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Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - fanfic
The Hereford conference room was thick with the suffocating atmosphere of a hard-won victory. High-ranking officials and Task Force 141 were packed into the sterile space, the air hazy with the lingering scent of stale coffee and the triumphant energy of men who believed the world had just become a safer place.
Captain Smith, leading the SRR detachment, paced at the head of the long oak table, his voice booming over the celebratory roar. "That target, 'Al-Qarib,' thought he was untouchable in the heart of the Al-Jabr district," Smith boasted, slamming a heavy hand onto the polished wood. "He picked the wrong day to set up shop in that complex. Surgical, clean, and over before the sun hit the horizon!"
The room erupted in cheers. At the center of the table, Eve sat motionless. She was the architect of this operation, the woman who had spent five agonizing months deep undercover, weaving through the Al-Jabr district to secure the intel that led to this moment. She forced a tight, brittle smile, nodding mechanically at the praise, but the expression died long before it reached her eyes.
She stared intensely at the grain of the table, her world narrowing to a single, horrific point. Her mind was trapped in an endless, rhythmic loop of the final drone feed. Intel had been certain—until they weren’t. Al-Qarib had moved his location at the eleventh hour, seeking sanctuary in a structure that was, unbeknownst to them, an improvised mosque. She had made the call. She had authorized the strike. She could still see the thermal signatures of the five civilians—heat pulses that simply ceased to exist when the payload hit.
Directly across from her sat Ghost. He was a monument of stillness amidst the revelry, his arms crossed over his tactical vest. He had been on the ground during the strike, coordinating the perimeter, but he hadn't been the one to issue the kill order. He was the only one in the room who wasn’t laughing. He had been reading her body language for months, through every shared mission and every silent, professional standoff they’d endured. He could see the cracks in her composure that no one else was looking for.
Feeling the absolute weight of his focus, Eve’s eyes involuntarily flicked upward, locking with his. Beneath the hollows of his skull mask, his gaze was heavy, dark, and devastatingly perceptive. He didn't look triumphant; he looked like he was dissecting her soul, weighing the exact same silence she was struggling to bury. For a suspended heartbeat, the invisible, magnetic tension they always tried to ignore bridged the gap between them—a silent, agonizing understanding in a room full of deafening noise.
Needing to break the exposure, she finally forced her eyes away.
"I need some air," Eve said, her voice a fragile reed that barely cut through the chaotic noise of the room.
She stood up abruptly, the screech of her chair against the linoleum echoing like a gunshot. The room’s chatter seemed to mute as she turned to leave. She walked past the back-slapping and the hollow proclamations of glory, her boots sounding heavy on the floorboards. She could feel Ghost’s stare trailing her, a physical weight between her shoulder blades that burned long after she had pushed through the heavy double doors.
Behind her, the rest of the operators were already prepping to move to the pub, a night of drinking and debauchery ahead. Ghost remained in his seat, motionless, his gaze fixed firmly on the empty space where she had been standing, his silence hanging in the room like a ghost of its own.
*************
The office was a tomb of cold, blue light. The only illumination came from the singular monitor on Eve’s desk, casting long, skeletal shadows over the mission briefs and tactical maps scattered across the workspace—the wreckage of an operation that had succeeded in every metric except the one that mattered.
Eve sat slumped in her chair, her posture stripped of the military precision she wore like armor. Her elbows were anchored to the desk, her fingers buried deep in her hair as she stared, unseeing, at the terminal. Beside her, a bottle of bourbon sat with its neck exposed, nearly half its contents gone.
The heavy door clicked shut behind her, the sound muffled and deliberate. She didn't have to look up to know who it was. The silence that followed was heavy, familiar, and charged with the same electricity that had hummed between them in the conference room.
Ghost stood by the door, his silhouette imposing against the dim glow of the hallway. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, his gaze moving from the cluttered desk to the half-empty bottle, and finally, to the frayed, hollow expression on her face.
Eve finally let her hands drop, the movement heavy and uncoordinated. She turned her head slowly, her eyes bloodshot and unfocused, meeting his shadowed gaze.
"You should be celebrating with the rest," she said, her voice raspy and devoid of its usual sharp edge.
Ghost moved forward, his tactical gear making a soft, rhythmic clatter against his frame. "The pub's no place for me," he replied, his voice a low, gravel-ridden rasp that barely rippled the silence. "Too much noise. Not enough truth."
Eve let out a jagged, humorless laugh that caught in her throat. She reached for the glass, and took a slow, deliberate swallow before leaning back into the leather of her chair. The whiskey burned, but it wasn't enough to cauterize the rot spreading through her chest.
"Yeah," she breathed, her tone dripping with a dark, self-loathing irony. "Let's celebrate. Let's raise a glass to the fact that I deliberately killed five civilians." Eve’s voice raspy and stripped of all pretense.
She stared at him, daring him to offer a platitude, daring him to be like the rest of the command that had already filed her mistake away as a footnote. Ghost just watched her, his expression unreadable behind the mask, his silence a testament to the fact that he was the only one in the entire base who understood the weight of the blood on her hands.
She dropped her head. The whiskey in her glass seemed to catch the dying blue light of the monitor, looking like stagnant, dark water.
"I've killed so many people in my life," she whispered, her voice barely rising above the hum of the computer’s cooling fan. "Most of them were targets. It was always... it was me or them. A tactical necessity. But this time..." She trailed off, the reality of the "why" clawing at her throat. "This time, I could have chosen not to. I could have waited."
She let out a sharp, shuddering breath, the alcohol failing to numb the sharp edges of her regret. She lowered her head further, before the word finally escaped her, jagged and broken.
"Fuck."
Ghost leaned against the edge of the desk, his presence looming over her like a dark, protective monolith.
"Waiting wasn't an option, Eve, and you know that. You didn't choose to kill civilians—you chose to stop a monster. Don't go romanticizing your guilt; it's a luxury neither of us has." Ghost said, his voice flat and devoid of judgment. It was a cold, hard fact of their profession.
She looked at him.
"Drown if you want, but don't call it a choice. It was a sacrifice. If you're going to decide who pays the price, you’d better be strong enough to carry it. Don't let their deaths be a waste. Either they died for nothing, or they’re the price for the world you're trying to save."
Her gaze locked onto his mask with an intensity that seemed to pierce through the skull pattern, searching for any sign of hesitation in his eyes. He gave her nothing but that unwavering, stony stare.
Finally, she broke the contact. She grabbed the glass and downed the remaining whiskey in one sharp, burning swallow.
She stared into the empty glass, swirling the last drop of amber liquid against the crystal. A hollow, jagged sound escaped her—a laugh that carried no humor, only exhaustion.
"Did you know," she murmured, her voice barely a breath against the sterile silence of the office, "that when I first came here, they called me 'Redcoat'?"
She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with a mix of alcohol and cold, hard reality.
"Guess I’m going soft."
Eve shoved the empty glass aside, the crystal clinking sharply against the desk. She braced her hands against the edge, pushing herself up, though her equilibrium faltered, the room tilting dangerously. She swayed, her boots scraping unevenly against the floor as she reached for her jacket draped over the chair. Her fingers fumbled with the fabric, her movements jagged and uncoordinated.
With a heavy exhale, she fished the keys to her motorcycle from her pocket, the metal clattering as she gripped them.
"You can't drive like that, Thorne," Ghost’s voice cut through the haze, low and steady. He hadn't moved an inch, his eyes tracking her every unsteady step.
Eve stilled. She gripped the edge of the desk with her left hand to steady her spinning head. With her right hand, she leveled the keys at him, her index finger extended, stabbing the air in his direction with every word. Her gaze was sharp, defiant, and swimming with raw, unvarnished misery.
"You know, Riley," she slurred, her voice a dangerous, brittle whisper. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."
He watched her for a beat, his head tilting ever so slightly—a silent, calculated assessment. He let out an impatient huff, a sound of pure exasperation, before he plucked the keys from her limp grip.
"Let's fuckin' go," he said.
The cold night air did absolutely nothing to sober Eve up. If anything, the sharp drop in temperature only made the entire Hereford parking lot spin faster. The world was tilting, its edges blurred and unreliable, and every step she took felt like navigating a minefield. Ghost guided her firmly, his hand a clamp of steel around her arm, steering her away from the motorcycle bay and toward the dark, imposing silhouette of his truck.
As he reached for the door handle, Eve suddenly planted her hands against the cold metal of the truck and shoved herself backward, stumbling heavily against his frame. She squinted, her eyes narrowing as she tried to focus on the vehicle, treating it with the same suspicion she would an enemy combatant.
"That's not my bike," she slurred, pointing a wobbly, accusatory finger at the truck. "You’re off-target, Riley."
Ghost didn't even look at her. He hauled the door open with a sharp thud, his eyes visible through the tactical mask, hardening with a mixture of impatient, icy amusement. "You can barely stand, Thorne. I’m not hauling your corpse off the tarmac because you decided to play stuntwoman at one in the morning."
He grabbed her by the waist, his grip bruisingly efficient, and hoisted her up into the passenger seat before she could even formulate a protest. As he leaned over her to reach for the seatbelt, she let out a mock-gasp, her voice laced with that chaotic, drunken defiance.
"You're kidnapping me!!"
Ghost paused, his face mere inches from hers. He pulled the belt across her chest with a sharp, clinical click, securing her in place. He didn't pull back immediately; instead, he hovered there, looming over her, the mask making him look like a dark phantom in the dim light of the cabin.
Eve stared up at him, a faint, lopsided smile tugging at the corner of her mouth—a flicker of the woman she used to be, now softened and exposed by the bourbon.
Ghost held her gaze, the amusement in his eyes sharpening into something colder, something more possessive. "You're welcome," he murmured, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that settled in the small space between them.
The drive to Eve’s apartment was a study in heavy, pressurized silence. Eve drifted in and out of a drunken stupor, her head lolling against the window, her gaze unfocused as the city lights blurred into streaks of color. By the time the truck rolled to a stop, she was barely tethered to reality.
As the engine cut out, the silence of the night rushed into the cabin. Eve blinked, the sudden stillness jolting her back into a jagged awareness. She reached for the handle, her movements clumsy, but before she could force the door open, it swung wide from the outside.
She jumped, nearly falling out of the seat. "Bloody Jesus! Where the hell did you come from?!"
Ghost let out a low, huffed breath—a sound caught somewhere between genuine annoyance and a hint of grim, predatory mirth. He didn’t bother answering. Instead, he reached in, hauling her upright against his chest. Eve gasped, her fingers clawing into the fabric of his jacket for stability, her forehead coming to rest against his shoulder. She was dead weight, her legs feeling like they were carved from lead.
She tilted her head back, her neck strained, her eyes swimming and unfocused as she looked up at the skull mask looming over her, the usual sharp edge replaced by a dazed, liquid softness."
"If you let go," she slurred, her voice a desperate, stubborn whisper, "I’m staying right here on the ground. I’m not fuckin' moving."
Ghost’s grip tightened, his patience clearly thinning. He shifted, sliding an arm beneath her knees and the other firmly behind her back, locking her against him.
"I figured as much, Thorne," he rasped, his tone clipped and mock-exasperated.
He hauled her up against his chest with effortless, crushing strength. As he turned toward her apartment, she tucked her face into the crook of his neck, the scent of him—gun oil, cold air, and something distinctly, uniquely Ghost—invading her senses. Her breathing was shallow and ragged.
