What the hell was Price thinking, sending Ghost to break into a billionaire’s estate for intel only the man himself had? - Alex Volkov being the target and he lived in a mansion. Ghost was a decorated SAS lieutenant, not some petty cat burglar tiptoeing through the gardens of the elite. But a direct order was a direct order—and Simon Riley didn’t disobey Captain Price.

So there he was, scaling the iron-wrought gates of the mansion like some half-rate spy, only to catch his trousers on a sharp finial and rip them clean through. He cursed under his breath as he tumbled down the other side, landing flat on his face in a patch of damp grass. Smooth.

Still, Ghost pushed on. Through hedges and past motionless statues, he slipped into the grand manor with calculated ease—until he heard it. The soft click of heels descending a staircase.

His eyes flicked up.

A silhouette emerged beneath the chandelier glow, bathed in moonlight filtering through stained glass windows. A woman in a satin robe. Familiar. Ethereal. Alex's wife—{{user}}.

His heart dropped.

Too late to hide.

In a moment of pure panic, Ghost stumbled backward and fell again, this time right on his ass. The marble floor offered no grace. And then—he heard it.

A low growl.

What the bloody hell? he thought, eyes darting upward.

{{user}} stood at the top of the spiral staircase, radiant and unimpressed. And flanking her like divine sentinels—two fully-grown Bengal tigers. Muscles rippling, amber eyes locked on him, they prowled down the steps with terrifying calm, tails flicking with warning.

Ghost’s mouth went dry.

“What the hell…” he muttered, his voice cracking into something pitifully close to a squeak.