its only mildly concerning @the-nasti-files - Tumblr Blog

Jul 14

A Fever You Can't Sweat Out (Ghost, COD)

i dont really want to put this on my bucky blog and i am not sure if it is worth continuing, so here we are.

Knight!Ghost x Fem!OC - some light a/b/o- 14K

tw/cw: mild descriptions of blood

there is zero smut in this becasue its more or less just an overly long concept. i keep coming back to it and just don't know. i haven't written anything that i liked enough for COD characters but i read a monster hunter ghost drabble and its just been nagging me.

so tell me, Ghost fans: do i keep plugging away with this? do i give her a tenscendent fucking? i have such a bad habit of starting a little thing and then it turns into an over 100k behemoth that I still haven't finished (fucking sue me!)

so here it is. LMK. k thx bye!

Ghost had felt eyes on him since the battle began, a persistent awareness lingering at the edge of his senses even as he'd focused on bringing the creature down. As the monster staggered and bled out behind him, he turned toward the dark treeline, eyes sweeping through the shadows.

"Show yourself."

Silence answered him. Moments earlier, birds had called from the canopy and unseen creatures had rustled through the undergrowth, but now the woods felt unnaturally still, as though every living thing had fled from something far more dangerous than the dying monster at his feet. Then a bush shifted.

Ghost's attention snapped toward the movement, and he advanced cautiously, greatsword raised. As he drew nearer, something else emerged from the damp woodland air.

Omega.

The scent was faint but unmistakable, carrying traces of sweetness that stood in stark contrast to the copper tang of blood lingering around the clearing. His eyes narrowed behind the mask. An omega scent alone wasn't a threat, but years of hunting had taught him that appearances often concealed far more than they revealed.

"I know you’re there. It's not safe for an omega to be out here, so show yourself."

The command lingered in the silence for several heartbeats before the brush finally parted.

A woman stepped forward cautiously, her round cheeks flushed pink with nerves. The hood of her cloak had slipped back enough to reveal a crown of unruly dark hair hastily pulled back. Wide green eyes flicked between Ghost's imposing figure and the bleeding carcass behind him while her fingers twisted anxiously, betraying just how out of place she was among bloodshed and monsters. The scent surrounding her strengthened with proximity, warm vanilla and honey wrapped around a sharper note born of fear.

"I-I didn't mean to startle you," she stammered before swallowing hard. "You're... Ghost, aren't you? The one who hunts these things?" Her gaze flickered toward the slain beast. "...Thank you."

He regarded her in silence. Up close, she looked even softer than her scent had suggested, all rosy cheeks and stubborn curls escaping the confines of the ribbon trying to hold them back. There was nothing hardened or dangerous about her, nothing that belonged among blood, steel, and creatures that could tear a person apart in seconds. What struck him most, however, was the fear she made no effort to hide. It lingered in her wide eyes and rigid posture, woven so thoroughly through her scent that it was impossible to miss.

He scoffed softly. "Yes, I am. And yes, I hunt these beasts."

The words emerged flat and matter-of-fact as he continued his assessment, searching for some sign that she might be concealing a weapon or a trap. He found nothing. Only a nervous omega who looked as though a strong gust of wind might carry her away. "You shouldn't be here." He inclined his head toward the corpse. "This forest is no place for omegas who can't defend themselves."

The statement carried no cruelty. It was simply a fact. A breeze drifted between them, carrying her scent once more, and something inside him tightened in response. That deep ache of needing to protect and the realization irritated him immediately. He had no reason to care what happened to a stranger, especially one reckless enough to wander through monster-infested woods alone. "Go home."

Her fingers twisted into her shawl, knuckles going white with the force of her anxiety even as she recognized the authority in his voice immediately. Her gaze dropped toward the forest floor, shoulders drawing inward as conflicting instincts warred inside her. "I... I can't."

Ghost's brow furrowed beneath the mask. "Can't?" His voice rumbled through the quiet clearing. "Why."

The single word landed more as a demand than a question.

Her words spilled out in a rush, voice shaking as though it could barely keep pace with what she was admitting. "I... I was kicked out. My family—" Her breath caught sharply, and she swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the hem of her cloak as if it might anchor her. "I was... assaulted," she whispered, the confession breaking under the weight of shame and pain. "My family blamed me."

Ghost went completely still.

Leather creaked under pressure as his hands involuntarily tightened around his sword,the only sign of a reaction as the air between them thickened with something far heavier than silence. It was not directed at her, but at the injustice clinging to her words like old blood dried into cloth, stubborn and undeniable. "...And they cast you out for it?" His voice dropped into something dangerously quiet.

The scent around her sharpened, distress threading through the sweetness as it spilled off her in waves. Ghost exhaled slowly through his nose before, with a decisive click of metal, he sheathed his greatsword across his back. The motion was final, controlled, like a judgment already reached. "Then they're cowards," he said flatly, stepping forward just enough to close distance without looming, the instinct for restraint at odds with the tension still coiled in his frame. "...And fools."

A beat passed before his voice hardened again. "You'll come with me." It was not offered as comfort or choice but as fact, carved from stubborn certainty rather than pity. "It's safer than wandering alone."

Her head snapped up at that, disbelief breaking through her exhaustion. "I can't possibly impose on you like that. I'll keep making my way."

A scoff escaped him. "Hardly an imposition." His eyes narrowed slightly, studying her in a way that felt less like scrutiny and more like calculation layered over reluctant concern. Something in her refusal sparked a flicker of respect beneath his earlier irritation, an unwanted complication settling beneath his armor. "This land is no place for an omega on their own. You'll be dead before you reach the next village. Beasts aren’t the only things that roam these woods."

Another breeze moved through the trees, carrying her scent back toward him, and the shift in it was unmistakable. The burn of fear, the edge of exhaustion, and now the fragile thread of something that nearly resembled trust. His muscles tightened in response, instinct answering before thought could intervene, alpha awareness pressing at the edges of restraint.

"You're already half-starved, and it's been raining for weeks," he continued, voice roughening slightly as practicality overtook argument. "You'll find no shelter, and with the recent raids, you're more dangerous to yourself than most of the wildlife."

He took another step forward, close enough now that his shadow cut cleanly across her smaller frame, broad shoulders eclipsing what little light filtered through the canopy. There was a quiet, unspoken satisfaction in the way she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze, though it never reached anything like acknowledgment. "You're coming with me, omega." This time, the authority in his voice left no space for resistance.

She stood frozen beneath his presence, caught between fear and the undeniable truth threaded through his words. For a moment longer she held herself together through sheer instinct alone, but exhaustion had begun to win its quiet war against her body, pulling her shoulders down and softening the edges of her resistance until it finally gave way. "Alright," she murmured at last, the surrender small but real.

Ghost regarded her for a brief pause, as though confirming something only he could see, before the simplicity of the moment seemed to settle into place between them. "Your name?"

The question landed with an almost disorienting mundanity, so ordinary compared to everything else he had just done, and it took her a heartbeat to process it. "Destri," she answered softly.

He gave a slight nod, as if filing the name away somewhere deliberate and permanent, tucking it alongside the image of the small, trembling woman standing before him in the forest.

"That's a good girl," he muttered, the words slipping out as though they were nothing more than acknowledgment rather than approval, before he moved without hesitation to tug his cloak from his shoulders. In a single controlled motion, he fastened it around her, the heavy fabric swallowing her smaller frame and pooling at her feet as she looked up at him in quiet surprise.

Destri’s head swam at the sudden shift, not just from the weight of the cloak but from what clung to it. His scent wrapped around her immediately, metal and leather layered over something deeper, something instinctive and grounding she couldn’t quite name. It settled the chaos in her system, smoothing the raw edges of fear until it softened into something quieter, almost soothed.

She pulled the cloak closer, burying her face in the warmth of it as if drawn there without thinking. It shouldn’t have felt so… safe. "Thank you," she whispered.

Ghost watched her for a moment longer, his expression unreadable behind the mask, though something subtle shifted in the weight of his attention when she pressed into the fabric. "...Stay close," he finally grunted, turning sharply and beginning to lead the way.

His stride was purposeful but adjusted unconsciously to match her smaller pace as though the decision had already been made without his permission. The forest felt less suffocating with him moving through it, clearing a path with quiet precision, sword still within reach even if no longer drawn.

When a branch snapped somewhere in the undergrowth, his hand moved instantly, not grabbing her but hovering near her shoulder like a shield that had not yet decided whether it needed to exist. She noticed the gesture before she noticed the sound.

"Cinnamon," she murmured.

Ghost’s head turned slightly, just enough to register surprise. He had noticed the shift in her breathing, the subtle change in how she seemed to steady herself as his scent settled over her, but hearing it named aloud pulled something faintly uncertain through him. "Cinnamon?" he repeated, tone flat but edged with curiosity.

