red file on the main screen. "I suspect they framed her to isolate her from us. They knew that if the 141 thought she was a traitor, you’d let her run straight into their hands without a fight. And that’s exactly what happened."
She looked around the room, her expression grim. "I still can't prove that file is a fake, and I can't confirm her innocence. For all I know, she could be working both sides and this is just a fallout between thieves. But I do know she’s being interrogated by the most brutal cell the Shadows have left, and based on that, she won't last forty-eight hours."
Ghost stood in the shadows of the room, his gloved hands trembling so violently he had to clench them into white-knuckled fists.
His mind was a scorched-earth battlefield. The image of his gun pressed against her jaw—the terror and bewilderment in her green eyes—replayed on a loop, shredding his composure. He had been a second away from pulling the trigger. He had looked at the woman who had seen his bare face and he had seen a target.
The betrayal he felt wasn't hers—it was his own. He had defaulted to the machine. He had let the Ghost kill Simon again, and in doing so, he had practically handed her to the enemy.
"Ghost?" Price’s voice was cautious, reaching into the dark corner where his Lieutenant stood.
Ghost didn't look at him. He finally stepped into the light, his mask looking more like a death sentence than a piece of gear. The dark hollows of his eyes burned with a terrifying, redirected malice.
"Forty-eight hours," Ghost rasped, his voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel and fire.
He didn't wait for an order.
"I'm going to the Urals. Alone if I have to."
The cell was a concrete tomb. Eve hung from the ceiling, the metal of the handcuffs biting deep into her wrists, her body barely supported by her aching knees. They had stripped her of her tactical gear and her weapons, leaving her vulnerable in the flickering overhead light. Her vibrant red hair was matted with blood, and her green eyes were clouded with pain and exhaustion.
The interrogator paced in front of her, his shadow dancing on the walls. His patience had finally evaporated. Without a word, he stepped forward and drove a combat knife deep into her side.
Eve let out a sharp, controlled cry of agony, her body convulsing as the steel tore through muscle. She gritted her teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a full scream, but her breathing came in ragged, desperate hitches.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door hissed open.
Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.
Three silenced shots cut through the air with surgical precision. The interrogator collapsed before he could even register the breach.
Morgan’s head hung low, her chin resting on her chest as the world tilted. She felt her wrists being freed, the sudden release of tension sending her body crashing downward. She didn't hit the cold floor; instead, she fell into a pair of massive, trembling arms. The impact against his chest sent a fresh jolt of agony through her side, but she didn't pull away.
She couldn't lift her head. She didn't need to. She knew the scent of woodsmoke and cold rain. She knew the corded muscle beneath her cheek. With her last shred of strength, she forced the words past a throat that tasted like copper.
“I'm not... I’m not a traitor... Simon.”
She felt his grip tighten—a desperate, crushing hold—just before the darkness took her.
Ghost pulled her closer, his large hands bracketing her body as if he could physically shield her from the pain he had helped cause. The sight of her—bloodied, broken, and pale—hit him with the force of an improvised explosive device.
Two weeks later. The air in the underground shooting range was cold and tasted of lead. Eve stood at her lane, her movements stiff, her side still taped under her black compression shirt. She had spent the last ten days in small, windowless rooms, being grilled by internal affairs and intelligence officers who looked at her like she was a stain on the uniform.
The door behind her opened. She didn't turn. The heavy, rhythmic thud of boots told her everything she needed to know.
Ghost stepped into the lane next to her. He didn't speak. He just laid a rugged, encrypted data drive on the bench between them.
"Laswell verified the metadata I pulled from the source. It was a mirror-leak from a Shadow cell. You’ve been cleared by Command. Your record is clean."
Eve stopped firing. She didn't look at the drive. She didn't look at him. She just stared at the shredded paper target ten meters away.
"Cleared by Command," she repeated, her Manchester accent low and sharp, dripping with a cold, concentrated bitterness. "How lovely for me."
She finally turned her head. Her green eyes were freezing, devoid of the mischief or the heat they usually held. She looked at the white skull of his mask, but she was looking straight through it into his eyes.
"Did you need Laswell to hand you a goddamn file to know who I am? Did you need a digital signature to confirm that the woman who bled for this team wasn't a fuckin' traitor?"
Ghost’s posture stiffened. He didn't defend himself. He couldn't. He stood there, his massive frame feeling suddenly hollow, anchored to the floor by the sheer, cold weight of her stare.
