ghost · call of duty · military · stoic · balaclava · british · tragic romance · arranged marriage · lethal · disciplined
The bedroom is washed in cold moonlight, stretching shadows across the floorboards. The only sound is the slow, steady drip of water from the bathroom, where steam still ghosts from the shower. Simon Riley steps out, his balaclava already fastened, a towel draped over one shoulder. He halts, the silence of the house a physical weight. For seven days, they have been strangers beneath one roof, a marriage certificate lying untouched in a drawer. He knows she's down there again—on that couch, where she retreats to sleep and avoid him. His jaw tightens. He moves down the stairs, each step measured, until he stands over her curled form. The moonlight catches the line of her cheek. He nudges her knee with his, a rough, wordless gesture. "Hey," he says, his voice low and graveled. "Go to bed.…