"Cinnamon," she confirmed softly, her gaze unfocused for a moment as if trying to map the sensation into words. "Your scent. Winter woods and campfire smoke, and cinnamon."

His steps slowed, then stopped entirely. For a long moment he simply looked at her, mask concealing everything except the weight of attention that settled heavily between them.

"...You shouldn’t be able to pick that up," he muttered more to himself than to her, the words slipping out on instinct as his attention sharpened. His scent glands were buried beneath layers of armor and leather, sealed away from the world, and no ordinary omega should have been able to sense more than faint residue through all of that unless something far more dangerous was at play.

Unless there was compatibility.

The thought settled in him like a stone dropped into still water, sending ripples of irritation and something less defined through his control.

Without giving it further space to grow, he turned sharply and resumed walking, his pace quicker now but still deliberately adjusted so she could keep up. "Keep walking."

A distracted hum answered him, soft and unfocused, and Ghost immediately noticed the shift that followed. Her breathing started to change, becoming slower and deeper in a way that was no longer just fatigue or fear but something more intentional, more attuned. His jaw tightened beneath the mask. He knew exactly what that meant.

Bloody hell.

The thought was barely contained before something low built in his chest, not quite a growl and not quite restraint, and he stopped again, turning fully to face her. "You’re going to get us both killed," he warned, voice a low rumble that carried weight without rising in volume. He stood over her smaller frame, still maintaining a careful distance, though the restraint itself felt increasingly deliberate. "Focus."

She blinked up at him slowly, cheeks warming under his attention. "Sorry," she squeaked.

That sound, paired with the faint flush in her expression and the way her voice wavered, snapped something taut inside him. In a blur of movement he closed the distance between them, one hand coming up to grip her jaw firmly, not enough to hurt but enough to force her gaze upward and hold it there.

"Are you trying to attract every unmated alpha within ten miles, little omega?" he growled, eyes narrowing behind the mask. "I thought you had at least half a brain. Not enough to get yourself claimed out here."

A shiver ran through her at the contact, instinct answering instinct, her body reacting before thought could intervene. She didn’t pull away. If anything, her scent shifted again, softening at the edges, warmth threading through the honey and cream as submission brushed closer to the surface.

"I... I didn't mean to," she whispered, breath uneven, the words barely steady.

Something in the way she accepted the hold rather than resisting it made his control fracture further. Her scent deepened, sweetening in response to proximity alone, and the primal edge of it struck harder than he liked to admit.

His hand dropped from her jaw only to replace it at her hip, pulling her forward until there was no meaningful space left between them. The shift was immediate, overwhelming, her smaller frame pressed against the solid line of his armor as he leaned down, his breath warm against the edge of her ear.

"You're scent-drunk," he rumbled, the words roughened into something closer to warning than observation. "On me. And you're going to send yourself straight into heat if you keep this up."

Destri gasped softly as the closeness swallowed her thoughts, her fingers curling into the front of his armor as if anchoring herself there was the only stable thing left in reach. She was scent-drunk. There was no denying it now, not with the way her body leaned into his without permission.

"I... I can't help it," she whispered, voice trembling as she tried and failed to steady herself.

The way she melted into him, fingers fisting into steel and leather as though she belonged there, sent something feral snapping through his restraint. For a heartbeat he looked as though he might act on it, the instinct sharp and undeniable, before he forced it down with visible effort. His grip tightened at her hip, then abruptly released her as he shoved her back just enough to create space between them.

He moved immediately after, reaching for his waterskin and pouring a handful of cold water into his palm before splashing it directly into her face without hesitation.

Destri gasped, the shock of it breaking through the haze at once as icy water ran down her cheeks and into her collar. She shook her head sharply, droplets scattering into the air as she blinked rapidly, disoriented but more present than moments before. Her breathing steadied, even as frustration crept in to replace the fog.

"You—you just—why the hell did you do that?!" she sputtered, swiping at wet strands clinging to her face.

Ghost looked down at her, dripping and furious and lucid again in a way that satisfied none of his tension, and answered with absolute bluntness. "Because you were two seconds away from dropping to your knees and begging me to fuck you."

His jaw tensed almost painfully before he growled low in his chest.

"Walk."

The rest of the journey passed in heavy silence. Ghost kept distance between them, forcing his attention onto the path ahead rather than the lingering sweetness of her scent or the way damp curls clung to her flushed skin. Eventually, the forest began to thin, and a small cabin came into view at the edge of a clearing, sturdy and unassuming, a place he used when the world became inconveniently complicated.

"Here," he muttered, shoving the door open with more force than necessary before stepping aside to let her enter first, still careful not to let even the edge of his armor brush against her. "You’ll stay until you can control yourself."

Destri flushed at that, heat rising in her cheeks at the implication even as she knew he was right. Her instincts had been too close to the surface for comfort, omega responses still tangled and reactive after simple proximity to a dominant presence that made thinking feel like wading through water. Still, she nodded and stepped inside.

The cabin was simple but lived-in, warmed by a crackling fire in the hearth and softened by the presence of worn furniture and careful order. A bed sat in one corner, a table near the center, everything else functional rather than decorative. Ghost followed her in after a moment, closing the door behind them with a heavy thump that seemed to seal the outside world away entirely. His presence filled the space immediately, making the interior feel smaller than it was, and Destri had to consciously steady her breathing as she tried not to react to the lingering weight of his scent in the air.

"I can cook," she offered after a moment, watching as he began stripping pieces of armor and stacking them with practiced efficiency beside a bucket of water. "And if you have wire, I can set rabbit snares."

Ghost paused mid-motion, glancing toward her as he unlaced his chestplate. Now that the worst of the haze had passed, her expression was clearer, more grounded, the flush in her cheeks fading into something steadier. Satisfied with that, he gave a low grunt of acknowledgment. "You know how to snare, huh?" The question carried no disbelief, only a measured interest as he continued removing his armor piece by piece.

He tilted his head toward a rack near the door where weapons were hung in careful order. "Wire’s on the rack. Basket’s in the corner."

Destri nodded and moved to gather what she needed, slipping back out into the cooling air. The forest felt sharper without his immediate presence behind her, the silence less oppressive but more aware, as though the world itself had exhaled. She worked quickly, setting traps with practiced hands, scavenging what she could from the undergrowth—mushrooms, wild parsnips, anything that might stretch a meal further—before making her way back as the light began to shift.

Inside, Ghost had finished removing his armor and was inspecting it for wear when she returned. His eyes flicked toward her immediately, taking in the basket in her hands, the steadier set of her shoulders, the absence of that earlier dazed edge in her expression. He grunted once in acknowledgment and crossed the room to take the basket from her, setting it on the table without ceremony.

"Anything in the traps yet?" The question was clipped, efficient, but there was something beneath it that lingered just slightly longer than necessity. Not quite curiosity, not quite approval. Something closer to attention that had chosen a direction.

"Not yet," she replied, hesitating only briefly before adding, "but I'll check them again shortly. Um… if I can look through what you have, I can start dinner? If that's okay with you."

Ghost watched her for a moment, noting the way her gaze flickered away from his, the faint return of nervousness now tempered by purpose rather than overwhelm. He gave a short nod and gestured toward a small pantry along the wall. "Help yourself."

Without further comment, he returned to the table and resumed cleaning his gear with slow, methodical precision, each piece laid out with almost ritual care.

Destri moved to the pantry, and as she worked she couldn’t entirely stop herself from noticing him in her periphery. Now partially out of his armor, the sheer bulk of him was more evident even beneath linen and leather. His scent in the room still lingered faintly, though no longer overwhelming, settling instead into something that threaded quietly through the space as she focused on preparing a simple stew over the fire.

Ghost, in turn, observed her in brief intervals between maintenance. The way she handled the knife with practiced ease when preparing vegetables drew a faint, almost imperceptible shift of approval from him before he returned to sharpening his greatsword with steady strokes. Neither of them spoke much, yet the silence between them no longer felt empty. It had weight now, presence, something unsettled but no longer unfamiliar.

A faint rustle outside broke it.

Ghost’s attention snapped toward the sound, body instinctively tightening as he registered the sharp snap of a trap line. He straightened, hand drifting toward the dagger at his belt before pausing as recognition settled in.

He tilted his head slightly toward the door. "One of yours."

The words were blunt, but something in his tone carried a restrained edge of approval.

Destri’s face brightened before she could fully contain it, hands quickly wiping on her tunic as she moved toward the door, only to hesitate and glance back at him uncertainly.

Ghost exhaled through his nose and pushed away from the table, striding past her without touching her, deliberately keeping his path angled to avoid contact. "Stay here," he muttered. "I’ll get it."