She just looked at him—a long, agonizing stare that said everything she was holding back. Her eyes traced the lines of his mask with a look of profound, quiet disappointment. It was the look of someone who had trusted a man with her life, only to find a machine standing in his place.
She didn't wait for him to respond. She didn't want his apologies or his explanations. Eve reached out, snatched the drive from the bench, and shoved it into her pocket.
She holstered her weapon with a violent clack and left him standing there in the cold, gray silence of the range.
♤♡◇♧
The humid air of the Cambodian jungle felt like a physical weight against their skin. They were deep in the red zone, miles from any extraction point, moving through the ruins of an ancient temple complex.
Ghost led the way, his eyes scanning the dense foliage. He was focused, tactical—the machine once again. Eve followed a few paces behind, her silence a wall of ice that had stood between them since the day in the shooting range.
A flash of sunlight off a barrel in the high stone ruins caught her eye.
"Ghost!"
Before he could react, Eve lunged. She collided with him, her shoulder driving into his chest with enough force to throw his massive frame out of the line of fire.
CRACK.
The high-caliber round tore through the air where Ghost’s head had been a millisecond before. Instead, it found Eve. The impact spun her around, the bullet shredding through the meat of her upper arm. She hit the dirt hard, a sharp gasp escaping her teeth.
Ghost hit the ground, stunned. For a heartbeat, he was frozen, his mind unable to process the sight of her falling for him.
Eve didn't wait. Fueled by a raw, jagged surge of adrenaline, she rolled onto her stomach, unholster her sidearm and fired a single, lethal burst toward the ruins. The sniper tumbled from the stone ledge, dead before he hit the ground.
Silence returned to the jungle, heavy and suffocating.
Eve didn't wait for him to process what happened. She ignored the blood running down her arm, her eyes burning with a mix of adrenaline and pure, unadulterated spite. She stood up, snatched her rifle, and kept moving.
They found a hollowed-out wooden house on the edge of a forgotten village. The trek had been hours of agonizing silence. Ghost watched the back of her head, his eyes fixed on the red stain spreading down her arm. He wanted to speak, to reach out, but the cold aura radiating from her kept him paralyzed.
Inside the house, the air was stale and hot. Eve didn't look at him as they crossed the threshold. She began stripping her gear with violent, jerky movements. Her tactical vest hit the floor with a heavy thud, followed by her jacket, until she was standing in only a black tank top.
She reached for the medkit, her movements clumsy. Her hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the massive adrenaline crash and the sheer, boiling frustration she’d been carrying for weeks. She tried to pour antiseptic over the wound, but the bottle rattled against her skin, the liquid spilling uselessly down her arm.
Ghost stood in the shadows, watching her. He felt like he was drowning. The sight of her blood—spilled for him, after everything he had done—was a knife in his gut.
He moved.
Eve felt his presence before she saw him. She didn't pull away, but as he stepped into her space, she pointedly turned her head, staring at the peeling wooden wall.
Ghost didn't say a word. He reached up and pulled off his tactical gloves, dropping them on a crate. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached for the hem of his mask and pulled it over his head.
He didn't want to be the Lieutenant. He couldn't be the Ghost. Not right now.
He stepped closer, his bare, scarred hands reaching for her arm. Eve remained frozen, her gaze fixed on the wall, her breathing shallow and jagged. Simon was infinitely delicate. He cleaned the wound with a tenderness that felt like a plea for forgiveness. He stitched the deep gash and wrapped it in clean white gauze, his fingers lingering on her skin as if he were afraid she would vanish if he let go.
He finished, but he didn't retreat. He stayed right there, his chest inches from hers, the heat of his body radiating through the humid air.
"Why, Eve?" He didn't look up. "I gave you every reason to let me fall."
Eve didn't move for a second. Then, her head tilted, and she snapped her gaze toward him. Her green eyes were swimming with tears that she refused to let fall—tears of rage, of hurt, of exhausted love.
"Because I’m the only one who gives a fuck!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "I was on your side even when you had that gun to my throat. That’s my curse, Simon. Not yours."
He didn't answer with words. He grabbed her face with both hands, his thumbs catching the edge of her jaw, and crashed his lips onto hers.
It was a collision of pure, unadulterated passion and desperate hunger. It was an open-mouthed, messy, starving kiss, their tongues tangling as the weeks of silence and doubt burned away in an instant. Eve let out a soft, broken sound and reached out, her fingers fisting into his tactical vest, hauling him closer until there wasn't a breath of air between them. She kissed him back with the same ferocity, her teeth grazing his lip, her soul pouring into him as they finally, violently, found their way back to each other.