"You're a real pain in the ass when you're drunk," he muttered, his voice vibrating through his chest and into hers.
Eve let out a low, bubbly giggle that sounded entirely out of place in the night air. She shifted, her head resting heavily against his collarbone as they moved toward the stairs.
"You know," she whispered, her words trailing off into a slur, "everybody in the base is so fuckin' afraid of you."
Ghost didn't slow his pace, but his hold on her shifted, becoming marginally more careful. "Is that so?"
"Yeah," she breathed, her hand brushing sluggishly against his chest. "If they only knew what a sweetheart you are..."
Ghost stiffened for a microsecond, the absurdity of the comment cutting through his usual stoicism. Beneath the mask, a ghost of a smirk played on his lips—a rare, private indulgence. He enjoyed this version of her: the jagged edges of her professional armor stripped away, leaving behind a reckless, drunken honesty that no one else was ever permitted to see.
"Keep talkin' like that," he rumbled, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous, low tremor, "and I might just let you fall."
Eve only hummed against his neck, too far gone to care, letting him carry her deeper into the shadows of the building.
As they neared the door, the weight of her body felt surprisingly natural in his arms.
"You're always this strong?" she mumbled into his chest, her voice thick with wonder.
Ghost didn't look down. "You’re just light, Thorne."
She looked at the expanse of his chest, tracing a finger sluggishly over the hard frame. "Like a bloody tank," she breathed, a small, genuine smile on her face.
The air shifted. Her touch, usually so precise and sharp, was now languid and terrifyingly honest. Ghost felt a strange, jarring spike in his chest—a feeling he’d buried under years of discipline. He ignored it, focusing on the tactical reality of the hallway.
They reached the door. "The keypad," Ghost prompted, his voice flat.
Eve blinked, staring at the number pad like it was an alien device. "What?"
"Your bloody keypad, Eve."
"Oh, shit... right." She fumbled with the buttons, eventually punching in the code with a clumsy "Got it."
They spilled into her apartment. Immediately, a white cloud of fur darted out, weaving between their legs. Eve leaned precariously against Ghost’s hold. "Hey, Reaper... mom is a little tipsy… This is Ghost… don't hiss at him, the mask is just to hide the fact that he's actually a total sweetheart.” Ghost exhaled, his patience hovering on a razor’s edge.
"You named your white Angora, Reaper?"
Eve fixed him with a look of mock-seriousness. "You named yourself 'Ghost’?"
He murmured, his voice a low vibration against her, "Fair enough."
He carried her to the bedroom, dropping her onto the mattress. She sank into the sheets, looking small and undone. Ghost went to work on her gear, stripping the holster and the jacket from her with professional efficiency. Eve shifted onto her side, watching him with heavy-lidded curiosity.
As he braced a knee on the mattress to reach for her boots, she reached out, capturing his hand. "You’ve got bloody big hands" She murmured tracing his knuckles—the hands of a man built for demolition. "Totally destructive, 'ruining life' kind of hands."
Ghost’s heart hammered against his ribs. He yanked his hand away as if burned. "You’re so drunk."
"Have you ever choked a girl with them?"
Ghost muttered, "Jesus... please, stop."
"Why?" She smiled, slow and dangerous. "Am I making you nervous?"
He didn't look at her, focusing intently on the laces of her boot. "For fuck's sake, Eve... you need to stop talking."
"Why?" she asked, her voice dropping into a low, honeyed register. "Don’t you like talking to me?"
His grip tightened on the boot, his knuckles turning white. His control was evaporating like mist. "I’d like you more if you were unconscious," he huffed, hard. "Or in restraints."
Eve’s smile widened, unbothered. "Is that a threat? Cause if so, it’s working."
He grunted—a deep, violent sound in his throat that betrayed she’d hit a nerve.
"Bloody hell." His breathing grew jagged from the sheer, suffocating restraint.
"I’ll do it really… I've liked you for months, you know."
He froze. The boot dangled in his hand.
"...What?" he asked, his voice a low, gravel-ridden warning: Don't you dare start something you won't finish. But Eve was too deep in the bourbon to care.
"Just saying... since we're already here." She squeezed her eyes shut and tucked her chin toward her chest. "Used to think about you when I couldn't sleep."
He swallowed hard, and the grip he had on her ankle was tight enough to shatter bone. Eve turned onto her back. "Sometimes… when I'm alone and I can't sleep… I just think about you touching my—"
Ghost was a blur of motion. Before the words could fully manifest, his hand was clamped firmly over her mouth. Her eyes snapped open, wide and startled, meeting his. His pupils were blown, his gaze dark, intense, and filled with a raw, terrifying hunger he had spent a lifetime concealing.
"You have got to stop talking!" he growled, the intensity of his focus pinning her to the mattress.
Eve narrowed her eyes, studying the man who usually looked at the world with nothing but tactical detachment.
He pulled his hand away, his chest heaving. "Yes, sir," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
He finished removing her boots, his movements jerky and hurried. She curled onto her side again, eyes drifting shut, surrendering to the alcohol. Ghost stood there, staring down at her. He watched the way her hair fanned across the pillow, the way her breathing deepened. Every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to turn and leave, to preserve the mask, to keep the distance. But the attraction he’d harbored since the day he first saw her—the one he’d buried beneath a thousand missions—was clawing its way to the surface. He felt like he’d been hit by a brick; he was paralyzed by the sheer, overwhelming want of her.
He began to turn, his knuckles white as he clenched his fists, forcing himself to breathe.
"…night, Simon," she whispered, her voice a sultry, hazy drift. "I'll dream with you..."
Ghost stopped dead. His jaw locked, his fist tightening until his nails bit into his palms. He didn't turn back. He caught Reaper’s gaze in the doorway—a silent, judgmental witness—and walked out into the cold, quiet night, shutting the door on the most dangerous temptation he had ever known.
***********
The morning sun clawed at Eve’s eyes with a relentless, punishing intensity. Her head throbbed—a rhythmic, drilling pain that made every nerve in her body recoil. She tried to sit up, but her limbs felt like lead, heavy and uncooperative. A low groan escaped her as she struggled to push herself off the mattress, her equilibrium betraying her as the room swayed dangerously.
As she finally managed to prop herself up, the movement stirred the air, and she realized. She was still in her clothes, but the holster, the jacket, the boots—everything had been stripped away.
The silence of the room was suddenly shattered as the memories hit her like a physical blow. The office. The bourbon. The truck. The way she had looked at him, the things she had confessed, and the suffocating hunger in his gaze when he pinned her down to the mattress.
She froze. Reaper sat at the edge of the bed, his white fur stark against the sheets, his yellow eyes unblinking, judging.
Eve pressed a trembling hand to her pounding forehead, the weight of her own recklessness crashing down on her. "Shit," she breathed into the silence.
Three days. She had spent three days in a self-imposed exile, burying herself in paperwork and avoiding the mess hall, the gym, and any corridor that smelled even faintly of gun oil and cold air.
But she couldn't avoid him forever.
The door to the briefing room was slightly ajar. Ghost was positioned at the head of the long oak table, the sterile blue light of a tactical monitor washing over his mask, his posture as still as a statue. As she pushed the door open, the faint sound made him rotate his chair just enough to lock onto her.
He didn't speak. He didn't even shift his weight. He just watched, his eyes—cold and all-seeing—tracking her hesitant entry.
Eve felt the heat crawl up her neck, but she forced her jaw to set. She took a breath, trying to summon the armor she usually wore like a second skin.
"I need my keys," she said, her voice tighter than she intended. "My bike… You have my keys."
Ghost held her gaze. Slowly, with a deliberate, maddening grace, he reached into his jacket pocket. He extended his arm toward her, his hand holding the set of keys, waiting in the air between them like a challenge.
Eve stepped forward, forced by his refusal to meet her halfway. She reached out, her fingers brushing against the cold metal, taking care to avoid even the slightest contact with his skin.
"Thanks," she murmured.
For a microsecond, their eyes locked. There was no warmth, only a heavy, unspoken acknowledgment of everything that had been said—and everything that had been left hanging—in that dark bedroom three nights ago.
She didn't wait for him to respond. She pivoted on her heel and moved toward the exit with frantic speed.
She nearly collided with Soap in the doorway.
"Hey, Thorne! Nice to see you—"
Eve didn't even register his presence. She swept past him, her boots clicking sharply against the floor as she all but fled down the hallway.
Soap watched her retreat, his brow furrowing in confusion. He stepped into the room, nodding at his partner. "What’s wrong with her? She’s movein' like the devil’s on her heels."
Ghost turned his chair back toward the monitor, his movements slow and methodical. Underneath the tactical mask, a small, satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth.
*********
The briefing room was stifling. Captain Smith stood at the head of the long table, his laser pointer cutting a sharp red line across the digital map of the Al-Jabr district. Beside him, Price leaned back, his arms crossed, his gaze shifting between Smith’s tactical readouts and the Task Force 141 members flanking the table.
Eve sat at the edge of the perimeter, her spine ramrod straight, her demeanor masked by layers of military conditioning. But beneath the surface, the ghosts of three nights ago were still pacing through her system, making the air in the room feel thin. She kept her eyes fixed on the map, mapping the grid coordinates with a precision that was purely mechanical.
She felt the weight of Ghost’s focus before she even saw it. He was sitting opposite her, a dark, silent silhouette. Every instinct screamed at her to look up, to acknowledge the tension, but she refused. She stared at a mountain range on the screen, her jaw tight, focusing so hard on the topography that she nearly missed the shift in the room's frequency.
"...the egress points are compromised, Price. We need someone who knows the layout of these tunnels better than their own backyard," Smith was saying, his voice cutting through the hum of the cooling fans.
Price nodded, his voice dropping to a gravelly low. "We need a scout who can map the transition in real-time."
Price glanced at Eve, then flicked his eyes toward Ghost. "And we need someone who can work in perfect sync with the point man."
Eve was drifting, her mind catching on the memory of the night in her apartment—the weight of his hands, the intensity of his silence. She didn't realize the room had gone quiet until Smith’s voice sharpened, snapping her back to reality.
"Thorne."
Eve blinked, the focus returning to her eyes in a sharp, sudden jerk. She straightened, her hand moving instinctively to rest against her chin, her thumb tracing the line of her jaw.
"The SRR is handing over the reconnaissance lead to you, Eve," Smith continued. "You’re going to be the eyes for this entire operation. You'll be guiding Ghost and the rest of them through the subterranean network. If we lose the feed, we lose the mission."
Price stepped in, his expression serious. "We need a phantom in the dark, Thorne. You know the district. You guide them in, you map the sector, and you get them out." He turned his head slightly toward Ghost. "Ghost, you’re the lead on the ground. You stick to her grid. You don't make a move until she clears the path. Understood?"
Ghost didn't look at Price. His eyes were locked on Eve, specifically on the slight, rhythmic tension in the muscles of her jaw as her thumb brushed against her chin—a tiny, betraying tremor of nerves.
Eve felt his gaze intensify, a physical pressure that made her skin prickle. She didn't look at him. She couldn't afford to. She pulled her hand away from her face, her movements deliberate and cold.
"Understood, Captain," she said, her voice steady, professional, and entirely hollow.
Ghost didn't move, but the air around him seemed to darken. The silence that followed wasn't just tactical; it was personal. He was the shadow that would be inches behind her in the dark, and she was the only one who knew exactly how dangerous that silence truly was.