He returned moments later with a plump rabbit hanging from his grip, its body still and heavy, its neck cleanly broken. "A good one," he rumbled, setting it on the table and reaching for a fresh knife.

"I can butcher it," she offered quickly, stepping closer again as if pulled by usefulness more than hesitation. "Clean the hide, prepare the fur… a couple other things. I-if that's okay with you."

Ghost studied her for a long moment, his attention steady and unreadable as it settled on her hands, her posture, the quiet insistence beneath her words that she could contribute, that she should.

Eventually, Ghost slid the blade across the table toward her, handle-first. "Do it clean," he ordered, though the sharp edge usually present in his voice had dulled into something more measured.

Destri took it without hesitation and set to work.

Ghost leaned back against the wall, arms crossed as he watched, posture loose but alert in the way of someone who never fully stopped assessing a room. The silence between them settled into something different now, no longer hostile or uncertain, but charged in a quieter way, like the stillness before a storm that had not yet decided whether it would break.

When she skinned the rabbit in one smooth, efficient motion, his nostrils flared almost imperceptibly, instinct reacting before thought could intervene. Competence, he noted. Unexpected but precise.

"What exactly are you going to do besides use the meat and fur?" he asked.

She didn’t look up from her work as she answered, voice steady despite the task. "The larger bones can be made into needles and other small tools. Other bones go into stock. The brain can be used to tan the hide, and the guts for sausage. Blood would go to the garden if you had one."

Ghost’s brow lifted slightly beneath his mask. His arms stayed crossed, but something in his stance shifted, loosening by degrees as genuine surprise threaded through his evaluation. He stepped closer without fully thinking about it, gaze dropping to follow her hands as she worked with careful efficiency, wasting nothing.

"...You've done this before," he observed, voice low and certain rather than inquisitive.

Destri nodded absently, still focused on the careful separation of sinew and flesh. "My grandmother taught me. We couldn’t afford to let anything go to waste."

A low grunt of approval left him before he seemed to make a decision of his own, reaching past her to take another knife from the table and settling beside her rather than behind her. "Show me."

For once, there was no edge to it. Only intent.

Destri paused, glancing at him sidelong as if checking whether the request was real, but he was already focused on the carcass between them rather than her reaction. The proximity tightened the space around them, his presence close enough that she had to consciously steady herself before continuing.

"This is where you split the hide," she said, resuming her demonstration.

Ghost watched in silence, attention fixed on every movement as though cataloguing it. He did not miss the smallest details: the slight tremor in her fingers when their arms brushed, the way her breathing shifted when he leaned in, the way she corrected herself without prompting. She was nervous, that much was clear, but beneath it lay something steadier, a deliberate control that kept her from faltering. It earned a quiet, reluctant approval he did not voice.

The lesson might have continued uninterrupted, but the snap of another snare broke through the rhythm. Ghost straightened immediately, crossing the room and returning moments later with another hare in hand. He set it down without ceremony.

Destri’s expression brightened in spite of herself, a flash of quiet satisfaction crossing her face, and something in Ghost’s attention caught on that reaction longer than necessary.

"Do you have a big bowl? Or a clean bucket?" she asked.

Ghost moved to a cabinet without comment and retrieved a large wooden bowl, setting it on the table before returning his attention to her. He couldn’t ignore it anymore. He was, against expectation, impressed.

Most omegas he encountered—especially ones with a scent like hers—fell into predictable patterns: fragile, clinging, or performatively delicate. She was none of those things. Focused and clearly capable. Even mildly sharp-edged when she needed to be.

He shifted slightly, creating a fraction more space between them as if compensating for how close he had unconsciously stood. "What’s the bucket for?"

But she had already begun working, slicing cleanly as she answered. "Blood sausage. Since you don’t have a garden. Should’ve thought of it for the first one."

One brow ticked upward beneath his mask. There it was again, that quiet defiance wrapped in practicality. It didn’t irritate him. Not in the way it should have.

"Have you cleaned intestines before?" she asked.

Ghost gave a short nod, watching as she moved on to the next step with unhesitating focus. The muscles in his arms flexed subtly beneath his sleeves as he observed her work, attention sharpened not by tension now, but by something closer to interest.

The scent in the room lingered around them, softer than before but still present, threading through the space in a way he was increasingly aware of. He pushed the awareness down with practiced control, though it did little to ease the restlessness coiling beneath it.

"You make a habit of this?" he rumbled at last.

She paused mid-motion, still up to her elbows in blood as she stripped meat from bone. "Habit... of what?"

Ghost exhales sharply through his nose, the sound caught somewhere between amusement and exasperation, before gesturing vaguely at the carnage spread between them. "This," he grunts. "Field dressing game. Cooking. Surviving." A beat passes before his tone lowers slightly, becoming quieter in a way that carries more weight than the rest. "Not needing anyone."

His dark eyes tracked her hands, then lifted her face, searching without fully acknowledging that he was. Most omegas he had known in his life fell into patterns he could predict without effort. Destri did none of that. She worked through blood and bone with steady hands, as though survival had always been her default state rather than a skill learned later.

And that thought lingered longer than it should have.

She kept working, not slowing down as she answered. "Like I said, we couldn’t afford to waste anything. Da is a drunk. Ma worked herself ragged. Once my grandmother got too old, it fell to me." She sets another bone aside before continuing, voice steady even as the memories sit heavy behind it. "Eight siblings," she added quietly. "And I’m the only girl. Never would’ve crossed their minds to ask the others. So I did it. When my grandmother’s hands locked up, she sat with me anyway, made sure I learned it right." A faint, distant smirk touches her mouth. "I can clean and butcher a buck in a day by myself. She was proud of that."

Ghost watches her closely, something subtle shifting in his posture as he takes in the faint, fragile weight of that smile. Eight siblings. It wasn’t unheard of in rural places, but it reframed the next question before he even asked it. "And your parents left you to it?"

His voice stayed level, but there was an edge beneath it now, something colder pressing at the surface.

"You’re a man," she says instead, hands still moving as she works. "You can do whatever you wish in this life. I had the misfortune of being born a girl. An omega at that." Her voice doesn’t break, but it softens at the edges as she continues. "My parents saw me as a chance at a bride price. So when I was assaulted... I was no longer worth anything."

Destri swallows, her hands slowing but not stopping. The defiance in her expression flickers, replaced briefly by something quieter, more tired. "That sounds awful when I say it out loud."

Ghost gives a low grunt, shifting his weight as if trying to ground something that has begun to rise in him. "Awful," he agrees without hesitation. The word feels insufficient even as he says it. "Parents who don’t love their children are one thing. To use them for gain..." His jaw tightens beneath the mask. "That’s something else. That’s cruel."

For a moment, she just looks at her hands, before resuming her work as though motion can keep the past from settling too heavily. "My family wasn’t cruel," she says at last, voice barely more than breath. "Just... desperate. I still love them."

Something twists low in his chest, sharp and unwelcome, but Ghost does not let it reach his voice. He simply exhales once and returns his attention to the task, though the stillness between them has changed shape.

Several quiet, blood-stained seconds pass before he speaks again. "...How old are you?"

The question lands differently than the others, edged in a way that makes the air feel tighter.

Destri’s hands pause mid-cut. "Twenty-three winters," she answers softly, eyes fixed on the work in front of her as though bracing for something she cannot name.

Ghost exhales sharply through his nose.

Old enough to have been married. Old enough to have been protected. Old enough that the shape of her life should have been entirely different.

His jaw clenches hard enough that it aches, something dark and furious coiling tightly beneath his control. When he speaks, however, his voice is stripped clean, almost flat in its restraint. "Then your parents were fools. And cowards."

One hand twitches toward her, stopping short of contact, before he turns abruptly away and moves to the fire instead. "Finish butchering. I’ll get fresh water. We’ll deal with the innards after we eat."

Ghost moves out into the fading light with deliberate force, grabbing the bucket by the door and stepping into the cold air as though it might strip the heat from his thoughts. It does not. The wind hits him like a blade, but the pressure in his chest only sharpens.

Twenty-three.

Old enough to have been claimed. Old enough to have been bound to a life that was not this.

His grip tightens around the bucket until the wood protests, but he does not slow.

When he returns, the rabbit has been fully processed—meat separated, organs set aside with care, the work done cleanly and efficiently. Destri is wiping her hands on a rag when she looks up at him, hesitating at the stiffness in his posture.

"...Thank you," she murmurs quietly. "For letting me help."

Ghost set the water down with more force than necessary, the sound sharper than intended in the quiet cabin. "Eat," he said simply, as though anything more would require a level of honesty he was not willing to give.

Destri hesitated, fingers still wrapped around the cloth she had been using, wringing it absentmindedly before she finally spoke. "You sit. I’ll get you a bowl. It’s the least I can do."