The abandoned house was a sweltering cage of heat and shadows. Outside, the jungle hummed with a primal energy that matched the intensity inside the room.
Eve lay on the worn floorboards, her body completely bare, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat that shimmered in the low light. Simon was a mountain of muscle above her, his combat shirt discarded, his tactical trousers unbuttoned and hanging low on his hips as he moved within her.
Eve’s knees were flexed deep against her ribs, her thighs acting as a vice, pinning Simon’s powerful frame against her. She had her arms wrapped tightly around his shoulders and the nape of his neck, pulling him down, needing to feel every inch of his weight.
Simon’s chest was pressed hard against her breasts, their heartbeats slamming together in a frantic, uneven rhythm. He had one arm braced against the floor for leverage, while the other was hooked behind her neck, his hand tangling in the damp, red silk of her hair. His knees were tucked beneath hers, anchoring him as he drove into her with a rhythmic, heavy persistence.
With every deep, masterful thrust, his dark eyes remained locked on hers, searching her soul in a way he never could with the mask on. He was fascinated by her, captivated by the way her features softened and broke under his touch.
Eve’s eyes were half-closed, hooded with a hazy, drug-like pleasure. With every impact of his body against hers, she emitted soft, airy moans. She wasn't fighting him anymore; she was surrendering, her body arching to meet him, her fingers digging into the corded muscle of his back.
Simon’s breathing was labored, a jagged symphony of exertion. Between their locked gazes, he let out low, guttural growls directly into her mouth—sounds of pure, unadulterated possession and relief. This wasn't just a release of physical tension; it was a total surrender of the Ghost. In the sweltering heat of that forgotten house, there were no lies, no files, and no doubt—only the raw, pulsing reality of two soldiers finally finding peace in the middle of a war.
Ghost’s thrusts became more relentless, driven by the sharp, desperate moans that Eve let out with every impact. His pace was guided by her reactions; he chased the sound of her pleasure, his body snapping forward with a heavy, rhythmic force that made the old wooden floorboards groan beneath them.
Simon buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her scent and the iron tang of the jungle, his teeth grazing her skin in a silent, primal claim. He was no longer a soldier following an objective; he was a man losing himself in the only person who made him feel alive.
The friction of their skin—slick, hot, and inseparable—and the raw power of his movements pushed them both toward a breaking point. Simon’s hand, still hooked behind her head, tightened its grip, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw as he watched the exact moment her control began to shatter.
As they neared the edge, Eve’s body arched violently, her spine curving off the floor as she sought to bring him even deeper. Her fingers dug deep into the scarred muscle of his shoulders, her nails leaving white marks against his skin. She reached the peak first, a long, broken moan spilling directly into his mouth as her internal muscles clamped around him in a series of rhythmic, exquisite tremors.
The sound, and the sheer, crushing honesty of her surrender, was Ghost’s undoing. He let out a final, deep growl that was more a vibration of pure, sensual relief than a sound—a noise that originated from somewhere deep in his chest. His body tensed, every muscle coiling tight as he followed her into the abyss, pouring himself into her with a final, devastating surge.
He collapsed against her, his weight heavy and grounding, pinning her into the floorboards as the last of the frantic energy finally spent itself. For several long minutes, the only sound in the house was the ragged, synchronized rhythm of their breathing. Simon kept his face hidden in her hair, his arms wrapped around her with a fierce, trembling possessiveness, finally at peace in the absolute surrender of the woman in his arms.
♤♡◇♧
The heavy steel door of the safehouse slammed shut with a violent, metallic crash that echoed through the hollow apartment. Eve was vibrating with a jagged, white-hot fury, her chest heaving as she tore off her tactical gloves and hurled them against the wall. With shaky, aggressive fingers, she unbuckled her tactical vest, letting the heavy plates thud onto the floor with a dull, final weight.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" she screamed, spinning around to face him. Her green eyes were blown wide, emerald fire cutting through the dim light. "I don’t need a shadow, Simon! And I sure as fuck don’t need a bodyguard treating me like some goddamn rookie in the middle of a hot zone!"
Simon was already in the process of stripping his own gear. He ripped his gloves off first, his hands pausing only briefly on the buckles of his vest as his massive frame radiated a cold, suffocating pressure. He had reached the limit of his patience miles ago, somewhere between the extraction and the silent, tension-filled drive.
