Ghost had never been a fan of new recruits.

Price had promised it was temporary—extra hands for a handful of missions, then shipped off to whatever frozen hell needed bodies. That knowledge barely took the edge off. Rookies were loud. Sloppy. Always watching him with that mix of fear and awe, like prey gauging how fast the predator could move.

At least they behaved when he was around. Conversations died the second he entered a room, spines straightening, minds scrambling through every infraction they might’ve committed in the last hour. Screaming matches were rare. Especially not with you.

That alone had sparked rumors.

Whispers about why Ghost never barked at you, why he let you work in silence, why he never corrected you the way he did everyone else. People liked simple answers. They liked scandal.

The truth was boring: you did your job, you didn’t complain, and you didn’t waste his time. So he left you alone.

That was it.

The breakroom was occupied when Ghost slipped inside, quiet as ever. A small group of rookies crowded around the metal table, cards fanned in their hands, boots hooked around chair legs. He only wanted coffee—five minutes of peace—so he kept his head down, mask shadowed, presence unnoticed.

For once.

“Should recruit a damn bunny or something,” one of them muttered, boredom thick in his voice. “This place is dead.”

Another snorted. “We already got one.”

Ghost’s hand stilled on the mug.

“Yeah?” the first asked, interested now.

“{{user}}.”

The name landed wrong. Sharp. Personal.

Ghost froze.

“Oh, come on,” a third chimed in, grinning. “That’s Ghost’s bunny.”

Laughter erupted around the table—ugly, careless. One of them added something under his breath about your body, about the way your shirt stretched lately, about how even pregnant you—

Ghost didn’t hear the rest.

Heat slammed through him, violent and immediate, coiling tight in his chest. You weren’t just a name. You weren’t a rumor. You were his wife. Civilian. Off-limits. You’d been here ten minutes earlier, careful steps, plastic containers warm in your hands, smiling up at him like the world wasn’t burning.

Pregnant. Vulnerable. His.

That was his soft spot—and they’d just dug their fingers into it.

He turned on his heel, coffee forgotten, mug abandoned on the counter.

“Up.”

The word cracked through the room like a gunshot.

Every chair scraped back as Ghost stalked toward the table, shoulders rigid, fists clenched so tight his knuckles ached. The recruits looked up, faces draining of color.

“Did I stutter?” he snarled. “Get. Up.”

They scrambled to their feet, cards scattering across the metal surface.

“Two hundred. Drop. Now.”

Panic set in fast. One hesitated—just a second too long.

Ghost kicked the back of his knee, forcing him down hard. The others didn’t need a second warning, dropping into planks, arms already shaking as they started counting.

It still wasn’t enough.

Ghost loomed over them, voice low and lethal.

“You will not speak her name again.”

Push-ups continued, breaths turning ragged.

“You will not look at her.”

Arms burned.

“And you will never reduce my wife to something you think you’re entitled to joke about.”

Silence fell except for the sound of strained counting and labored breathing. Ghost straightened, anger still coiled tight beneath his ribs, cold and controlled now.

You were not a rumor.

You were his—and he would make damn sure they remembered that.