****************
The objective was clear but dangerous: infiltration of an underground data hub in Al-Jabr to extract hard-drive encryption keys before a rival cell could wipe them.
The team split. Price took the perimeter, Soap and Gaz pushed through the western flank, while Eve and Ghost descended into the labyrinthine tunnels.
Eve moved with lethal grace, her eyes tracking thermal signatures on her HUD. She signaled a halt, her hand slicing the air. Ghost mirrored her movement, his weapon raised, his eyes never leaving the back of her head. Without a word, Eve surged forward, her rifle barking twice—a clean double-tap to two hostiles emerging from the shadows.
They reached the primary hub, but Eve’s expression darkened. The configuration was wrong. "Hold here," she commanded, her voice sharp. "Watch the ingress point. I have to verify the node in the sub-sector."
She turned to leave, but Ghost’s hand shot out, clamping around her arm. His grip was steel. "No fuckin' way. You're not going alone."
Eve pulled back, her eyes meeting his through the mask. For a second, the world narrowed to just them. "I'll come back," she whispered, her voice absolute.
Ghost held her gaze, the intensity vibrating between them, before he slowly uncurled his fingers. He nodded.
Eve vanished into the dark. Ghost counted the seconds, his heart hammering against his ribs in a rhythmic, agonizing cadence. Then, the radio crackled with the sound of gunfire—short, violent bursts.
"Eve, talk to me!" Ghost growled, his voice a lethal serrated edge. Panicked silence stretched for three agonizing seconds. "Thorne!"
"Resistance found," her voice finally broke through, breathless but steady. "Node secured. Moving back to you."
The moment she rounded the corner, Ghost felt the crushing weight in his chest dissipate. He stepped toward her, his gaze instantly dropping to her arm. A dark, jagged stain was blooming across her sleeve. "You're bleeding."
Eve barely glanced at the wound, her focus already on the data drive. "I'm fine." She kept working, her hands steady despite the blood dripping from her fingertips. Ghost stood over her, his internal discipline warring with a primal urge to pull her into him and ensure she never got hurt again. His control was fraying.
"Let's get the hell out," she finally whispered.
Ghost keyed his radio. "Price, objective secure. We're on the move."
They were fifty meters from the surface when Eve stopped dead. She tapped her thermal overlay, her face turning pale. "The path is compromised. Thermal spikes everywhere. It’s an ambush."
They diverted through a narrow maintenance tunnel, but the exit was already swarming. As they burst out into the night, they were met with a wall of lead. In the chaos, a massive insurgent lunged at Ghost, his fist swinging like a sledgehammer. It connected with Ghost’s temple, a sickening crunch that sent blood spraying underneath his mask and rocked him back.
Ghost stumbled, his vision blurring, but he didn't go down. With brutal efficiency, he intercepted the man’s next blow and transitioned into a wrestling lock, driving his knee into the man's chest and finishing it with a point-blank shot to the head.
Eve spun, dropping a gunman aiming at Ghost's back, her rifle smoking. "We have to move now!"
They sprinted to a hidden jeep, Ghost driving blind without lights while Eve navigated through the pitch-black desert. She keyed her radio, her voice cutting through the static. "Price, Soap—we're burning the primary extract. Proceed to the secondary extraction point and standby. We’re going dark for now. I’ll signal when the sector is clear for extraction. Out."
She guided them two kilometers away from the extraction route, ditching the jeep in a hidden ravine. They navigated the final stretch on foot, arriving at a derelict hut on the outskirts of an abandoned village. Eve moved toward the shadows, whispering a name. A local sentry emerged, his eyes widening at the sight of her. He nodded, gestured to the interior of the hut, and vanished to stand guard.
They were inside, finally in the dark, the only sound the ragged, synchronized rhythm of their breathing.
Ghost stood in the corner, his back to her, as he clicked his radio to life.
"Bravo 0-6 this is Bravo 0-7. Village is secure. Positioned at the secondary site. Standing by for extraction orders."
Eve sat on a stack of weathered crates, her chest heaving as the adrenaline finally began to ebb. She reached into her vest, pulling out her med-ki and laid it out before her with practiced movements. She began to shed her heavy tactical gear. As her jacket and vest hit the floor, she winced, her arm trembling.
"Where exactly are we, Eve?" Ghost asked, his voice still low from the radio transmission.
"Three kilometers north of the valley pass," she murmured, opening the kit. "Safe house for when I was deep-cover."
Ghost finished his comms check and turned. His gaze landed on her, then locked onto the wound on her arm. He didn't say a word. He walked over, his heavy boots making no sound on the dirt floor and wordlessly stripped off his tactical gloves.
He sat on the crates beside her, his large frame creating a protective cage, effectively wrapping her between his legs. The warmth of him was a shock against the cold night air.
"Entry and exit," he rasped, his voice vibrating in the small space. "Clean. But I have to clean the edges, or it’ll fester."
Eve only nodded, her breath hitching as he pulled her arm toward his chest. His hands, usually so destructive, were impossibly gentle. He worked with a surgical efficiency, his eyes focused entirely on the wound.
It was only when he leaned back, having finished the bandage, that Eve noticed the smear of dark crimson staining the fabric of his mask, right over the white skull. Her eyes narrowed, focusing on his temple, where the skin had been split open by the insurgent's blow.
"Your face is bleeding," she whispered.
Ghost froze. He stared at her, the mask making him look like a phantom, yet his eyes—raw and unguarded—betrayed him. He held her gaze for a long, heavy beat, the silence in the hut growing suffocatingly thick. He let out a sharp, jagged exhale, reached up, and hooked his fingers beneath the edges of the mask.
With one fluid motion, he pulled it off.
The air in the room shifted. Stripped of the skull, Simon Riley was even more dangerous—his face marked by scars and the fresh, angry welt on his temple, his eyes holding a depth of exhaustion and unspoken hunger.
Eve watched him, breathless, for a few seconds. The sight of him without the armor made her heart hammer against her ribs, but she forced herself to focus. She reached out, her fingers trembling slightly as she took his chin in her hand, guiding his face toward the dim light.
"Hold still," she murmured, her voice barely a breath.
She began to dab at the blood on his temple, her touch light, electric. With his mask gone and their proximity absolute, the distance that had protected them for years had finally, irrevocably, ceased to exist.
Eve was still dabbing at his temple, but her hand slowed. Her fingertips grazed the jagged skin, then lingered, tracing the line of his jaw.
"Done," she whispered, her eyes locking onto his.
Simon didn't pull away. He didn't even breathe. He watched her with a raw, predatory intensity that made the air in her lungs feel thin.
He reached up, his hand cupping the back of her neck with a firm, possessive grip. He tilted her head just a fraction, his thumb tracing the fullness of her lower lip. The silence was absolute, save for the frantic, synced hammering of their hearts.
Eve closed the distance, crashing her mouth against his. Simon responded instantly, his hand tightening in her hair, pulling her into a kiss that was nothing short of a collision. It was frantic and starving, their tongues clashing with a desperate, heated rhythm. He groaned—a low, guttural sound of surrender—and shifted, effortlessly hoisting her onto his lap.
Eve tangled her hands into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him flush against her as their mouths stayed fused, devouring one another. It was a messy, erotic exploration, his stubble grazing her sensitive skin while his hands mapped her frame, possessive and urgent, as if he were trying to memorize every inch of her against the reality of their mortality.
Just as the kiss deepened, turning from a desperate exploration into something far more dangerous—a point of no return—a sharp, mechanical squawk pierced the air.
“Bravo 0-7, this is Overlord. Emergency status. Secondary extraction point compromised. Heavy incoming assets. Move to the extraction zone NOW. Repeat, move NOW.”
The radio’s harsh, distorted voice was like an ice bath.
They went rigid. He didn't pull away immediately; his forehead remained pressed against hers, his breath coming in ragged, heated gulps. He squeezed his eyes shut, his hand tightening for one final, possessive second on her neck.
The hunger in his eyes was still there—dark, wild, and completely unmasked—but the soldier had returned. Eve slid off his lap, her movements slightly uncoordinated as she scrambled to gather her gear. She began to buckle her vest, her fingers fumbling against the familiar weight of the armor. Simon stood in one fluid, controlled motion, and keyed his radio with a sharp, lethal efficiency.
"Overlord, this is Bravo 0-7. Copy. Moving to extraction now."
He slid his mask back into place, the skull returning to hide the man she had just been touching. He turned toward the entrance, stopping to wait for her. Eve stood, her pulse still racing, the ghost of his kiss burning on her skin, her legs feeling like jelly.
They moved toward the door, the tactical armor once again becoming their shield. But as they stepped out into the night, the silence between them was different. It was no longer the silence of two strangers, or even two teammates. It was the heavy, suffocating silence of two people who knew exactly what they were going to do the second they were behind closed doors again.
*******************
Muscles bunched and released beneath the scarred surface of Simon’s back as he moved over her, his pace slow, heavy, and deliberate. Each slide of his skin against hers was a friction that made the dim room feel even tighter. He looked different tonight—devoid of the mask and the tactical armor that usually hid the man beneath, leaving only a raw, unyielding hunger that had been simmering for months.
Eve’s knees were pressed firmly against his waist, framing him as she pulled him closer. One arm was hooked possessively over his broad shoulders, while her other hand tangled deep into the hair at the nape of his neck, guiding him into a hungry, devastating kiss. Simon groaned, his hands roaming over her—gripping, kneading, and marking her skin—before sliding down her sides to her back. He hauled her against him, his hands shifting to her shoulders to drive himself deep, burying his length into her until every inch of her was filled.
His movements were intense and ravenous, driving into her with a hunger that brooked no resistance. The room was filled with the sound of their ragged breathing and the wet, rhythmic cadence of their collision.
"God, Simon, don't stop... fuck..." Eve gasped, her voice thick with need.
Simon surged forward, his hand locking into the hair at the back of her neck to tilt her head just enough so their foreheads collided. They remained locked in that position for a beat, swallowing each other's desperate moans, both of them teetering on the edge of a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
He didn't break the rhythm; instead, he straightened slightly and swept both of her legs to the side, maintaining his brutal, relentless depth. Now, he had an unobstructed, devastating view of her body arching toward him, every curve and flush of her skin laid bare. He leaned over her, his forearm resting heavy and possessive across her breasts while his hand locked firmly around her throat, effectively pinning her. Eve reached up, her fingers wrapping around his wrist, her head falling back as she surrendered to the sensation.
His dark gaze burning into her, while his free hand braced against the mattress to drive into her with increased force and speed. The air was heavy with her sensual, broken moans and his low, guttural growls of exertion. Eve clung to his arms, her nails digging into his skin as he pushed her further into the mattress.
"Fuck, Eve..." he rasped, his voice tearing through the silence, breath hitching. "Fuckin' hell."
The pressure in her lower belly spiked, a mounting, electric tension that made her body coil. When her climax finally hit, it was a physical blow; she arched her back, a long, sensual cry leaving her lips as her inner walls tightened around him, a sensation that shattered the last of his discipline.
The sensation of her body contracting around him was his undoing. Simon let out a guttural, primal sound, his hips slamming into hers for a final, desperate series of thrusts. He spilled himself deep inside her, his body shuddering as he collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck.
