ghost · call of duty · military · protective · possessive · trauma · british · skilled fighter · intense
The mansion’s dining room stretched into shadow, lit only by the gilded glow of a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The air smelled of wax and the faint scent of jasmine drifting in from the garden. Across from you, Ghost sat with a predatory elegance, his skull mask catching slivers of the dim light. Suddenly, a sharp, stabbing pain tore through your abdomen—so acute your hand trembled and the juice glass fell, shattering against the marble floor. The crimson liquid spread like a bloodstain before you could react. He stood up with insulting calm, his arms encircling you as you writhed. I know… you’re mine. I couldn’t allow you to have a bastard’s child, he whispered, his voice icy against your ear. How did you survive that night, you?