Something tightened in Ghost’s chest at that, an unfamiliar frustration settling beneath his ribs. It had been a long time since anyone offered him anything that resembled kindness without expectation attached to it. Most people either feared him or kept their distance entirely, and neither had ever required him to respond to gentleness.

His first instinct was to refuse. To tell her it wasn’t necessary, that she didn’t need to treat him as if he were anything other than what he was. The thought stopped short before it could fully form.

Because she was looking at him.

Not with fear. Not with calculation.

Just… expectation.

After a moment, he gave a stiff, reluctant nod.

Ghost watched in silence as she ladled stew into a bowl, her movements careful and practiced even in the small domestic task. When she handed it to him, her fingers brushed his glove briefly before she withdrew, tucking her hands back into her sleeves as though grounding herself. He accepted the bowl, warmth bleeding into his palms and pushing back the lingering cold he hadn’t realized he was still carrying.

For a moment he simply looked at the food, steam rising in slow curls, before taking a measured sip. The taste was simple but rich, balanced in a way that spoke of experience rather than luxury.

"...Good," he muttered after a pause, the word rough but unmistakably genuine.

Destri’s shoulders eased at that, tension she hadn’t been aware she was holding slipping away as she returned to her own bowl. Ghost noticed the change without acknowledging it, watching her for a brief moment as she ate with quiet focus, as though the act itself mattered more than anything else in the world.

The silence that followed was no longer heavy. It settled into something steadier, shaped by firelight and shared space rather than uncertainty. The crackle of burning wood filled the gaps between them, along with the soft, steady rhythm of eating, the occasional shift of weight against worn floorboards.

Destri glanced at him more than once between bites, quick, uncertain looks that suggested she was circling a thought she didn’t quite know how to voice. Ghost felt the pattern form within minutes. When the third glance lingered a fraction too long, he finally exhaled through his nose.

"What?" he grunted.

She startled slightly, cheeks warming as she looked down at her bowl. "It’s nothing," she muttered, then hesitated anyway, words catching as though she had to physically pull them free. "I was just wondering..."

Ghost waited, but she didn’t continue, gaze fixed on her food as though it might rescue her from the moment. He set his bowl down with controlled patience. "Out with it."

Destri winced faintly at the tone, but whatever hesitation she carried didn’t last long. When she looked up again, there was something steadier in her expression, a quiet resolve that didn’t quite match the nervousness from earlier in the day.

"I was wondering why you always wear a mask."

The question landed cleanly, cutting through the warmth of the cabin in a way neither of them had anticipated.

Ghost went still.

For a moment, he simply stared at her, the mask hiding whatever might have flickered across his face. His shoulders tightened before he forced them to ease again, fingers curling briefly at his sides before unclenching.

He was not used to being asked things like that. Not about the mask. Not about anything that belonged to him rather than his work.

When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before, stripped of its usual edge. "...It’s a reminder."

Destri frowned slightly, the answer only deepening her confusion rather than resolving it. "Of what?" she asked softly.

Ghost grimaced beneath his mask, gaze slipping away for the briefest moment as something old and buried pressed at the edges of his restraint. The memories didn’t come all at once, they gathered like distant pressure in the back of his mind, and he forced them down before they could fully surface. When he spoke again, it was with effort, as though even the act of naming it carried weight. "Of who I used to be."

Destri’s brow furrowed deeper, concern overtaking confusion as she leaned forward slightly, voice lowered as if proximity might make the answer easier to bear. "Who did you used to be, then?"

For a moment, Ghost looked as though the question might undo something in him entirely. The silence stretched thin and heavy—not empty but loaded—before he finally exhaled. "My name is Simon Riley."

The admission settled into the room and Destri’s eyes widened slightly, not in recognition of him, but in recognition of what it cost to say it at all. He didn’t stop there.

"I was a soldier." He stopped, jaw working. "A good one," he added, voice lower now, roughened at the edges.

Ghost exhaled sharply through his nose, the words tasting like something worn down over time rather than spoken often.The chair creaked faintly as his arms crossed over his chest in a motion that was more instinct than defense. "Too good," he muttered. "Followed orders. Trusted command. Paid for it." His voice dropped further, nearly swallowed by the fire’s crackle. The firelight caught the edges of his mask and hollowed out the skull in flickering shadow until he seemed less like a man and more like something shaped by consequence.

Destri hesitated only a heartbeat before reaching out, her hand settling gently against his arm. Ghost went still at once, every line of his body tightening as the contact registered. It was light, almost tentative, but it grounded him in a way that felt unfamiliar and disorienting, warmth bleeding through. For a long moment he did not move, as if movement alone might fracture whatever fragile balance had formed. He did not pull away.

"I appreciate you trusting me enough to tell me," she murmured.

The word struck him harder than it should have.

Trust.

It echoed in him with a weight he didn’t have language for, something foreign and unsettlingly intimate. He had built his life on its absence, on distance, on the clarity of relying only on himself, and yet here she was offering it as though it were natural, unremarkable. Something in him tightened in response and before he could examine it further, he wrenched his arm free.

"I don’t need your trust," he growled, voice roughened into something edged and immediate. "I don’t need anyone." The words cut clean through the cabin, and he saw the flinch in her posture even as she tried to hide it, though it did nothing to ease the pressure building in him.

She didn’t retreat. Instead, Destri straightened, chin lifting in quiet defiance as she set her bowl aside and reached for the knife again. "Just because you don’t need it doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it," she said, sharper now, steadier, the softness from earlier replaced by something stubborn. She turned back to the work as she spoke, movements a touch too quick, a touch too forceful, as though she needed the rhythm of it to hold herself steady, and the faint trace of burnt sugar returned to the air, threading through the space like something under pressure.

Ghost’s irritation spiked at once, not just at the words but at the fact that she didn’t shrink from them, didn’t break under them, didn’t behave the way experience told him she should. Something instinctive and restless surged beneath his restraint, the part of him built for command and correction rising hard against control. He didn’t get the chance to act on it.

"I don’t need more of your smart mouth," she cut in suddenly, pointing the knife in his direction without looking up. "This meat needs to get over the fire to dry out, so get to work."

The effect was immediate. Ghost froze, the entire cabin seeming to tighten around that moment of contradiction, his hands curling into fists at his sides as instinct collided with restraint. He stared at her, long and unblinking, taking in the tilt of her chin, the steadiness she was forcing into her posture, the fact that she was not backing down even now. Then, slowly, he exhaled through his nose.

Without a word, he stepped forward and began stringing the meat above the fire with rough, efficient motions, as though obedience had been chosen rather than taken. Destri let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, heartbeat still loud in her chest as she watched him work. Part of her expected him to lash out, to shove her up against the wall and snarl until she submits.

Instead, Ghost simply… listened.

Though it is not the calm, receptive kind of listening. He moves through the task with a silent, seething intensity, shoulders locked tight, gaze fixed firmly on his work as though looking at her directly might break something he is still holding together. Every motion is precise, deliberate, and just slightly too forceful, as if obedience itself has become something he has to physically maintain.

Every so often, her scent drifts too close, warm and sharp in a way that keeps pulling at his attention no matter how firmly he tries to ignore it. It threads through the cabin, slips under his control, and each time it does his jaw tightens as though he can physically grind the reaction down into silence.

Destri finally breaks it with a single word. "Salt?"

It cuts cleanly through the tension. Ghost pauses mid-motion, the spell of his focus snapping just enough for him to register her presence again, and he glances over to find her watching him with quiet expectation. For a brief, disorienting second, he realizes how fully he had almost reduced her to background noise.

He grunts and gestures toward a box on the shelf without fully trusting himself to speak longer than necessary. "There."

Destri nods, sprinkling salt over the meat, though her attention keeps flickering back to him. She can feel the strain in the air, the way his control is held together by something taut and brittle, and it makes her uneasy in a way she doesn’t quite know how to name. Eventually, she clears her throat, the sound small but deliberate. "You always get this angry when someone touches you, or is it just me?"

Ghost stops completely.

Not gradually. Not thoughtfully.

Completely.

Slowly, he turns his head toward her, the motion measured and unhurried in a way that somehow makes the silence sharper. It stretches between them, heavy enough to press against the walls of the cabin, before a low, humorless chuckle slips out from behind his mask. His voice drops into something quieter, more dangerous in its restraint.

"You think I’m angry?"

He steps closer, deliberately closing the space between them until there is almost none left to retreat into. The heat of his presence fills the gap, barely held restraint and breath and something far more instinctive pressing into the shared air. Destri does not move away fast enough to fully escape it, and he knows it.

"Try irritated," he continues, voice roughened at the edges. "Try frustrated." His hand flexes once at his side, restrained but barely. "Try fucking starved."

He leans down just slightly, enough that his words land closer, heavier, his breath brushing the her skin. "Now salt the damn meat before I remind you what an alpha really looks like when he’s angry."