They lay tangled together, the silence returning, now heavy with the weight of everything they had finally shredded between them. His breath came in hitched, heavy gulps against her skin. Slowly, he shifted, rolling to his side while pulling her flush against his chest, locking her in a crushing embrace. He didn't let go, his arms draped over her as if he were guarding her from the world, both of them spiraling down together, completely unmade and utterly surrendered to one another.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - fanfic
The hangar was a cavernous, echoing beast, reeking of jet fuel and the low, rhythmic hum of the preparation crews. Eve stood centered before the tactical display, the blue light of the monitor casting harsh, angular shadows across her face. Her voice, cold and precise, cut through the ambient noise with the absolute authority of a surgeon.
"The extraction vector depends entirely on the timing of the primary sweep. If we don’t clear the perimeter by 0400, we’re sitting ducks for the—"
"The sweep is irrelevant if we’re dead on arrival, Thorne," Ghost’s voice rumbled from the back of the group, thick with a cynical, dismissive weight. "You’re focusing on the clock instead of the kill zone."
Eve’s jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in her cheek. She didn't turn, her eyes still locked on the map. "I’m focusing on the mission parameters, Riley. Maybe if you spent less time posturing and more time reviewing the intel, you’d understand why—"
"Intel doesn't save you when the ground starts shaking," Ghost snapped, his tone shifting into something predatory. He stalked toward her, weaving through the other operators until he invaded her space, the air between them growing thick and volatile. "You're playing a game, and you’re going to get the whole squad buried."
"And you," Eve shot back, finally spinning on her heel to face him, "seem hell-bent on turning a tactical operation into a suicide pact."
Ghost took a threatening step forward, his shadow engulfing her. "Listen to me, Thorne—"
"I don’t care who the fuck you are," she hissed, her voice rising to a sharp, commanding edge that silenced every technician in the hangar. She jabbed a finger at his chest, refusing to yield an inch. "This is my fuckin' mission, and you’ll do exactly what I say!"
The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized, and deadly. Ghost’s eyes, visible behind the dark hollows of his mask, hardened into cold, bottomless voids. He shifted, his massive frame bunching as if he were ready to snap her in two.
Soap appeared from the side, a nervous chuckle dying in his throat as he realized the severity of the standoff. He stepped between them, his hand planted firmly against Ghost’s tactical vest, shoving him back with a sudden, forceful motion. "Whoa, whoa! Easy, lads—or, uh, boss and Ghost," Soap said, his grin strained as he tried to diffuse the tension. "Let's save the blood-letting for the target, yeah?"
Ghost stumbled, his boot skidding on the concrete, his gaze snapping instantly to Soap’s face with a lethal intensity that killed the levity in an instant.
The hangar fell deathly silent.
Ghost and Eve stood locked in a stalemate, staring at each other with a hatred so raw it felt like a physical weight. The air vibrated with the promise of violence, their eyes burning with an unspoken, mutual vow that this fight wasn't over—not by a long shot.
**************
The mission was a symphony of precision until the sector went dark. A hidden alarm triggered a lockdown that shouldn't have existed. Eve was the only one within reach of the terminal, the encrypted key pulses glowing on her HUD.
"Target sector is locked down," Eve reported, her voice steady. "I’m going in. I have the clearance."
"Negative, Thorne," Ghost’s voice crackled through the comms, sharp and serrated. "The pattern changed. You’re walking into a kill box. Pull back and regroup."
Eve’s hand hovered over the door mechanism, her expression darkening as she realized the shifting variables. "You were right, Riley—the ground is starting to shake," she countered, her voice tight with grim acceptance as she breached the door. "But I'm the only one close enough to secure these files."
She reached the terminal, fingers flying across the glass as she initiated the upload. Files began to stream—Target Intel, acquisition complete. Then, the silence broke. The air shattered with the roar of automatic gunfire as six insurgents swarmed the corridor. Eve went dark.
Static hissed in Ghost’s ear, a mocking, empty sound.
Three agonizing minutes passed before a ragged, wet breath broke the static.
"Target secured," Eve’s voice was a ghost of itself, strained and thin. "Files are... synced." A sharp, agonized gasp followed. "I’m hit... bleeding bad."
"Where the fuck are you, Thorne?" Ghost roared, his voice losing every shred of his practiced discipline.
"Sector 4... maintenance corridor," she whispered, her voice failing. She was on her knees, the cold concrete turning slick beneath her as her fingers fumbled uselessly at the entry wound in her abdomen.
"Soap, get the bird to the secondary extraction point and hold the line!" Ghost barked, his boots already hammering the floor as he sprinted away from the team’s position. "I’m going to her."
"Ghost, you’re on your own if you turn back now!" Soap shouted, but Ghost was already deaf to everything but the faint, fading rhythm of her breathing.
"I’m not... gonna make it," Eve whispered over the comms, her vision blurring as the corridor lights seemed to stretch into infinity. "Just... fuckin' leave."
"Like hell I will," Ghost growled, his lungs burning as he pushed his speed beyond human limits.
He rounded the corner of the maintenance corridor just in time to find her already slumped on the floor, her back braced against the cold concrete wall and her eyes fluttering shut.
He skidded to a halt at her side, his large hands shaking as he cradled her face, forcing her chin up. "Eve! Look at me!"
He ripped his med-kit open, his hands moving with the frantic, surgical intensity of a man trying to hold back death itself. He shoved a thick gauze pack directly into the wound, pressing down with enough force to make her body arch.
"Get the... fuck away from here, Riley," she choked out, her hand weakly clawing at his tactical vest.
"Shut up," he snapped, his voice a volatile mix of fury and pure, unadulterated fear. He didn't care about the perimeter; he didn't care about the incoming hostiles. He gripped her under the arms and hauled her up, pressing her chest against his. "Get the fuck up! Don't you fuckin' dare die now, Thorne!"
He hoisted her into his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. As he turned to charge back toward the extraction point, he didn't look like a soldier anymore. He was a force of nature, carrying the only thing that mattered through the wreckage of the mission, refusing to let the shadows take her.
The sterile silence of the ICU was broken only by the rhythmic, mechanical hiss of the ventilator and the steady pulse of the heart monitor. Ghost sat in the uncomfortable chair pressed against the wall, a shadow in the dim light of the ward. His tactical vest was long gone, replaced by a dark, rumpled shirt, but his arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his posture rigid as if guarding a trench. Three days of sleeplessness had carved deep, dark hollows under his eyes, and his gaze—fixed on the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest—was heavy with a silent, simmering storm.
************
Hours later, the fog of heavy sedation finally lifted. Eve’s eyelashes fluttered, her vision swimming as the harsh hospital lights bled into focus. Her abdomen felt like it had been shredded and stitched back together with wire.
The door clicked open, and Captain Smith stepped in, followed by a nurse carrying a tray of IV fluids and monitoring equipment. Smith stopped at the foot of the bed, his expression uncharacteristically grim.
"Welcome back, Thorne," Smith said, his voice low. "The mission report was a bloodbath, but we recovered the data. You’re lucky to be breathing."
Before Eve could muster the strength to reply, the door swung open again. Ghost stalked in, the air in the room instantly curdling with his presence. He didn't look at the Captain or the nurse, but his body language screamed of a man barely holding back a volcanic rage.
Smith, sensing the suffocating atmosphere, exchanged a sharp look with the nurse. "We'll leave you to it," he muttered, ushering the nurse out before the door clicked shut behind them.
Ghost didn’t approach the bed. He stopped at the end of it, his fists clenched so tightly the knuckles turned white. "You think you’re invincible, don’t you?" he growled, his voice a low, jagged tremor of fury. "Playing hero while you bled out in the dirt."
Eve struggled to draw a shallow, painful breath, her voice coming out as a strained, raspy whisper. "The mission... was secured," she wheezed, her head lolling weakly against the pillow. She lacked the strength to fight him, her body betraying her with every agonizing pulse of her wound. "It worked."
"You threw your life away for something that wasn't worth the cost," he snapped, taking a menacing step closer. "You had no right to put us through that."
Eve stared back at him through half-lidded eyes, the defiance still burning in her gaze despite her frailty. "You should've saved the trouble then… and left me there."
Ghost froze. The silence that followed was heavy, pressurized, and suffocating. He stared at her for several long, agonizing seconds, his eyes burning with a raw, lethal mixture of pain and pure, unadulterated rage.
"You’re a fuckin’ asshole, Thorne," he bit out, his voice thick with a resentment he couldn't hide, before he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, leaving the door swinging in his wake.
*************
The pub was a thicket of noise and haze, the air heavy with the scent of spilled ale and damp coats. In the back, the Task Force had claimed their usual territory, a booth buried in shadow where the laughter was loud and the beer flowed without end.
Ghost sat at the edge of the table, his presence like a silent, jagged cliff against the rowdiness of the group. He was staring at the front door, his jaw tight, nursing a drink he barely touched.
Then, the door swung open, and Eve walked in.
She looked recovered, though there was a rigid, fragile grace to the way she held herself. Beside her was Maggie Rochester, whose bright laughter cut through the ambient roar of the pub.
"Oi! Maggie!" Soap’s voice boomed from the table, his face lighting up as he waved them over. "Get over here! First round's on me."
Maggie’s eyes sparkled as she looked toward the group, her hand already tugging at Eve’s sleeve. "Come on, Eve. Soap’s even offering to pay for once."
Eve’s gaze drifted across the room, locking instantly onto the dark corner of the booth. For a few heartbeats, the world seemed to narrow down to the space between her and Ghost. He didn’t move, didn’t blink; he just watched her, his expression unreadable, though his chest tightened with a sharp, traitorous thud that he hated more than anything.
Eve felt the weight of it—the lingering tension of the hospital, the unspoken words, and the cold, stinging memory of their last interaction.
She reached out, her fingers tightening firmly around Maggie’s arm, anchoring her in place. "He fuckin' hates my guts, Maggie," Eve murmured, her voice a low, jagged edge of resignation. The attraction was there, burning beneath the surface, but it was buried under the suffocating weight of his perceived hatred. "I think I’ll pass. Besides, I'm not in the mood for chatting anyway."
Maggie stilled, her smile faltering into a look of genuine disappointment. She looked at Eve, then back at the inviting warmth of the Task Force’s table, clearly conflicted.
"Go on," Eve cut in, her tone final. She offered a small, ghost of a smile that didn't reach her eyes, gave Maggie’s arm a gentle, dismissive squeeze, and turned on her heel.
Ghost watched her walk away, his eyes tracking the sway of her jacket as she exited back into the cool night air. He didn’t move, didn't call out, and didn't acknowledge the sting in his chest. But beneath his tactical layer, his heart hammered a rhythm he couldn’t suppress—a rhythmic, traitorous betrayal that pulsed in sync with her retreating steps.
The atmosphere at the table was infectious. Soap was in his element, spinning stories with his hands, his laughter booming as Maggie threw her head back, clearly enjoying the chaos of the Task Force’s company.
As the drinks continued to flow, Soap leaned in, his grin sharpening just enough to be noticeable. 'So, what happened with Thorne? I saw her walk in, spot us, and turn right back around like she’d seen a bloody ghost.”
Maggie’s smile softened into something a bit more observant. She glanced over at Ghost, meeting his cold, unblinking stare for a heartbeat before turning back to Soap, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial note. “Actually, she did... She thinks he hates her guts,” she said and threw a pointed, lingering look toward Ghost, challenging him. 'Honestly? I'm inclined to agree with her.'"
