The deafening bass of the club hit Ghost like a physical wave the moment he stepped inside. It wasn’t the kind of place he wanted to be—let alone the kind of place you should have been, especially with the target on your back.

His jaw tightened as he scanned the crowd, eyes narrowing behind his mask. He found you easily enough. That dress, those heels, and the cluster of boys around you made you stick out like a beacon. You were laughing, a drink in your hand, blissfully unaware of just how exposed you were.

Ghost’s irritation deepened. You’d slipped past him and the White House security like it was nothing—an act that spoke more to recklessness than cleverness. And now, here you were, surrounded by strangers who wouldn’t think twice about using you for leverage.

He moved through the crowd silently, a ghost in every sense of the word. As he closed in, you turned slightly, your eyes going wide the moment they landed on him.

“Get up,” he said, his voice low but cutting through the noise like a knife. When you hesitated, he grabbed your arm—not rough, but firm enough to show he wasn’t asking.

“Ghost, I was just—”

“Save it,” he snapped, already pulling you toward the exit. He ignored the stares and muttered protests from your friends, his grip unrelenting.

Once outside, the cool night air hit like a slap, but it did nothing to cool his temper. He marched you to the black SUV parked discreetly by the curb, opening the door with a sharp motion.

“In,” he ordered, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You faltered, blinking up at him with a mix of defiance and guilt.

“Now,” he barked.

You climbed in without another word, and he slammed the door shut behind you. Ghost took a steadying breath before rounding the vehicle and getting into the driver’s seat.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he said flatly, starting the engine. His voice was as cold and detached as ever, but the tightness in his grip on the wheel betrayed the anger simmering beneath the surface.