And just as quickly as he closes in, he breaks away. The door slams behind him hard enough to rattle the cabin, leaving the space in a sudden, ringing quiet.

Destri stands frozen for a moment, caught between shock and frustration that has nowhere to go but inward. When she finally moves, it is with sharper motions than before, almost forceful, as though the task itself has become something she needs to dominate into submission.

Outside, the cold wind bites through the silence.

Inside, the scent of salt and curing meat lingers, tangled with the fading edge of his presence in the air. Every so often she glances toward the door, half-expecting it to burst open again, but it does not.

Eventually, the sharpness in her movements fades into something quieter. Not calm exactly, but softened by the passage of time and the absence of immediate confrontation. A slow, reluctant sigh escapes her as she wipes her hands and finishes the last of the work before stepping toward the door.

Ghost is outside on the steps, elbows resting on his knees, mask angled toward the darkening sky.

"...They’re done," she murmurs, stopping a careful distance away.

He does not respond at first.

Destri hesitates, then steps a little closer, careful not to crowd him. "I’m sorry," she says quietly. "I shouldn’t have pushed."

Ghost exhales slowly, controlled, as though releasing something he has been holding in place for far too long. "...No," he admits at last, voice roughened but no longer sharp. "You shouldn’t have."

The sound of night creatures settles between them, tentative as they both stare at the stars.

Then he finally tilts his head slightly, enough for her to catch the shift in him. No anger. No edge. Just exhaustion, worn down rather than explosive. "...But I shouldn’t have snapped."

Another pause, smaller this time, almost reluctant.

"Come, sit."

It’s not a command this time, but something closer to permission.

Destri hesitates before easing down beside him on the steps, careful to leave a respectful distance between them, as if even proximity now requires negotiation. The wood beneath them creaks softly, settling into the weight of two people who still don’t quite know what to do with silence when it isn’t sharp.

It isn’t… comfortable, the quiet that follows, but it no longer feels like something that might break at any second either. It simply exists, stretched out between them like the fading heat of a fire after the flames have died down.

When Ghost finally speaks, his voice is lower than before, stripped of its edge in a way that makes it feel almost unfamiliar. "...You remind me of someone."

Destri turns her head slightly, studying him in profile, though the mask gives nothing away. "Who?" she asks gently.

Ghost exhales through his nose, slow and controlled, as though the answer costs more than he wants to admit.

"Me."

The word lands heavier than expected.

And for the first time since she met him, he sounds tired in a way that has nothing to do with the day, the work, or even her presence beside him. Not tired of her. Something deeper that’s been worn into him.

Destri’s expression softens without her fully meaning it to, sympathy slipping into her scent like an instinct rather than a choice. She looks at him like she might say something gentler, something careful, but the words don’t quite form. Instead, she shifts slightly, trying to ease the weight between them in a different way. "You’re that annoying to be around?" she asks, the attempt at humor gentle, edged with a small, uncertain smile.

For a moment, Ghost doesn’t respond.

Then his shoulders shift, a faint, unexpected tremor running through him as something like a laugh tries and fails to fully form. It comes out rough, rusty, almost disbelieving, but it is unmistakably there. He glances at her from the corner of his eye, dark gaze sparkling faintly beneath the mask.

"You're lucky you're too damn sweet," he mutters, the words carrying no real heat despite their shape. "Anyone else would get their neck snapped for that."

She doesn’t bother hiding her smirk this time. The threat in his voice has lost whatever teeth it once carried, dulled by the small spark of levity she managed. It sat strangely alongside the man who she knew more by reputation than the man who willingly took her on despite the danger. This version of him, though, the one with tired eyes hidden behind a mask and humor roughened by disuse, felt different somehow. Softer, perhaps, though she suspected he would hate the word.

Something warm stirred low in her chest at the thought. "Lucky me."

Ghost scoffed, leaning back against the step behind him. "Don't get too cocky, omega. I could still break your neck if I wanted to." He sounded thoroughly put upon, but the menace was gone from it now, replaced by something that almost resembled teasing.

Destri let out a quiet huff of amusement. "Breaking necks seems like a lot of work when you could just tell me to shut up instead."

His eyes narrowed faintly behind the mask, though the tension that had wound through him all evening had loosened at last. "Talking back to an alpha who could kill you with his bare hands," he muttered. "Stupid."

She shrugged, unbothered. "Maybe. Or maybe I just think you're all growl and no bite."

The moment the words left her mouth, she regretted them.

Ghost's attention fixed on her so completely that the rest of the world seemed to recede. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned just close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him through the cool evening air, the dark scent of leather and smoke wrapping around her senses.

"Try me," he rumbled.

Her breath caught.

Yes. That had absolutely been a mistake.

Every instinct she possessed urged her to look away, to shrink back beneath the weight of his stare the way any sensible omega would. But beneath the pulse of caution, something stubborn sparked to life. Something reckless that can only come from having seven brothers.

So, in what could only generously be described as a terrible decision, Destri lifted her hand and flicked him squarely on the forehead.

For perhaps the first time all day, Ghost looked genuinely speechless.

He blinked at her, eyes widening slightly as the sheer absurdity of what had just happened caught up with him. No one touched him like that. Certainly no one flicked him like an unruly stable boy. For a heartbeat, he simply stared, stunned into stillness.

Then his expression darkened. "What," he ground out, "the hell was that for?"

It was too late. Destri had already doubled over, laughter bursting out of her before she could stop it. Not the polite kind, nor the nervous sort she had worn all day, but something bright and unguarded that rang through the clearing. "Gods, I'd kill a man to see your face right now."

Ghost went completely still.

The shift was so immediate that her laughter faltered on instinct alone. Then, with slow, terrifying precision, he reached up and unfastened the mask.

The skull-faced plate dropped into his lap.

Firelight caught sharp cheekbones dusted with stubble and the pale line of old scars. His mouth was set in obvious irritation, his jaw tight, but none of it lessened the force of him. If anything, the absence of the mask made him feel more dangerous, not less.

And beautiful, some inconvenient part of her thought.

Not in the polished way of storybook princes or charming merchants, but in the way storms were beautiful. In the way mountains were. Something harsh and weathered and undeniably alive.

"Happy?" he asked, the question edged with annoyance.

Destri's laughter died completely. Her thoughts scattered, leaving only the simple truth of it.

"...Yes."

For the briefest moment, something in his expression shifted. Then it was gone. Ghost shoved the mask back into place with a sharp click and pushed himself to his feet. "Good. I need to salt the damn meat."

The gruffness had returned, but not the anger. And neither of them commented on the slight tremor in his hands as he disappeared back into the cabin, leaving Destri alone on the steps with her pulse still hammering in her ears.

For a long moment, she simply stared at the space he had occupied, trying to make sense of the abrupt turn the evening had taken. The air beside her felt colder now, the quiet of the forest settling back into place around the cabin.

Except it wasn't settling.

It was absent.

The realization crept over her slowly. The woods had gone silent in a way that had nothing to do with dusk. No birdsong. No rustle of distant creatures in the underbrush. Just an emptiness that seemed to swallow every sound whole.

Then something moved. The brush shifted with slow, deliberate intent, not the nervous scampering of a rabbit or fox but something heavier. Something that belonged to neither the forest nor the night.

Destri froze.

A branch snapped somewhere beyond the trees, loud against the silence.

Then nothing.

The hairs along the back of her neck stood on end. She knew this feeling. Knew the dreadful stillness that came just before disaster.

Slowly, she turned toward the tree line where two pale eyes blinked in the darkness. Her breath caught painfully in her throat as the creature took a step into the fading light, its hulking shape emerging piece by piece from the shadows, all matted fur and unnatural proportions. Terror rooted her to the spot, every instinct she possessed screaming at her to run even as her body refused to obey.

"Ghost," she whispered.

The beast lumbered forward, massive enough now that she could make out the glint of too many teeth.

"Ghost," she tried again, louder this time, panic clawing its way into her voice.

The creature growled, low and thunderous, and something inside her finally broke free.

"Simon!"

The name tore from her throat as she scrambled backward toward the open door.

Wood cracked as Ghost burst through the doorway, greatsword already in hand. He crossed the distance between them in an instant, shoving Destri behind him before she could finish retreating. The monster stalking from the trees hesitated as steel met moonlight, while Ghost planted himself between it and the woman cowering at his back with the practiced certainty of a man who had spent his life standing between danger and everyone else.

His blade met the creature’s charge with a metallic shriek that rattled through the clearing, the force of the impact shuddering up his arms and into his shoulders. The beast reared back with a wet, furious snarl, its misshapen body silhouetted against the firelight spilling from the cabin.