Soap let out a loud, incredulous bark of laughter. He didn't even try to lower his voice. "Hates her? Is that what she thinks?" He shot a knowing, taunting look at Ghost, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Luv, he doesn't hate her. He’s just terrified that if he actually looks at her for more than five seconds, his mask is gonna melt right off his face."
Ghost’s gaze snapped to Soap, his eyes turning into glacial, lethal slits of pure, unadulterated hatred. He didn't say a word. The tension he radiated was enough to silence the immediate vicinity.
Without breaking eye contact, Ghost stood up, his chair scraping violently against the floorboards. He just loomed over the table for a split second, a predator choosing to walk away rather than strike, before he turned and stalked toward the exit.
Soap watched him go, completely unbothered, while Maggie covered her mouth to stifle a giggle.
The air in the firing range was heavy with the metallic tang of spent casings and the acrid bite of gunpowder. Eve was already deep in the zone, her silhouette rigid, the rhythmic crack-crack-crack of her sidearm echoing like a heartbeat against the concrete walls. When the heavy steel door groaned open, she turned.
"See?" Soap chuckled, nudging Maggie's arm as he watched the pub door swing shut behind their retreating leader. "Told ya. He’s about as subtle as a brick to the head."
*************
Her gaze locked onto Ghost the second he stepped into the light. They stood frozen for a few heartbeats, the air between them thick with the unspoken tension of the pub and a mutual, simmering defiance. Neither blinked, and neither spoke. Finally, Eve turned away, her jaw set, and resumed her rhythm, her focus returning to the target. Ghost stalked to the lane two booths over, his movements jagged and possessed by the volcanic temper Soap had stoked. He slammed a fresh magazine into his weapon with a sound like a guillotine blade, his aim erratic at first, then sharpening into something lethal.
They fell into a silent, brutal dance. Eve placed a tight cluster of holes dead-center of her target; Ghost countered by obliterating the head of his. It was a competition of ego and expertise, a language of violence written in lead and paper.
Finally, Eve let the slide of her weapon lock back, the silence that followed rushing in to fill the void. She didn't turn, but her voice was a sharp blade cutting through the gloom.
"Your spread is wider than your ego. A bit distracted by your own bullshit, are we?"
Ghost stopped, his weapon lowered but not holstered. He turned his head just enough to glare at her, his mask obscuring the snarl, but his eyes were pure, lethal static. "My aim is the only thing that isn't a liability here, Thorne. Unlike you, I don't need to play hero to feel useful."
Eve stiffened, the provocation landing with the impact of a physical blow. She turned slowly, her grip on her pistol relaxing just enough to be dangerous. She looked at him—really looked at him—with an expression that was halfway between hatred and something far more volatile.
"You know, I could fuckin' shoot you right now," she hissed, the words hovering in the air like a live wire. "And I wouldn't even have to reload."
Ghost didn't flinch. Instead, he slammed his pistol down onto the shooting bench with a harsh, metallic clatter that echoed through the range. He took a slow, predatory step toward her, his posture radiating a mix of dark amusement and raw, unbridled challenge. He didn't lower his guard; he heightened it, his voice dropping into that familiar, low, mocking rumble.
"Please try," he drawled, his tone dripping with arrogance.
Eve didn't back down. Her pulse thrummed from the dangerous thrill of the challenge. She locked her gaze onto his, her expression hardening into a look of cold-blooded murder—a silent promise of what she was capable of if he pushed her one inch further.
"You think I won't?" she shot back.
Ghost didn't acknowledge the threat. He kept advancing, his strides slow and deliberate, closing the distance between them until he was looming over her. He stopped just inches away, invading her personal space, his imposing frame forcing her to tilt her head back. He didn't say a word; he simply tilted his head, his eyes burning into hers, daring her to pull that trigger.
"You don't fuckin' scare me, Riley," she breathed, her voice low, steady, and defiant. She didn't retreat an inch, her boots rooted to the floorboards.
Ghost held her gaze, his eyes dropping to her lips for a heartbeat before snapping back to her eyes—a calculated, predatory shift that made the air in the room feel thin.
"You're so fuckin' annoying," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, yet it sounded like a growl in the confined space.
Eve didn't blink, her cold stare never wavering, her posture radiating nothing but pure, unadulterated defiance.
"So fuckin' what? I don't give a fuck about what you—"
She never finished the sentence. Ghost moved with lethal, predatory speed; he tore the skull mask off his face, letting it hit the concrete with a hollow thud, and surged forward. He closed that final, microscopic distance, one hand tangling into her hair to tilt her head back, his mouth crashing onto hers with a ferocity that bordered on violence.
It wasn't a tentative kiss; it was a collision. It was the physical manifestation of every bitter, sharp word they’d traded for months. As he collided into her, Eve’s grip failed and her pistol clattered loudly to the floor, forgotten. She let out a sharp, surprised intake of breath, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she met his intensity head-on, her fingers clawing into the fabric of his shirt as she dragged him closer, their mouths moving together with a desperate, frantic hunger that finally, brutally, shattered the stalemate.
Ghost pulled back, still breathless and looming over her, his eyes dark with the remnants of what they’d just shared. His hand remained tangled in her hair, his thumb sliding down to press firmly against her jaw, tilting her face up so she couldn't look away. He held her gaze for a few agonizing seconds, shaking off the haze before his voice dropped into a sharp, gravelly command:
"Get your fuckin' gun," he rasped. "We're leaving."
He turned away, his movements precise and practiced as he walked over to the shooting bench to retrieve his own pistol. Eve stood still for a heartbeat, her world still spinning, before she looked down at the concrete. Her hands were trembling—an involuntary tremor she couldn't suppress—as she reached down and picked up her sidearm.
As she straightened up, still clutching the weapon, Ghost was already there. He didn't say a word; he simply took her hand in his, his grip firm and grounding. With his other hand, he snatched his skull mask from the floor, and without a backward glance, he led her out of the range, the heavy steel door swinging shut behind them.
The heavy door to Ghost’s quarters slammed shut, sealing them in a world defined only by the sharp, ragged sound of their breathing. Before the lock could even click into place, Simon had her pinned against the solid wood, his mouth crashing onto hers with a hunger that bordered on predatory. His hands were everywhere—frenetic, desperate—tracing the line of her spine before tangling into her hair, his touch searing. Eve met his intensity with equal measure, her fingers clawing into the fabric of his shirt, dragging him closer until there was no air left between them.
"You’re driving me fuckin' insane," he rasped against the pulse point of her neck, his teeth grazing her skin, sending a jolt of pure electricity through her veins.
"You’re an asshole, Riley," Eve panted, her hands moving to the fastenings of his jacket, her movements clumsy with sheer urgency as she peeled the layers away. She shoved his jacket off his shoulders and hooked her fingers into the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over his head until it hit the floor, her eyes dark with the need to feel the bare, scarred skin of his chest against her.
Simon pinned her harder against the door, his body a solid weight pressing her into the wood. His hands moved with a brutal, possessive rhythm, stripping away her jacket and shirt until she was bare, his palms mapping the curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts. He broke the kiss only to drag his lips down her throat, his stubble abrasive against her skin, before he spun her around, pressing her breasts against the door.
Eve gasped, her hands splaying against the wood to steady herself. Simon stepped into her, his erection pressing firmly against her ass, his hands gripping her hips with a crushing strength that left bruises. He moved one hand forward, deftly unzipping her jeans, his fingers sliding inside the fabric to find her heat. He groaned as he felt her slickness, his other hand moving to her throat to exert a firm, grounding control, forcing her to lean her head back against his shoulder.
"You're soaking wet," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against her ear.
Eve’s hands flew behind her, her fingers fumbling with the buckle of his belt, her movements frantic until she finally freed him. Simon turned her again, trapping her between his body and the door, his hands planted firmly on either side of her head. Eve reached down, her fingers closing firmly around his length.
Simon let out a jagged, broken sound, his head falling forward to rest against her forehead, his eyes snapping shut as his breathing hitched.
"Is this all for me, Simon?" she whispered, her voice a dangerous, sensual melody in the confined space.
He grabbed her wrists, pinning them high above her head, his grip unyielding. He claimed her mouth again, a deep, bruising kiss that tasted of desperation. He dropped to his knees with agonizing quickness, discarding her boots and jeans in seconds. When he stood back up, his eyes darkened, raking over her exposed body with a look of pure, unbridled lust.
"Fuck," he growled.
He hoisted her up, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried her to the bed, collapsing onto the mattress with her in a tangle of limbs and heat. They were locked together, mouths fused, the air thick with the scent of sex and friction. Eve bend her knees, pulling him flush against her.
He didn't play games. With one smooth, powerful thrust, he drove into her, burying himself deep in a single, brutal stroke.
Eve let out a choked, desperate moan against his lips. Simon let out a low, guttural growl, his muscles corded with the effort of holding back. He stilled, his body pulsing inside her, his jaw clenched tight.
"Fuckin' move, Simon," she whimpered, her hands gripping his neck and his hair, her body arching to beg for more.
"Fuckin' hell, Eve," he grunted, his sweat-slicked skin pressing against hers. "It’s been a fuckin while... I'm not gonna last."
"I don't care, Simon," she breathed, her eyes glazing over with pleasure as she pulled his hips harder against her own. "Just fuck me. I wanna feel you inside me… Please just fuck—"
She didn't get to finish. Simon surged forward, slamming his hand over her mouth to silence her, her words shredding the last of his restraint,
"Bloody hell, woman," he hissed against the skin of her neck, his voice cracking with the strain of his restraint shattering. "You're ruining me."
With that, he stopped holding back. He began to pound into her, a relentless, punishing rhythm that echoed through the room. Every thrust was a demand, every groan a confession, their bodies colliding with a violence that finally, perfectly, silenced everything but the sound of their pleasure.
The rhythm he established was punishing, a frantic cadence that left Eve breathless, her body yielding to the sheer force of his possession. The sensation of being stretched by him, filled completely by his hard, throbbing heat, was an exquisite torture that left her trembling. Every time he drove forward, he hit a nerve she didn’t know existed, the friction sparking a wildfire through her pelvis.
The weight of him was glorious—the solid, heavy mass of his chest and shoulders pressing her deep into the mattress, pinning her down with a dominance that made her feel entirely claimed. His hand was tangled deep in her hair at the base of her neck, pulling her head back just enough to keep her eyes locked on his, while his other arm braced against the mattress, his bicep corded and straining as he used it to anchor his relentless movement.
Eve’s own hands were mapped across his body, her fingernails digging into the sweat-slicked muscles of his back and biceps, pulling him tighter, trying to absorb every inch of him. Their foreheads were fused, their ragged breaths and stifled moans mingling in the small space between their lips.
"Shit, Simon... don’t stop," she gasped, her voice shattered and breathless. She reached up, her fingers trembling as she gripped his jaw, forcing his mouth to brush against hers, her skin burning wherever they touched. "Just like that... God, just like that."
The pleasure built in an agonizing, golden wave, coiling tighter and tighter until her vision began to blur. She started to shudder beneath him, the tremors beginning deep in her core and radiating outward until the orgasm hit her with the force of a physical blow. She cried out, a broken, breathless sound that was swallowed by his mouth as she arched into him, her inner walls clamping down on him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse.
