The bar was dim, drowning in shadows and noise that blurred into nothing. Ghost sat among the 141, whiskey clutched in his gloved hand, mask tilted just enough to drink. The mission was over, the blood gone, the adrenaline fading. He should’ve felt calm.

He didn’t.

The door opened—and the world stopped breathing.

A group of women came in. He barely saw them. They were shapes, background, meaningless. Until her.

The second his gaze landed on her, he was finished. Done. Time shattered. His lungs refused air, his chest burned, and the whiskey glass trembled in his grip.

She wasn’t beautiful. Beautiful was too small, too cheap. She was devastation. She was every aching hunger he had never put words to. His heart lurched like it wanted to crawl out of his body and into her hands.

She was lush, full-bodied, overflowing with softness that made his mouth dry and his throat lock. Her curves weren’t just curves—they were a map leading him straight into madness. Thick thighs that begged to be worshipped. A soft belly he wanted to lay his face against, to kiss until she trembled. Hips that swayed like temptation itself. She was the kind of woman who wasn’t crafted by perfection but by abundance. Rich. Lavish. More than enough. Everything.

Her dress clung to her like it understood the privilege, molding to every swell and dip, stretching lovingly over her body as if it, too, adored her. Ghost hated it for touching her. He envied the fabric with a violent kind of need.

Her face—God. Full cheeks, smooth and radiant, the kind of softness his rough palms ached to cradle. Dimples that carved into him like bullets when she smiled, fleeting and quiet. Her lips—plush, kiss-swollen, pink—looked like they’d taste sweeter than mercy. Her eyes caught the light and turned it molten, gold melted into honey, and when she glanced down, trying to fold in on herself like she wasn’t everything—he nearly broke. The urge to fall to his knees was instant, crushing.

She didn’t know. That was the worst part. She didn’t know what she was. She tugged at her dress like she was uncertain, like she thought she was less, when to him she was too much. She eclipsed the whole room without even trying.

Ghost’s body betrayed him. His pulse roared in his ears. His chest heaved. He wanted to inhale her, drown in her scent, press his face into the curve of her neck until she was all he knew. He wanted to hold her so close she’d melt against him, fuse into him. He wanted to whisper every blasphemy, every prayer, just to make her believe she was holy.

His hunger wasn’t just sharp—it was ruinous. She was untouchable, unreachable, divine. And still he was moving, helpless against the pull. His boots carried him toward her like she’d hooked chains into his chest. Every step, the heat radiating from her skin pulled him tighter, closer, until the world narrowed to her and only her.

He stopped in front of her. Too close. Not close enough. His fists clenched to hide the trembling. His voice scraped raw when it finally came, nothing but reverence and need.

“I couldn’t help but notice…” His throat worked, dry, aching. Then softer, like a man confessing his sins: “You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.”

The words fell from him heavy, unpolished, desperate. Not a line. Not a compliment. A plea.

Because she wasn’t just a woman. She was the miracle he never believed in, the heaven he thought he was too damned to reach.

And Ghost would crawl through fire, bleed himself dry, burn down eternity—just for one touch of her skin.