Destri clung to the doorframe hard enough that her knuckles blanched, fear rising sharp and immediate in the air around her as she watched Ghost throw himself into the fight. He moved like something unchained, every strike deliberate despite the violence behind it, greatsword carving silver arcs through the dark as he drove the creature backward step by measured step. It was not recklessness that guided him, but experience, the brutal efficiency of a man who had survived too many battles to mistake fury for skill.

Still, the thing was enormous.

Too large. Too strong. One of the misshapen fell beasts borne from dark corners of the continent.

For a fleeting moment, she saw his footing slip in the churned mud, one boot skidding beneath him as the creature lunged. The mistake lasted less than a heartbeat before he caught himself, twisting away with a snarl, but it was enough to send a spike of terror through her chest.

Ghost barely had time to recover before the beast struck again, claws glinting in the firelight as they tore through the space where his head had been moments before. He ducked beneath the swipe, muscles burning with exertion. Years of hunting horrors like this had taught him endurance above all else.

Then Destri’s voice cut through the chaos.

"Left!"

He turned on instinct, steel flashing, biting deep into the creature’s flank, and the beast howled as black blood sprayed across the clearing. It staggered, wounded but far from beaten, and its tail whipped around with startling speed, catching Ghost hard across the ribs.

The impact hurled him sideways. His shoulder slammed into the cabin wall with enough force to rattle the timbers, pain exploding through his side as the world blurred around the edges. Somewhere nearby, the beast snarled again, wet and ragged and far too close as he forced himself up again.

He raised his sword just in time. Claws crashed against steel, the collision driving him back another step as he gritted his teeth against the strain.

"Get inside," he barked, voice rough with effort. The command carried none of his earlier irritation. It was stripped bare, sharpened into something urgent and absolute.

Destri opened her mouth, ready to protest. To insist that she could help, that she wouldn’t leave him to face the creature alone, but the look in his eyes stopped her cold. Beneath the fury and the concentration, beneath all the things she had come to expect from him, there was desperation.

So she ran.

Ghost heard the cabin door slam just as the beast lunged again, jaws snapping wide enough to swallow him whole. This time he did not meet it head-on. He sidestepped at the last possible moment, letting the creature’s own momentum carry it past him before driving his greatsword deep into its side.

Black blood flooded over his hands as the monster shrieked and thrashed, claws gouging trenches into the earth as Ghost planted his feet and twisted the blade deeper, holding on through the violence of its death throes. The struggle lasted only moments before the beast faltered, movements stuttering into weakness.

Then, with one final, choking gasp, it collapsed.

For a moment, Ghost remained exactly where he was, chest heaving beneath blood-soaked linen as the silence rushed back into the clearing. He wrenched his sword free and immediately looked toward the cabin.

Inside, Destri had heard the creature fall. Relief surged through her so suddenly that it left her dizzy, though her hands still shook as she edged the door open and peered outside. Ghost stood in the middle of the clearing, dark blood streaking his clothes and skin, his posture rigid with the remnants of battle.

The instant he saw her, something in him snapped taut. "What part of 'stay inside' did you not understand?" he snarled, tearing the mask from his face with a bloodied hand as he stalked toward her.

She faltered. Without the mask, the strain etched across his features was impossible to miss. His breathing was uneven, his eyes bright with adrenaline, and beneath the anger there was something else entirely, something that sat strangely on a face built for severity.

Something that sounded an awful lot like… worry.

"I could have helped," she protested weakly, though the conviction had already drained from her voice.

"You could have gotten yourself killed!" The words came out sharper than intended. Before she could answer, his hand was already on her, fingers closing around her chin as he searched her face with frantic intensity.

The grip itself was firm, rough from years of wielding weapons, but the touch carried none of the violence his expression promised. His thumb brushed along her jaw as he checked for injuries she could not see, callused fingers tracing the line of her neck, searching for blood that wasn’t there.

It was the concern that unsettled her most.

Not the anger.

Not the shouting.

The concern.

"Did it hurt you?" he demanded, his voice roughened by something dangerously close to panic.

"I'm fine," she insisted, though the words came out thin and uneven.

Ghost huffed, unconvinced. "You're shaking. You're..." He stopped abruptly, drawing in a sharp breath, his nose flaring as though only now registering the storm of emotions pouring off her. "You reek of fear."

Her breath hitched on something perilously close to a sob. She looked at the blood staining his clothes, at the bruises already darkening beneath skin that should have been protected by armor.

"You don't even have armor on," she whispered. "You could've..." The rest of the sentence died somewhere between them.

Ghost’s gaze snapped back to her face, irritation dissolving as he finally understood what sat beneath the fear in her scent. He had seen terror a thousand times before, in soldiers on ruined battlefields and in the eyes of the creatures he hunted, but this was different.

This fear was for him.

The realization knocked Ghost off balance in a way a beast never had. He had spent years carrying responsibility like armor, accepting danger as naturally as breathing, but this was different. The fear radiating from her was not born from the monster stalking the woods or the blood still drying on his skin.

It was for him.

Something dark and fiercely protective unfurled in his chest, sudden enough to leave him disoriented.

Destri drew a shaky breath, struggling to wrestle her expression back under control. Her pulse was still racing, her hands still trembling from adrenaline, but she forced herself to hold his gaze. "Next time, you have to let me help."

The confidence in her voice was manufactured, held together by sheer stubbornness, and Ghost could hear every crack in it. His jaw tightened, his hand still cupping her face. "I can't risk you getting hurt."

Frustration flashed across her features so quickly that it almost eclipsed the fear. "And I can't just stand there doing nothing while you fight monsters alone!" she shot back, reaching up to wrap her fingers around his wrist.

The touch drew his attention downward. For the first time, he really looked at the hand gripping him, at the delicate bones beneath pale skin and the absurd difference in scale between them. Her wrist looked impossibly small in his grasp, and the sight sent something twisting painfully in his chest.

She seemed fragile. Not… weak. That wasn’t right. Just soft in all the ways he had long ago forgotten people could be.

The instinct that surged through him was immediate and almost violent, some ancient, territorial thing waking after years of dormancy. He tried to push it away, tried to bury it beneath reason and exhaustion, but her touch was warm and grounding in a way that only made his restraint fray further. "You don't get to make that decision," he ground out.

Destri bristled instantly. "Yes, I do." She tugged against his hold, eyes flashing. "I'm not helpless."

His expression hardened in response, fingers tightening around her chin before he could stop himself. "You're an omega. And you're my responsibility." The words left him with the force of instinct rather than thought. "It's my job to keep you safe."

That, more than anything else, shattered what remained of her patience. "I'm not some helpless omega, and I'm certainly not yours!" The anger in her voice cut clean through the night as she shoved at his chest. "I didn't ask to be saved!"

Ghost barely moved. The force behind her push disappeared into him as though she had tried to move a stone wall, and the energy pouring off him prickled against her skin, heavy and commanding in a way that made every nerve sit up and pay attention.

"Enough." His voice cracked through the clearing, sharp enough to still her. "You can be angry all you want, but you are not going out there and getting yourself hurt. Understood?"

Destri glared up at him, fists clenched so tightly that her knuckles ached. She wanted to argue. Wanted to throw every infuriating order back in his face. Then she truly registered the blood. It streaked across his hands and disappeared beneath his sleeves. His chest still rose too quickly, breath uneven from the fight, and the sight stole the wind from her anger.

"...Fine," she muttered at last, wrenching from his grip. "But if you die because you're stubborn, I'm dragging your corpse back here just so I can yell at it."

Ghost exhaled sharply, the sound hovering somewhere between exasperation and amusement as he bent to retrieve his mask from the ground. "You couldn't move me if you tried, little one."

The nickname landed somewhere inconvenient. Warmth flickered through her chest before she could stop it, soft and uninvited. He was being impossible—overbearing, infuriating—every inch the domineering alpha.

And yet, beneath all of that, there was something oddly comforting in the roughness of his voice. She shoved the thought away almost as quickly as it came. "Don't call me that."

Ghost paused, fastening the mask back into place as something suspiciously close to a smile crept into his tone. "What?" he asked, all feigned innocence. "You don't like nicknames?"

Destri crossed her arms. "No. I don't like nicknames, especially ones that make me sound like a child."

He tilted his head, studying her with that unnerving focus of his. "Little doesn't mean weak." His answer came easily, as though he were simply stating a fact. "It just means you barely reach my chest."

The observation was so blunt, so casually offered, that it robbed her of every prepared response. Heat rushed into her cheeks, and she glared resolutely at the ground instead.

Ghost noticed immediately. The shift in her scent, the embarrassed tension in her posture, and something possessive sparked low in his chest before he could make sense of it. Whatever strange instinct had taken root in him since she'd stumbled into his life seemed to strengthen with every passing hour, and he was beginning to suspect that ignoring it was no longer an option.