The sensation of her contractions—tight, frantic, and all-consuming—seized Simon. He let out a raw, guttural roar that vibrated through their joined bodies, his own restraint shattering instantly. He lunged forward, his movements turning animalistic, driving into her with a final, series of brutal, deep thrusts. He felt the world narrowing down to the friction of her body, his senses overwhelmed until he lost all control. He came with a long, shuddering violence, his muscles locking, his body bucking against hers as he poured every ounce of his intensity into her.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the desperate, heavy gasping of two people who had just been dismantled. Slowly, Simon collapsed, his heavy, damp frame splaying over hers, his face buried in the crook of her neck. He remained there, trembling, his heart hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs, completely undone and utterly spent.
The room was bathed in the dim, amber glow of moonlight filtering through the blinds, casting long, stark shadows across the rumpled sheets. The air, once thick with the frantic energy of their collision, had settled into a heavy, lingering heat. They lay tangled together, Eve’s bare skin pressed flush against the solid warmth of Simon’s frame. Their legs were intertwined, and his arm was draped possessively over her waist, his thumb tracing lazy, grounding circles against her hip.
Eve’s hand rested flat against the expanse of his chest, her fingertips drifting over the rough, raised texture of the scars mapped across his skin. The silence between them was soft, weighted by the aftermath of their collapse.
"I thought you hated me," she whispered, her voice barely a breath against the quiet of the room. She shifted, turning her head on the pillow to lock her gaze with his.
Simon didn’t move for a long moment. He just watched her, his eyes dark, stripped of the static and the lethal detachment he wore like armor. Slowly, he shifted his weight, his hand moving from her waist to cup her jaw. His touch was uncharacteristically gentle, his thumb grazing her cheekbone as if he were trying to memorize the planes of her face.
"I nearly went out of my mind the day you got shot," he rasped, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly confession that seemed to vibrate through his chest. He took a sharp, steadying breath, his jaw tightening. "I couldn't... I couldn't afford to feel that, Eve. I had to push you away because you were the only thing in this world that could actually break me."
He looked at her then—really looked at her—with a raw, exposed vulnerability that made her chest ache.
Eve watched him, a faint, sad, but deeply affectionate smile touching her lips. She traced the line of his jaw with her thumb, her voice a delicate murmur. "You're such an asshole, Simon."
Simon didn’t argue. He simply closed the distance between them, his eyes darkening with a fresh wave of intensity, and leaned in to claim her mouth again. The kiss wasn't frantic or violent this time; it was slow, deep, and agonizingly tender—a silent promise that whatever wall he had built between them had finally, irrevocably, crumbled.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - fanfic
General Smith sat behind the heavy mahogany desk, his expression carved from stone. To his left, cast in partial shadow, Captain John Price stood with his arms crossed, his unlit cigar clenched tightly between his teeth, his eyes unreadable beneath the brim of his boonie hat.
Smith slid a matte-black folder across the desk. It landed with a dull, heavy thud. "Silenced execution, Ghost. No prisoners. No trail."
Ghost reached out, his massive gloved hand taking the file. He flipped it open under the dim green glow of the desk lamp, his dark eyes scanning the tactical photos. The face staring back at him belonged to Lieutenant Morgan Eve Thorne, a Special Reconnaissance Regiment (SRR) operator.
"The high command flagged her six hours ago," Smith continued, his voice flat. "A total rogue asset. She suffered a psychological break during her deep-cover deployment, executed her handler, and sold tier-one state secrets to an Eastern syndicate. She's compromised the entire network."
Ghost remained silent, turning the pages. He was the perfect soldier, a tool designed to delete threats without question. But as his eyes lined up the logistics log against the network encryption timestamps, a small internal alarm tripped. A tiny, technical inconsistency in her alleged betrayal timeline caught his eye: an SRR biometric encryption key had been used to access the mainframe from a terminal in London at the exact time her transport log confirmed she was completely offline, in transit over the Mediterranean.
It was a ghost in the machine. A fabricated footprint.
Price watched him closely through the shadows, noticing the split-second pause in Ghost's fingers, but said nothing. Ghost closed the folder, the doubt lingering in his mind like static, though his voice remained a dead, steady rumble. "Understood, General."
**************
The air in Parga, Greece, was thick with humidity, a stark contrast to the sterile, air-conditioned offices where her death warrant had been signed.
Deep within a labyrinth of narrow, unlit coastal alleys, Eve pushed open the warped wooden door of a dilapidated hostel room. The space inside was pitch black, swallowed by shadows and the faint, briny scent of the nearby sea. She didn't turn on the lights. Moving with fluid, unhurried precision, she advanced toward a small wooden desk, unzipping her heavy tactical jacket and letting it slide off her shoulders onto the back of a chair.
She walked a few paces further into the darkness, finally sinking onto the edge of the mattress. For a long, agonizing moment, she sat there with her head bowed, staring at the floorboards, her posture radiating exhaustion.
"You know..." Eve murmured into the dark, her voice disturbingly calm. "For a Tier 1 operative, you breathe like a woman in labor, Ghost."
Before the last syllable left her lips, she snapped her head around. Fastened tightly over her nose and mouth was a tactical respirator mask.
With her thumb, she slammed down on a small remote detonator concealed in her palm.
HISS.
Four compact canisters hidden in the corners of the room ruptured simultaneously, spewing a dense, pale neurotoxin gas into the confined space.
Ghost lunged from the shadows of the wardrobe, his massive frame closing the distance with terrifying speed, his gloved hands reaching out to crush her throat. But the gas hit his system like a freight train. Within two steps, his lungs burned, his vision blurred into spinning fractured light, and his knees buckled.
The giant of a man collapsed heavily in the middle of the room, his body hitting the floorboards with a deafening, uncoordinated thud. He writhed, struggling for air, his dark eyes wide under his skull mask as he glared up at her through the haze.
Eve stood up slowly from the bed, looking down at the paralyzed executioner at her feet.
*********************
The pounding inside Ghost’s skull was deafening, a massive, synchronized throbbing that felt like a high-caliber round tearing through his brain every time his heart beat. The neurotoxin was leaving his system, but it was leaving behind a blinding haze of pain.
As his vision slowly cleared, the dull, yellow light of the hostel room came into focus. He tried to shift his weight, but his muscles immediately met unyielding resistance. He was bound to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room. Thick layers of heavy-duty duct tape were wrapped tightly across his chest and thighs, pinning him completely to the frame. His arms were pulled brutally behind the backrest, his wrists locked together with heavy-duty black plastic zip-ties that bit deep into his skin, securing him completely to the wooden rungs.
He was locked down. Completely immobile.
Directly in front of him, sitting casually in the desk chair under the dim light, was Morgan Eve Thorne. Her red hair catching the faint light as she methodically ran a cleaning rod through the disassembled barrel of her sidearm. The metallic click of the weapon components was the only sharp sound in the quiet room.
Without looking up from her work, her fingers moving with practiced, calm precision, she spoke.
"I knew you were here the moment I set foot in Parga," she said, her voice smooth, entirely devoid of fear.
A wave of pure, unadulterated fury surged through Ghost, momentarily burning away the fog of the headache. He strained against the restraints, his massive frame flexing, the wood of the chair creaking dangerously under his sheer strength as he tried to snap the ties through brute force.
It was useless. She had rigged it too well.
Hearing the strain of the wood, Eve finally paused. She lowered the barrel, her piercing green eyes locking onto the dark, murderous glare hidden behind his skull mask. A faint, razor-thin smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Huge target, lots of restraints," she murmured, leaning back slightly. "Couldn't take any chances with the big bad Ghost."
"I should've killed you the second you entered this room." His voice was a low, gravelly vibration that vibrated with pure malice.
For a fraction of a second, the room went dead silent. Then, a soft, breathless laugh escaped her lips—a sound laced with sharp amusement, mockery, and absolute incredulity. She shook her head, looking at him as if he had just said something completely ridiculous.
"Please!" she laughed, looking at him with genuine amusement. "You couldn't have pulled that off in your absolute best day. I had you mapped out, measured, and neutralized before you even cleared the bottom step."
"You’re a rogue asset, Thorne," Ghost grunted, his dark eyes narrowing through the mask. "Give up before you find yourself looking down the barrel of a gun you can't outrun."
Eve’s amused expression froze instantly. The mocking smile vanished, replaced by a cold, sharp stillness. She lowered the cleaning rod, her eyes boring into his.
"Who the fuck told you that?"
Ghost kept his tone flat, entirely intentional, pushing her buttons to test her stability. "You suffered a psychological break during deep-cover. Executed your handler, and—"
Eve snapped. She stood up with a violent jerk, snatching the pistol straight off the desk, and strode across the small room toward him. Ghost cut off instantly, his eyes tracking her aggressive advance, muscle memory screaming at him to react, but the restraints held him dead in place.
She stood inches away, breathing heavily, the heat of her anger radiating off her. For a split second, she had completely taken the bait. Then, a visible shift crossed her features—the anger vanished instantly, her expression locking down into a cold, clinical mask as she forced the composure back into her spine.
"Whoever sent you, pointed you at the wrong fuckin’ target," she said, her voice dropping to a low, icy whisper.
They were so close Ghost could smell the cordite and salt on her skin. He tilted his head back, angling his neck to look up at her with pure, lethal promise. Both of them locked eyes, a silent, deadly collision of wills.
"You stole highly classified state data," Ghost growled, his voice a lethal vibration that rattled in his chest.
Eve let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh, her head tilting back slightly before she fixed him with a cold glare. "Stole it? To sell it? Come on... you and I both know that makes absolutely no sense. I'm SRR. If I wanted to sell secrets, I wouldn't have left a trail a blind man could follow."
Ghost stared at her, his mind silently flashing back to the digital anomaly he’d spotted in the folder—the impossible encryption timestamp. She was right. It didn't fit.
Eve slowly raised her sidearm, looking down at the heavy frame of the weapon, then bringing her green eyes back to his face. "I can shoot you in your fuckin' head right now... and burn this place to ash," she murmured softly. "But I need you to help me prove I'm not bloody insane."
She turned on her heel and walked back toward the wooden desk.
"What makes you think I'll help you?" Ghost called out, his rumble tracking her across the dark room.
Eve stopped at the desk, pivoting slowly to face him over her shoulder. "I don't think that, Lieutenant... I know you will."
Ghost narrowed his eyes, his jaw tightening beneath the fabric of his mask.
She picked up a matte-black military tablet from the table, tapped the screen, and walked back, turning the display toward his face.
The real data began to populate the display. It wasn't a log of black-market transactions; it was a hidden ledger of deniable black-ops registries and massive unauthorized diversions of state funds, all digitally signed and authorized by their own commanding officer—General Shepherd.
Eve's breathing slowed as the files unrolled, her finger scrolling through the decrypted lines. "They weren't hunting me because I turned rogue. I found the ledger. Shepherd has been using my entire SRR unit as a financial shield and a scapegoat for his off-the-books operations. The order to kill me isn't justice. It's erasing the only loose end that can tie the money back to him."
Ghost was completely still, his eyes locked onto the screen, processing the names, the dates, and the betrayal. He looked from the data straight into Eve's eyes. He had spent his entire life learning how to recognize a traitor, and how to recognize a piece of garbage trying to clean a slate. Eve wasn't the traitor. She was the target of the system they both served.
"Shepherd," Ghost muttered, the name tasting like ash. He shifted slightly against the straps, his fury redirecting toward a new target. "And you expect me to just buy this? For all I know, you're a hacker with a talent for rewriting code."