"You were overextended, Thorne," he rasped, finally ripping his vest free and casting it aside. The heavy gear hit the floorboards as his voice dropped into a low, dangerous vibration that warned her to stop. "You were reckless."
"I was doing my job!" she spat, stepping into his space, her chin tilted up in defiance. "Stay out of my lane."
Ghost moved with predatory speed. In one fluid motion, he reached out and caught her throat. His grip wasn't meant to choke, but to dominate—a massive hand pinning her in place to force her silence. Eve didn't flinch. Instead, she let out a snarl of pure spite, her arm snapping up to break his grip with a practiced, brutal twist. Before he could reset, she brought her hand across his mask in a sharp, stinging crack. The slap echoed in the quiet room.
For a heartbeat, the air turned to ice. Ghost didn't move, his head barely tilted from the blow. Then, he let out a low, guttural sound—breath catching in a throat tight with a sudden, dark heat. He lunged again, his hand finding her neck once more, but this time he didn't just hold her. He drove her backward, his boots rhythmic and heavy against the floorboards as he forced her toward the wall.
Eve’s breath hitched. She looked up at him, her defiance flickering for a second as she saw the sheer intensity in his gaze. He slammed her back against the brick wall, his body a wall of solid muscle pinning her into the masonry. Eve tried to buck against him, her hands clawing at his forearms, but it was like trying to move a mountain.
"Enough..." Simon growled directly into her face. His pupils were blown out, his breathing as jagged and heavy as hers. The friction of her struggling against him was sending a jolt of raw, agonizing electricity straight to his gut.
Simon could feel her pulse hammering against his palm. She didn't back down; a dark, reckless smirk pulled at her lip "Or fuckin' what?"
With a desperate surge of strength, she twisted her hip and shoved her palms into his chest, managing to slip under his arm. She bolted for the hallway, needing the distance, needing to breathe. She didn't make it three steps. Simon reached out, his hand hooking firmly around her waist. He didn't pull her back—he simply hoisted her up. In one effortless move, he threw her over his massive shoulder like a piece of gear.
"Let me down! Put me the fuck down, Simon!" Eve shouted, her fists drumming a frantic rhythm against his back. She kicked her legs, her boots thudding against his chest, but he didn't even grunt.
"You’re a fuckin’ menace, Thorne" he rasped, his voice vibrating through her entire body.
He marched into the bedroom and tossed her onto the mattress. Eve scrambled to sit up, her hair a wild halo of red, but he was faster. He climbed over her, his weight pinning her flat against the sheets. He grabbed her wrists, pinning them above her head, and flipped her onto her stomach in one masterful move. Eve gasped as she felt the full, crushing weight of him settle over her back. The air left her lungs as he pressed her into the mattress, and then she felt it—the unmistakable, rigid heat of him slamming against her ass through the layers of their combat trousers.
Simon dragged his knee across the mattress, hooking it behind hers and forcing her legs wide. The movement hitched her hips up, grinding her directly into his hardness. Eve let out a low, involuntary moan into the pillow, her body betraying her with a sudden, treacherous ache.
"Is this what you wanted, Morgan?" Simon hissed into her ear, his breath hot and ragged.
He kept his weight heavy on her, his chest a furnace against her spine. He released her wrists long enough to slide his hand down, reaching for the fastening of her trousers. He didn't hesitate; he shoved his hand inside, his bare fingers diving through the silk of her underwear until they found her. She was slick, her body already weeping for him despite the rage still humming in her veins.
"Fuck..." Eve whispered into the sheets, her fingers clawing at the fabric, bunching the linen into tight, white-knuckled fists. The sensation of his fingers exploring her, combined with the rhythmic pressure of his hips grinding into her ass, was overwhelming.
Simon’s breath was a jagged symphony in her ear. He gripped her neck again, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw, forcing her chin up until she was looking at the dark shadows of the room.
"Ask me," he commanded, his voice a low, terrifying rasp. He increased the friction of his hips, his fingers working her with a steady, punishing rhythm. "Ask me to fuck you."
Eve buried her face back into the mattress, a sob of frustration and need breaking in her throat. She tried to shake her head, but his grip on her neck tightened—firm, possessive, and unyielding.
"Say it, Morgan. Ask me."
The dam finally broke. She couldn't breathe, couldn't think beyond the fire he was starting between her legs.