Without thinking, he stepped closer and tipped her chin back toward him. "You're cute when you're mad, little one."

Destri swatted his hand away with a scowl. "Stop calling me that."

Ghost watched her with lazy amusement, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that suggested he was enjoying her frustration far more than he ought to. "Make me."

The challenge settled between them, thick with unspoken tension.

He didn't crowd her this time. Didn't press the advantage. He simply stood there and waited, watching as she struggled to decide whether she wanted to shove him again or storm back into the cabin and slam the door behind her.

Neither option seemed particularly satisfying.

"Problem?" he murmured.

She ground her teeth together. "You are."

His answering smile was audible even through the mask. "Good."

Destri huffed and shoved at his chest, but Ghost didn't so much as sway. The smirk hidden beneath the skull mask only deepened, and when she planted both hands against him and pushed harder, he caught her wrists with absurd ease and drew her a step closer.

"That's the spirit," he rumbled, amusement threading through the words.

She squirmed against his grip, more offended than truly angry, the frustration of being thoroughly outmatched written plainly across her face. After a moment, Ghost loosened his hold enough that she could pull away if she genuinely wanted to.

She didn't. And for several seconds, neither of them acknowledged it.

Finally, Destri exhaled sharply, cheeks burning as she muttered something distinctly unflattering beneath her breath.

Ghost laughed, low and warm, and released her entirely before stepping back just far enough to restore the space between them. "Told you," he said. "Couldn't move me if you tried."

She kicked him in the shin.

Ghost barely flinched. "Adorable." His chuckle was low and rough from disuse, the sound lingering in the cool night air. "Now, you're going inside like a good little girl and bolting the door while I wash this off."

Destri bristled immediately, irritation flaring hotter at the smug note woven through his voice than at the command itself. "I'm not a child," she muttered, folding her arms tightly across her chest. "And I'm not going inside."

The amusement faded from Ghost's posture almost at once, replaced by that familiar, unyielding severity she was already beginning to recognize. "Destri." Her name left him as a warning rather than a reprimand, and when she opened her mouth to argue, his eyes narrowed. "Don't make me repeat myself."

Her jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

It was infuriating how effective that tone was, how some buried instinct stirred awake whenever he used it. Every ounce of stubborn pride urged her to stand her ground, yet another part of her, older and far less reasonable, wanted nothing more than to obey. She hated that part.

Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she lifted her chin. "And if I say no?"

Ghost exhaled through his nose, the sound carrying the weight of rapidly evaporating patience. When he answered, his voice had dropped into something quieter, rougher. "You don't get to say no." There was no anger in the words, only absolute certainty.

Destri's hands curled into fists at her sides as she fought the urge to look away beneath the weight of his stare. "Watch me."

For a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched taut between them before Ghost stepped forward again, slow and deliberate, until his shadow swallowed hers. "I could drag you inside," he murmured, his voice pitched low enough that it seemed to vibrate through her rather than reach her ears. "But we both know you'd hate that."

His breath brushed her temple, presence overwhelming in the way mountains were overwhelming. Huge and simply impossible to ignore.

"So be smart," he finished. "Go."

Destri swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. Every instinct in her body screamed at her to keep arguing, to throw one more challenge in his face simply because she could. Instead, she shot him one final glare, spun on her heel, and stalked toward the cabin.

Something dangerously close to satisfaction settled low in his chest. He would never admit how much he enjoyed the fight she put up, the way she resisted him at every turn only to relent at the last possible moment. He remained where he was until he heard the bolt slide firmly into place, and only then did the tension seep from his shoulders, leaving exhaustion in its wake.

Inside, Destri slammed the door hard enough to rattle the frame. Frustration churned through her in hot, restless waves as she paced the length of the cabin, unable to settle. She hated how easily he got beneath her skin, hated the way he dismissed her protests, barked orders at her, and acted as though her safety belonged solely to him.

Most of all, she hated how much it affected her.

The urge to push back still simmered in her chest, sharp and insistent. Muttering a curse beneath her breath, she dragged a hand through her hair and leaned heavily against the door before sliding down to the floor in an ungainly heap.

Only then did the tremors begin.

Because beneath all the irritation and wounded pride lurked a truth she couldn't argue away.

That thing outside would have killed her.

She could still see the beast lumbering from the darkness, still hear the wet snarl that had frozen her where she stood. And Ghost had not hesitated. He had charged into the clearing with no armor to shield him, no thought beyond putting himself between her and whatever nightmare lurked in the woods.

The realization cracked something open inside her. Tears came quickly after that, hot and humiliating in the silence of the cabin.

Outside, Ghost leaned against the rough timber wall and scrubbed a weary hand over his face. Every muscle in his body ached. He was soaked in blood and mud and exhaustion, yet his thoughts kept circling back to her with maddening persistence.

To the fire in her eyes as she argued with him.

To the way she had shoved at his chest, furious and frightened in equal measure.

To the fact that, even trembling, she had stood her ground.

She had looked beautiful then.

The thought landed with enough force to make him grimace.

Something hot and unsettling stirred in his chest, something he refused to examine too closely as he pushed himself away from the cabin and made for the creek.

The water was glacial. Ghost hissed between his teeth as he stepped into the current, plunging forward without hesitation. He scrubbed at the black ichor staining his skin and clothes, trying to wash away not only the blood but the restless energy clawing beneath his ribs.

It was pointless. Because beneath the cold and exhaustion, beneath the instincts and the irritation and the fierce need to keep her safe, there remained one simple, undeniable thought.

He wanted to get back to the cabin. Back to her.

Inside, Destri had finally managed to quiet her tears. She scrubbed angrily at her cheeks and resumed pacing, too agitated to sit still. Part of her wanted to hit something. The wall. The table. Him.

She wanted answers she didn't have, explanations for the way his rough hands around her wrists made her pulse stumble, for the heat that still lingered in her chest whenever she thought about him stepping between her and the beast.

She hated it. Hated how he had started to become a fever she couldn't sweat out.

The knock at the door shattered the silence so suddenly that she nearly screamed. Her hand flew to her mouth, heart leaping into her throat.

"It's me, Destri." Ghost's voice carried through the wood, quieter now, stripped of its usual edge.

Destri was on her feet before the echo of his voice had fully faded, fumbling with the bolt and wrenching the door open hard enough that it rebounded against the wall.

Ghost stood on the threshold, drenched from head to toe.

Water streamed from his hair and soaked through the dark fabric clinging to his broad frame, dripping steadily onto the floorboards. Rust-black smears of monster blood still stained his clothes despite whatever frantic scrubbing he had subjected himself to in the creek, and the sight of him standing there, exhausted and shivering beneath the night air, sent something sharp twisting through her chest.

She hastily swiped at the tears still clinging to her cheeks. "Get in here. You'll catch your death."

Ghost gave her a flat look. "Not likely," he muttered, though he ducked inside all the same, kicking the door shut behind him. His eyes drifted to her face, lingering on the redness around her eyes and the tracks her tears had left behind. "Have you been crying?"

Her jaw tightened instantly. "No," she snapped, turning away before he could look too closely and crossing the cabin to feed more logs into the fire.

He watched her in silence, that infuriatingly patient look fixed on her back. "Lying doesn't suit you, little one."

She spun around, already bristling. "Stop calling me that."

Ghost stepped forward, not quite invading her space but close enough that she could feel his presence at her back. "Why does it bother you so much?" he asked, voice maddeningly calm. "It's just a pet name." His gaze flicked pointedly toward her tearstained cheeks, and something dangerously close to amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Little girl doesn't seem too far off the mark right now."

Destri's glare could have set the cabin alight. "You're dripping water all over the floor."

Ghost exhaled through his nose, entirely unimpressed by the change of subject. "You're deflecting." He shrugged out of his soaked cloak and dropped it beside the hearth with a heavy, wet thud. "And you're still crying."

"I'm fine."

The lie came automatically, even as she scrubbed at her face yet again.

He studied her for a long moment, taking in the tremor in her fingers and the hitch that still caught in her breathing whenever she thought too hard about what had happened outside. Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached out and brushed his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away the tear she had missed.

For a man who swung a greatsword as though it weighed nothing, his touch was impossibly gentle. "Liar," he murmured.

She could have pulled away. She should have. Instead, she stood rooted to the spot, strangely comforted by the rough warmth of his hand against her skin. It steadied something in her that had been unraveling since the beast emerged from the trees. Her voice cracked despite herself. "Shut up."

Ghost didn't laugh. Didn't throw another teasing remark her way. He simply let his hand fall back to his side, his expression unreadable as he turned away and began tugging at the sodden tunic clinging to his skin.

The fabric fought him every step of the way, plastered stubbornly to his shoulders and chest until he finally dragged it free with a quiet grunt. Firelight spilled across old scars and hard muscle, tracing pale lines across his ribs and collarbone while droplets of water still clung stubbornly to his skin.