"Oh, please. Give me some credit," Eve countered, her voice laced with familiar sarcasm. "I’m SRR. I know exactly how “the Ghost” operates. I know you're not the type to blindly pull a trigger just because a suit tells you to. That’s why I went through the trouble of trapping you instead of putting a bullet through your skull while you were unconscious."
"You went through a lot of trouble to play dress-up with duct tape," Ghost shot back dryly.
"I needed you quiet, vulnerable, and actually listening," she said, pulling a heavy tactical knife from her belt. She stepped behind the chair, the blade catching the dim yellow light. "Because if I left you with your hands free, you would’ve tried to snap my neck before I could even say 'hello'."
Ghost felt the sharp edge of the blade slide between the heavy plastic of the zip-ties. With a harsh SNAP, his wrists were suddenly free. She moved to his legs, slicing through the duct tape with fluid efficiency.
As she worked on the final restrain near his waist, she leaned in slightly, a dangerous, playful lilt returning to her voice. "Although... it is kinda hot having you tied up like this."
The moment the last constraint snapped, Ghost exploded out of the chair.
He stood up at full height, his massive frame towering over her, closing the distance so fast their chests nearly collided. They were standing millimeters apart. Eve didn't even flinch. Her heart rate didn't even spike. She simply stood her ground, letting out a low laugh as she looked him straight in the eyes.
"Are you ready for a real hunt Ghost?" she challenged softly, a smirk playing on her lips.
He stared down at her, the silence between them stretching into a thick, heavy tension. For a fraction of a second, his dark eyes dropped down to her lips, tracking the curve of her smirk, before snapping back up to lock onto her green gaze. He didn't say a word, his expression unreadable behind the skull mask.
Eve’s smirk widened slightly, recognizing the shift. She took a step back, breaking the suffocating proximity, and turned around to grab her tactical gear from the desk.
"Your gear and weapons are on the bed," she said over her shoulder, her voice completely switching back to operational focus. "Pack it up. We leave in five minutes."
"Where are we going?" Ghost’s rumble was low, slicing through the quiet of the night as they readied their weapons. He checked the chamber of his sidearm—the metallic click sharp in the dark—before hiding it completely beneath his heavy civilian jacket.
"Preveza," Eve replied, pulling her heavy leather jacket tighter over her shoulders and adjusting her tactical crossbody rig close to her ribs. She tightened the laces of her boots with a sharp tug and swung her pack onto her back.
********************
They slipped into the thick humidity of the Parga night, moving like twin shadows through the labyrinth of narrow, unlit coastal alleys toward the rugged cliffs.
"The military tablet," Eve whispered as they moved in a low, athletic crouch, her denim jeans stretching with every step. "The files are encrypted with a high-command 'mirror key'. I can't broadcast them without triggering a wipe. We need physical access to a secondary mainframe to go live."
Ghost kept pace right beside her, a lethal, towering presence. "Shepherd’s deniable safehouse."
"Exactly. He has a black-site estate in Preveza. That’s where the physical backups are routed."
They cleared the town, ascending a steep path along the sheer face of the jagged cliffs. The violent crashing of the waves far below echoed against the stone. Suddenly, a sharp, unnatural shift in the dark air caught Ghost’s attention—the faint, metallic click of a weapon safety ahead.
"Hold," he breathed, his hand shooting out to slam against Eve’s chest to stop her.
The word had barely cleared his lips before the darkness utterly exploded into muzzle flashes.
Automatic gunfire chewed into the dirt at their feet, sending sharp shards of rock flying. A hit squad of Shadow Company contractors stepped from the rocks, their night-vision goggles glowing an ominous green.
"Fuck!" Eve snarled, diving behind a boulder as a hail of bullets sparked violently against the stone.
The synchronization between them was instantaneous—not just tactical, but animalistic. They didn't need to speak. Ghost became the raw power, breaking cover to unleash a terrifying wall of suppressive fire, his massive frame drawing every single bullet. Eve became the blade, slipping through the shadows like a wraith to ruthlessly flank the shooters he was pinning down.
As they pushed through a fighting retreat along the razor-thin cliff edge, a contractor burst from a blind turn, lunging directly onto Eve. He threw a brutal kick aimed at her ribs. Eve checked the blow with her left knee, absorbing the impact before driving her right leg forward in a devastating push-kick that caught the man square in the chest, sending him flying backward into the dark void of the cliffside.
Behind her, another shadow closed in. Ghost spun on his heel, his gloved hand clamping onto the man's rifle barrel and ripping it away with terrifying strength. In a single fluid blur, his heavy tactical knife cleared its sheath, driving violently up beneath the man's chin. He dropped the corpse and instantly looked for her, his dark eyes locking onto hers through the smoke.
They scrambled down a crumbling ledge. The loose gravel gave way beneath Eve’s boot and her balance shattered, her body tilting dangerously over the sheer drop.
A massive hand shot through the smoke, clamping around her forearm like a vice of solid steel. Ghost anchored his boots, catching her mid-air. Hanging completely over the black abyss, Eve gripped his forearm, looking straight up into his eyes as she raised her sidearm with her free hand, and fired three precise shots, dropping the two shooters advancing on the ridge above them.
With a low grunt of pure physical power, Ghost yanked her back up. The moment her boots hit the ground, a heavy volley of gunfire chipped the rock face right above them. Instantly, Ghost backed his imposing frame hard against the solid rock wall, pulling Eve violently into his space and crushing her flush against his chest. He locked his heavy arms around her in a bruising, protective embrace, completely burying her body beneath his own to shield her from the ridge above. They were locked together, chests heaving violently against each other, breathing in tight synchronization through the adrenaline. For a split second, through the burning smoke, Ghost’s dark eyes dropped to her mouth, his frame hot against her leather jacket, before locking ruthlessly onto her green gaze.
"Boat's right below us!" she gasped against his mask, her fingers digging into his shoulders.
They broke into a sprint, sliding down to a hidden, rocky cove. Ghost knelt into the sand, unleashing a disciplined stream of fire to keep the ridge pinned down while Eve scrambled into the cockpit of the weathered fishing boat, frantically hot-wiring the old diesel engine. The motor sputtered and roared to life.
"Let’s go! Now!" she screamed.
Ghost vaulted his massive frame over the side just as Eve slammed the throttle forward, the vessel surging into the open sea, leaving the gunfire of Parga behind them.
Once they cleared the coastal waters, the heavy silence of the deep sea swallowed them. Ghost sat by the glowing comms console, tuning into the encrypted military frequencies.
"They're re-routing," Ghost rumbled, his gravelly voice cutting through the thrum of the engine. "Shepherd is shifting his local assets. They know we survived."
Eve kept her hands steady on the wooden wheel, steering into the dark. "Can we bypass them?"
"If we play by their rules, no," Ghost said, looking up from the screen, the moonlight catching the stark skull design of his mask. "But Shepherd doesn't monitor the Task Force 141 emergency frequencies. Price knows something is wrong. I can patch an encrypted, fragmented data-packet to his personal terminal. It will leave a trail of breadcrumbs only he can decode. He'll be our insurance policy."
Eve nodded, a cold, lethal look of determination in her green eyes. "Then we hold the line until Preveza. It's our only shot."
******
The weathered fishing boat cut its engine, drifting silently into the black, glassy waters of the Preveza coastline. Under the cover of midnight, the estate loomed above them—a sprawling, multi-million-dollar luxury villa perched on the cliffs, starkly illuminated by manicured garden lights.
They moved like twin ghosts. Stripped of tactical armor, their profiles were sleek: Eve in her dark leather jacket and fitted denim, Ghost a looming shadow in his civilian jacket thrown over a dark tactical t-shirt that stretched flat against his broad chest.
They slipped over the perimeter wall with lethal, unhurried grace. Breaching a side terrace, they slipped into a softly lit security annex. Inside, two Shadow Company contractors sat at a sleek glass table, eating and half-watching a massive flatscreen TV mounted on the wall.
Eve went first. Knife drawn, she blurred through the threshold, targeting the closest man. But as her shadow broke the light, his eyes snapped toward her. Inbound!
Before he could yell, Eve lunged. At the same instant, the second contractor bolted from his chair, reaching for his sidearm—only to be utterly obliterated as Ghost’s massive frame tackled him mid-air, smashing both of them hard onto the marble floor.
Eve wrestled her target down. She pinned him with her weight, driving her knee into his chest, and with a swift, brutal arc, buried her blade deep into his throat. She stayed over him for a second, chest heaving, as a muffled pfft-pfft of a suppressed firearm echoed behind her.
Eve froze, her hand still slick with blood on the hilt. Without looking back, she breathed, "You good?"
From the floor, Ghost rumbled, "Fuckin' fine." He stood up, shrugging his jacket back into place, leaving the second contractor dead with two neat holes in his chest.
They pushed deeper into the villa, locating the subterranean server room. Eve slammed the black military tablet into the secondary mainframe. The screen flashed amber. Transfer Initiated.
Then, a red perimeter wire tripped on the console. Data purge activated. Silent alarm triggered.
"They're wiping it!" Eve hissed, her fingers flying across the keys to redirect the encryption protocols directly to Price’s terminal. "Hold the door!"
"Copy that," Ghost growled, pulling his weapon.
The security glass at the far end of the hall shattered as incoming fire erupted. Ghost laid down a brutal, rhythmic wall of suppressive lead. Suddenly, mid-stride, Ghost swung his barrel around and pointed it straight at Eve's face.
She looked at him, her expression remained deadpan.
"Get down!" he commanded.
Eve dropped to her knees. A split-second later, Ghost fired twice over her head, dropping a Shadow contractor who had slipped through a ventilation shaft directly behind her station.
"Upload at ninety percent... ninety-five... Done!" Eve slammed the tablet disconnected and stuffed it into her rig. "We go!"
The escape was a frantic, high-speed blur. Red emergency lights bathed the villa as they broke through the rear gardens, bullets chewing up the pristine lawns. They reached a high iron perimeter fence.
Ghost went over first, vaulting his frame up, but halfway over the top rail, a heavy caliber round zipped through the dark and grazed the back of his left arm. The sudden, burning impact against his triceps made his grip rip away. He came down hard, completely off-balance, his boots slipping on the loose gravel as he crashed violently to the ground on the other side.
"Fuckin' hell!" he growled, the breath knocked out of him as the impact rattled his back.
On the villa side of the fence, Eve’s eyes snapped to the flash of the muzzle that had hit him. Without a second thought, her rifle barked twice, putting two clean rounds into the throat of the contractor who had fired.
The next millisecond, Eve vaulted the iron rails with athletic precision, hitting the dirt right beside him. She blew past his prone form, her gun still barking as she laid down cover fire into the remaining shadows behind them. "Get up, Riley!"
His massive stride catching up to her as they slid down the rocky scree toward the shore. They were covered in soot, the bitter sting of cordite burning their throats, their hearts hammering against their ribs in a deafening, shared rhythm.
They threw themselves over the gunwale of the fishing boat. Ghost sliced the mooring lines with one vicious swipe of his knife while Eve slammed the ignition. The diesel engine roared, and she jammed the throttle to the firewall, steering the boat violently out into the open, black sea. Behind them, the Shepherd estate shrunk into a chaotic swarm of flashing red lights.
Ghost immediately went to work on the localized radio console, patching into Shadow Company's tactical chatter. The comms were a mess of panicked orders, but as he listened, a dark realization settled in.
