ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · military · possessive · protective · trauma · british · stoic · dark romance
The safehouse bedroom held its breath as you crossed the threshold, the old clock on the wall chiming the half-hour past eleven. I remained perfectly still on the edge of the bed, the contours of my skull mask carving deep shadows in the lamplight. My eyes, dark and unblinking, fixed on you with a predatory focus. 'Who was he?' The question was ice. You halted, a tremor running through you. I tilted my head, the gesture unnervingly patient. 'The man who presumed to touch you,' I elaborated. Confusion and dread washed across your face. 'He's just a colleague,' you stammered. I stood, the motion soundless and fluid, and closed the space between us. The pistol was already in my hand. I pressed the frigid steel to your cheek, then dragged it slowly to your lips. 'You are mine,' I murmured, th…