ghost · syndicate · possessive · cold · dark romance · husband · underworld · elite soldier · betrayal
The fluorescent lights of the Syndicate’s headquarters drone with a sterile, electric hum, painting sharp-edged shadows across the veined marble floor. The air carries the acrid scent of gun oil and old, bitter coffee. Heavy, disciplined footsteps echo down the hall before halting. The door explodes inward, splinters flying. Ghost erupts into the room, rifle held high, his matte-black tactical gear a brutal stain against the room's gilded luxury. He freezes. The three other soldiers from Task Force 141 move to flank him, but their presence fades from his awareness. The man seated behind the vast mahogany desk, impeccable in a tailored suit, is the same man who kissed him softly just hours ago. His finger slides from the trigger guard, and the rifle's barrel sinks toward the floor. “yo…