Destri looked. She hadn't meant to, but her gaze lingered a heartbeat too long. Long enough for him to notice.

One corner of his mouth curved upward in that infuriating half-smirk she was beginning to recognize, equal parts smugness and amusement. "See something you like?" he rumbled.

She folded her arms so quickly it bordered on dramatic. "I was checking for injuries, you insufferable pig."

He hummed, unconvinced. "Uh-huh."

The silence that followed stretched between them, thick and strange. The fire crackled softly in the hearth, embers dancing upward as Ghost crossed to his pack and dragged out a dry blanket, draping it around his shoulders.

When he spoke again, the teasing had vanished entirely. "You scared me."

The admission struck her harder than she expected. "What?"

Ghost's attention remained fixed stubbornly on the flames. "When you ran for the door. When I thought..." The sentence died unfinished, his jaw tightening around words he clearly had no intention of saying aloud.

"Just… listen next time."

Destri opened her mouth, ready to argue on instinct alone, but the raw exhaustion threaded through his voice stopped her cold. For once, she let the protest die before it reached her lips. Instead, her eyes drifted upward, catching on the dark smear streaked across the edge of his mask.

"...There's still blood on your mask."

The shift in conversation seemed to relieve him, if only slightly. His shoulders loosened beneath the blanket as he reached up automatically. "It's a pain in the ass to get out." His fingers barely brushed the edge of the mask before Destri swatted his hand away.

"Don't."

Ghost stared at her, momentarily too surprised to react, as she stepped forward and rose onto her toes. Before he could protest, her fingers had already curled around the edge of the skull-painted leather. The sudden closeness stole whatever retort had been forming on his tongue. He went unnaturally still as she eased the mask free, the worn leather slipping into her hands while droplets of water tracked down the side of his neck.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Destri held the bloodstained mask carefully, her eyes flicking from it back to his face. "Can I...?" The question hung between them, quiet and uncertain, as she searched his expression for permission.

Ghost exhaled sharply through his nose, the sound not quite a sigh but close enough. He watched her from across the narrow space, his scarred face left bare in the firelight while she turned the mask over in her hands. "Do what you want," he muttered.

The words carried their usual roughness, but the irritation she had expected was absent.

Destri only nodded and set to work. Up close, the mask was more worn than she'd realized. The white paint that formed the skull had been chipped and scuffed by years of use, its grooves darkened by old grime and dried blood. She dampened a cloth from the basin and scrubbed carefully, tracing the carved lines with patient strokes.

Ghost should have looked away. Instead, he found himself watching.

No one had ever done this before. No one had sat in front of his fire, sleeves rolled up, cleaning the evidence of his battles as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He had spent years patching himself together in silence, tending to wounds and armor alike with no expectation that anyone would ever offer to help.

Something unfamiliar tightened uncomfortably in his chest. "You don't have to do that," he said at last, his voice rougher than he'd intended.

Destri didn't even glance up from her work. "I know."

The answer settled over the cabin alongside the steady crackle of the fire. For once, neither of them seemed eager to fill the silence. She scrubbed at the dark stains while Ghost sat motionless beneath the blanket draped over his shoulders, the firelight casting shifting shadows across the sharp lines of his face.

When she finally seemed satisfied, she leaned back slightly and looked up only to find him staring. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth despite herself. "Y'know," she said softly, folding the cloth in her lap, "you're handsome for a rude bastard."

Ghost blinked, caught completely off guard. He knew exactly what he looked like. He knew every scar and crooked line, every old injury etched into his skin. Whatever beauty he might once have possessed had long ago been buried beneath violence and time.

No one had ever called him handsome without mockery lurking underneath.

When he finally spoke, his voice had gone strangely quiet. "You're soft for an insolent little omega."

A laugh escaped her, warm and genuine. "I've been called worse." She rose to her feet and crossed the small distance between them in only a few steps, holding the cleaned mask out to him. The firelight danced over the polished surface, now free of blood. "You don't have to hide from me," she said. "If you don't want to."

Ghost didn't take it.

Destri hesitated, fingers still curled around the edge of the mask as his gaze shifted from her face to the offering in her hands and back again. His expression remained unreadable, though something in his eyes had softened into something quieter, more dangerous.

Then, instead of reaching for the mask, he reached for her. His hand closed around her wrist, tugging her gently closer until only a breath separated them. A rough thumb drifted over the inside of her pulse, slow and deliberate, tracing the frantic beat beneath her skin.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he murmured.

The warmth of his hand seemed to sink into her bones. Destri felt her pulse jump beneath his touch, but she made no move to pull away. "I think I do."

Something flickered across his face then, brief as lightning behind storm clouds. A crack in the armor he wore more faithfully than steel. With a quiet exhale, he finally accepted the mask from her hands and set it aside.

The fire snapped in the hearth, throwing gold and shadow across the cabin walls. And for the first time since she had met him, Ghost made no attempt to hide his face.

Destri tried, and failed, not to fidget beneath the weight of his attention. She could feel the steady pressure of his hand around her wrist, could hear the soft hiss of the fire and the rainwater still dripping from his discarded clothes. Her pulse hammered beneath his thumb in sharp contrast to the maddening calm with which he regarded her.

"This is a terrible idea." His voice came out rough, scraped raw by something deeper than irritation. Even then, he didn't let go. "You don't know what you're playing with."

Destri lifted her chin, stubbornness flashing in her eyes at the challenge woven through his words. "I'm not playing."

The firelight softened nothing about him. It traced every scar across his face, every hard angle carved there by years of war and survival, turning him into something both brutal and strangely beautiful.

And suddenly, Destri understood.

He wasn't simply allowing her to see him.

He was daring her to look.

So she did.

Slowly, carefully, she lifted her hands to his face. Her palms settled against the rough line of his jaw, fingers brushing over the stubble there. Her thumb traced the scar that tugged faintly at his lip before drifting higher, following the pale line that cut through his eyebrow and the bridge of a nose that had been broken and set crooked more than once.

Every muscle in Ghost's body locked tight beneath her touch. It should have felt unbearable. Wrong. He should have recoiled. Should have told her to stop, to step back, to put distance between them before whatever fragile restraint he still possessed finally snapped.

Instead, he sat perfectly still.

All he could feel was the warmth of her hands against skin that had long ago forgotten gentleness. When he finally spoke, his voice had become little more than a rasp. "Why are you doing this?"

Destri's fingers lingered against his cheek, impossibly light against the old scars that crossed his skin. Beneath her hand, he was warm and solid and achingly human. For a moment, she simply looked at him. Then, quietly, she answered.

"Because you don't have to be alone."

His breath caught. It was brief, little more than a hitch in his chest, but Destri felt it all the same as his hand rose to cover hers, calloused fingers wrapping around her smaller ones and pressing her palm more firmly against the rough line of his jaw. The gesture was deliberate, almost cautious beneath its certainty, as though some part of him still expected her to recoil from the scars beneath her fingertips.

Firelight danced across his face, carving deep shadows into the sharp planes of his features and softening nothing about the man sitting in front of her. He was still all hard edges and old wounds, still broad shoulders and battle-worn hands, and yet, for the first time since she'd met him, he looked strangely unguarded.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Ghost lowered his head, the touch of his lips against the inside of her wrist so gentle that she almost thought she'd imagined it. It was little more than warmth against the frantic beat of her pulse. It wasn't demanding or possessive. If anything, it felt dangerously close to surrender.

And still, she didn't pull away.

Ghost kept his gaze fixed on hers as he pressed that soft kiss to her skin. Somewhere along the way, her presence had become terrifyingly easy to accept. Having her this close felt less like an intrusion and more like something his body had been expecting all along.

For once, his instincts had fallen silent.

The same voice that had spent years urging him toward solitude now wanted something else entirely. It wanted to keep her there, exactly as she was. Only a breath away, her hand warm against his face, her pulse racing beneath his lips.

As the moment stretched between them, suspended in the hush of the cabin, his grip remained firm around her wrist, grounding himself as much as her, but there was an unfamiliar hesitation in the way he held her, as though he were committing every detail to memory.

The warmth of her skin.

The steadiness in her touch.

The impossible fact that she hadn't run.

Destri's breath caught somewhere in her chest, but she made no move to step back. She wasn't certain she could have, even if she'd wanted to.

Ghost exhaled against her pulse, the sound rough and uneven. "You shouldn't trust me."

The words landed between them like embers.

A warning? A confession? Perhaps both?

Destri studied him quietly, her thumb brushing once more along the scar that cut across his jaw. Beneath her hand, he was tense enough to break apart and yet impossibly still, waiting for her to hear the warning hidden inside his voice.

Instead, she smiled, small and stubborn.

"Too late."

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