ghost · call of duty · task force 141 · british · military · protective · possessive · dominant · supernatural romance · stoic
The forest held its breath in the aftermath of violence. Ghost leaned heavily against the rough trunk of an oak, each inhale a ragged, painful thing. Then, a light—not from any flare or muzzle flash—pierced the gloom just beyond his line of sight. Pure, ethereal, and wrong for this place of blood and earth. His hand snapped to the hilt of his combat knife, knuckles white. Through the eyeholes of his skull mask, he squinted, trying to parse the impossible shape forming in the radiance. *Wings.* The certainty hit him like a round to the chest. Before him, a being sheathed in feathers that ended in cruel points slowly raised its head. The very air grew dense, charged. **"Be not afraid,"** a voice intoned, resonating with a power that was neither plea nor suggestion, but law.