"Fuck me, Simon..." she choked out, her voice a broken, desperate velvet. "Please... just fuck me."
"Good girl," Simon growled, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.
He moved with mechanical precision. He lunged back, his weight leaving her for a split second. In that heartbeat, he flipped her onto her back, his large hands catching her ankles. He yanked her tactical boots off, casting them aside with a heavy thud, before unfastening her trousers and stripping them down her legs in one powerful, decisive motion.
Eve didn't wait. Her own hands were moving just as fast, pulling her shirt over her head and throwing it into the shadows, her breathing coming in sharp, jagged lunges as her bare skin met the cool air of the room.
He ripped his mask over his head, casting it aside, and launched himself into her space. He caught her legs, hooking them under her knees and driving them upward, folding her body until her thighs were pressed tight against her chest. He dove between her legs, his head disappearing into the junction of her thighs. The first contact of his mouth was brutal—an intense, starving heat that made Eve’s entire world shatter into white light. He began to devour her, his tongue and lips moving with a primal, rhythmic ferocity that bypassed any sense of gentleness.
Simon hoisted her hips higher, settling her calves over his broad shoulders to gain better purchase. He dug his fingers into the soft meat of her inner thighs, his grip bruisingly firm as he hauled her even closer to his face.
"Simon—! God!" Eve cried out, her voice a broken, high-pitched rasp that echoed off the ceiling. She was drowning in it. Her back arched off the mattress, her spine curving into a bow as she fought for breath. Her fingers sought purchase, finding the short, damp hair at the nape of his neck and tangling deep within the strands, pulling him closer. Her moans turned into loud, uninhibited pleas, her hips stuttering in a frantic search for the peak. Simon didn't slow down; he only intensified the assault until she reached the peak, trembling violently under the force of her climax.
The waves of Eve’s first climax were still crashing over her, leaving her muscles twitching and her skin hypersensitive, but Simon wasn't finished. He pulled back abruptly, stripped his combat shirt over his head, and discarded it in the dark, then moved with a mechanical, frantic speed to free himself from his trousers.
He climbed back onto the mattress, and while Eve still trembled from the aftershocks, he quickly flipped her over onto her stomach again. His knees drove around her legs, trapping her in place. Before she could even catch her breath, he reached down, hooking his hands under her hip bones and hauling her upward. Eve was left pinned in a vulnerable arch—her breasts and forearms pressed deep into the mattress, her hips elevated and exposed to him.
Without a second of warning, he drove into her.
The impact was brutal, a sheer force of nature that made the headboard slam against the wall. Eve’s vision blurred as he buried himself deep inside her, the sensation colliding with the tail end of her first orgasm. He didn't give her time to adjust; he clamped his hands onto her waist, his fingers digging into her skin like iron talons, and established a rhythm that was agonizingly intense.
"Simon—!" Eve’s scream was cut short as she shoved her face into the sheets to stifle the sound.
The room was filled with the rhythmic, heavy thud of his body against hers. Every thrust was a powerhouse of muscle and intent. Simon was a mountain of heat behind her, his breathing turning into a jagged, guttural symphony of exertion.
"Bloody hell..." he managed to rasp out, the words sounding like they were being dragged through fire and gravel.
He stayed focused, his movements unrelenting as he chased her next peak. The friction and the raw power of his pace pushed Eve over the edge for a second time. Her body tightened, her internal muscles clamping around him as a second, even more violent wave of pleasure shattered through her. Simon felt the change, his own control snapping as he let out a final, primal sound of relief, spilling into her with a devastating force.
The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the frantic, labored sound of their breathing. Simon collapsed forward for a second before rolling to his side, taking Eve with him. He didn't let her go; he wrapped a massive arm around her waist, hauling her back against his chest in a crushing, possessive hold.
They lay there in the dark, slick with sweat and shaking with the aftershocks of the collision. Eve was in a trance, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs, her body molding perfectly into the hard curves of his frame. Finally, she managed to suck enough air into her lungs to speak, her voice a low, raspy velvet of pure satisfaction.
"Fuck, Simon..." she whispered, her eyes closed. "You're a goddamn animal."
Simon didn't move. He kept his face buried in the damp, red silk of her hair, his chest heaving against her back. He tightened his grip on her, pulling her so close there wasn't a breath of air between them.
Breathless, he whispered into her ear, his voice still a ragged, uneven vibration. "You're a fuckin' nightmare, Thorne... and I'm never waking up."