"They're not pursuing," Ghost rumbled, his voice cutting through the engine's drone. Shepherd thinks the data was purged when the silent alarm tripped. He thinks we're running blind."
Eve didn't slacken her grip on the weathered wooden wheel, pushing the boat at maximum speed away from the coastline, cutting through the waves toward a completely blind, undetectable vector in the deep waters.
Once they finally cleared the coastal shelf, the suffocating silence of the deep Mediterranean swallowed them whole. The adrenaline was still at three hundred percent, humming through their veins like a live wire, mixed with the sickening bile of Shepherd's betrayal.
The air inside the cramped cabin was stifling. Eve let go of the wheel, locking it into position, and looked down at herself. The adrenaline crash was starting to hit, making her spine feel heavy.
"I'm a fuckin' mess," she murmured to herself.
Moving toward her pack in the corner, she peeled out of her heavy leather jacket, down to her black tank top. Her denim jeans were soaked through with sea spray and a dark smear of enemy blood. Without a word of modesty, she stripped out of the wet, stiff denim. Ghost’s dark eyes caught the sudden movement, tracking the flash of her bare skin as she swapped the heavy jeans for a pair of raw-edged denim shorts, kicking her boots into the corner.
Feeling the atmosphere in the tiny cabin shift into something too heavy to contain, Ghost turned on his heel and walked out onto the open deck.
The cool night air hit him, but it did nothing to cool the fire in his blood. He aggressively laid out a layer of heavy wool blankets over the hard deck boards, sinking his massive frame down against the wooden bulkhead. With sharp, impatient movements, Ghost ripped his heavy combat gloves off one by one, slapping them down onto the wooden deck. He then ripped his jacket off and tossed it aside, leaving him in just his tight, short-sleeved tactical t-shirt that stretched flat against his broad chest and massive shoulders. Finally, his hands hooked under the edge of his skull balaclava. He yanked it off, exposing his face—his jaw tightly clenched, sweat highlighting the sharp, hard angles of his features, his expression twisted with the lingering, raw fury of the betrayal.
From the cabin doorway, Eve watched him. Her green eyes instantly locked onto the dark, wet stain pooling on the back of his left arm.
She reached into the bulkhead, grabbing the compact medical kit, and stepped out onto the moonlit deck. Ghost watched her approach. From his seated position against the bulkhead, his dark eyes dropped, heavily tracking the movement of her bare, exposed legs against the dark wool blankets until she stopped right in front of him, cracking the plastic box open.
"I can do it myself," Ghost rumbled, his dark eyes locking onto hers, his posture locking down rigid.
Eve stopped inches from his knees, her green eyes flashing with pure, sharp annoyance. "Yeah. Because you have fuckin' eyes on your back."
Ghost stared up at her, a heavy, tense beat passing between them, his jaw ticking. For a long second, his authority warred with his exhaustion, before his shoulders subtly dropped in a silent, resigned surrender. He didn't move as she moved around the side, kneeling directly behind him on the blankets.
Eve worked in absolute, heavy silence. The space between them was suffocatingly close. She used an antiseptic wipe to clean the bloody graze on his triceps, her touch surprisingly steady given the adrenaline still vibrating hard in her skin. Ghost didn't flinch, though the thick ropes of muscle in his back bunched and hardened under her fingertips every time she touched the wound.
"Doesn't need stitches," she murmured coldly, her voice low against the steady thrum of the engine as she applied a thick layer of medical tape over the gauze.
She snapped the plastic kit shut and stepped back, breaking the physical contact. But the air didn't clear. The engine kept thumping beneath the deck, a rhythmic, primal heartbeat. Eve turned to carry the med kit back to the cabin, but as she pivoted, she realized Ghost hadn't moved an inch. He was tracking her. His gaze was burning, tracing the contrast between her bare, pale legs and the dark. It was unbearable. The frantic, life-or-death adrenaline from the cliff and the villa had nowhere left to go, completely trapped in the tight space of the boat, shifting instantly into a dark, heavy frequency that locked their eyes together.
Eve stopped, leaning her shoulder slowly against the wooden frame of the cabin doorway, staring back at him. Her green eyes were unblinking, challenging.
Ghost stared up at her from the deck, his breathing heavy, his jaw tight with a dangerous, hungry intensity. He didn't speak, but his eyes were completely devouring her, wordlessly calling her forward, demanding she break the distance.
Eve stepped back onto the blankets, her bare feet silent. Ghost’s eyes tracked her slow, deliberate advance, his chest expanding as his breathing intensified, the dark gaze sweeping up her legs, over the denim shorts, until she stopped mere centimeters from him, towering over him, looking straight down into his face.
For two agonizing seconds, their eyes collided in the dark.
Suddenly, Ghost’s hands shot forward. His fingers gripped the waistband of her denim shorts with bruising force and violently jerked her down into his lap.
Eve gasped, her hands slamming against his shoulders for balance as their mouths smashed together in a brutally hungry, desperate kiss. The taste of salt, copper, and pure survival exploded between them. Ghost’s hands moved with feral urgency, sliding down her hips, lifting her completely up to position her naked thighs securely astride his lap, crushing her body against his chest as the control finally snapped entirely.
The moonlight cast long, deep shadows over the bow of the old fishing boat, the gentle, rhythmic rocking of the sea shifting the heavy wool blankets spread across the deck.
Simon was sitting up against the low wooden bulwark of the deck, his back braced firmly against the solid frame. His chest and shoulders leaned back slightly, his frame anchoring them both against the swaying of the dark water. Eve was directly on top of him, straddling his thighs. She moved with an agonizingly slow, deliberate friction, her pelvis grinding rhythmically against his hardness through the barrier of their clothes.
The heat radiating between them was suffocating. One of Simon's hands was tightly balled into the thin fabric of Eve’s black tank top, tugging it so hard the tight material strained against her breasts, completely pinning her upper body close to his chest. His other hand was buried lower, his rough, heavily scarred fingers hooked tightly under the waistband of her denim shorts. His palm pressed flush against the bare, burning skin of her hip, his thumb caressing the soft curve of her flesh beneath the fabric with a desperate, bruising possessiveness that demanded she never stop.
Eve leaned down, her wild red hair falling around them like a curtain as her fingers cupped his jaw, her palms scraping against the rough stubble of his exposed face.
She lunged forward, her lips crashing onto his in a brutal, intoxicating kiss that tasted of salt, hunger, and raw desperation. It was a chaotic clash of tongues, their breaths mingling as she continued to roll her hips down against his groin, matching his quiet, deep groans with her own soft whimper. The friction was electrical, pushing them both to the absolute brink of control.
Simon broke the kiss for a fraction of a second, his head thudding back against the wooden bulwark as his chest heaved violently. His breathing was completely shattered. He gasped for air, his eyes tightly shut for a split second before he leaned forward again, burying his face deeply into the crook of her neck, his sharp jaw brushing the sensitive skin below her ear.
"Fuck..." he choked out, his gravelly baritone reduced to a low, raw whisper that vibrated forcefully against her skin. "I’m not gonna last like this... it’s been a fuckin' while."
A shiver ran straight down Eve’s spine at the sheer vulnerability in his admission. She tilted her head, giving him deeper access to her throat while her pelvis gave one more heavy, relentless roll against him. Her hands moved with sudden, possessive intent; she grabbed him firmly by the back of the neck, her fingers tangling deep into his hair at the nape, pulling him closer to anchor him. Leaning down, her lips brushed the shell of his ear as she whispered back in a dark, sultry lilt:
"Then we'll have to do it again and again... and again."
Eve’s words acted like a devastating detonator, completely obliterating whatever fragile restraint Simon had left. Hearing that blatant provocation, feeling her challenge him so fearlessly on his own terms, the long years of touchless isolation and suffocating, buried sexual frustration detonated inside his chest. His most primal, predatory instincts instantly took complete command of his massive frame.
All of his hidden brute force and possessive hunger exploded outward. He crashed his mouth back onto hers in a brutally ravenous, open-mouthed kiss, his tongue instantly dominating hers with a fierce, demanding heat. His hands clawed into her skin, sliding roughly up her ribs from her hips to drag over her breasts. He squeezed and molded her firmly, his rough palms punishing her soft flesh for a fraction of a second before his fingers hooked into the neckline of her thin tank top, ripping it violently over her head and discarding it into the dark.
He tore his lips from her mouth, dragging his teeth and burning tongue down the column of her throat and over the heavy swell of her breasts, his hands accompanying every single frantic, territorial movement of his mouth. Eve’s fingers dug hard into the thick muscle of his arms, her breath catching as she gasped and whined, her body arching into his touch.
In one swift, overpoweringly fast motion, Simon gripped her waist and rolled, flipping her onto her back beneath him on the heavy blankets. His movements were lightning-fast, rough, and entirely desperate. Before she could even catch her breath, his hands went to the button of her denim shorts, snapping them open and sliding the heavy fabric down her thighs in one brutal, impatient tug, taking her underwear right along with them.
The moment she was bare beneath him, he lunged back over her. Eve was just as frenzied, her hands clawing desperately at the hem of his tactical shirt, helping him rip it off before her trembling fingers fumbled blindly at the fly of his trousers. They never stopped kissing—a chaotic, slick collision of open mouths, wet tongues, and ragged gasps for air.
As soon as Eve managed to shove his trousers down, Simon’s hand reached between them, gripping himself with a tight, heavy hold. He lined his thick, pulsing length directly against the drenched, burning entrance of her wetness. Eve instinctively kicked her legs up, locking her knees high around his thick waist to open herself completely to him.
Simon positioned his massive weight, bracing one thick, heavily muscled forearm flat on the wooden deck right above her shoulder, and drove himself inside her with one single, deep, devastatingly hard thrust.
A brutal, uninhibited moan tore from Eve’s throat, her entire body shuddering at the sheer, thick fullness of him stretching her wide. Simon didn't wait. He began to move instantly, his hips slamming rhythmically and violently against hers, hammering his rigid length into her once and then again, over and over in a brutal, unrelenting pace.
His shattered, hot breath fanned directly into her open mouth as he buried himself in her again and again, his deep, guttural groans and raw grunts vibrating forcefully against her lips. The pleasure was overwhelming, bordering on agonizing. Eve whined into his mouth, feeling the thick, burning steel of his member deliciously stretching every single inch of her, hammering ruthlessly against her sweetest spots with every deep, merciless bottoming out.
Eve threw her head back against the wool blankets, her eyes rolling shut as the sheer ecstasy of it took over her mind. His dark eyes heavily hooded and burning with possessive fury, stared down at her astonished face, drinking in her submission as he continued to violently, beautifully fuck her. Every hard slam of his hips was rough, intense, and intoxicatingly deep.
Desperate for even closer friction, Simon let his massive upper body collapse directly onto hers, crushing his bare, sweating chest against her sensitive breasts and damp skin. He locked her in a suffocatingly tight, bruising embrace, pinning her arms above her head as he continued to ruthlessly drive his hips into hers, his weight adding a terrifyingly delicious depth to every strike. Eve tilted her hips higher, tilting her pelvis to take him as deeply as her body could physically allow.
"Fuck... fuck..." Simon choked out, his voice a broken, gravelly vibration.
He slid his large hand down, gripping the back of her neck to lift her head, forcing her forehead hard against his. Eve’s mouth was stretched open, panting heavily as every single one of her senses began to buckle under the tidal wave of pleasure building inside her core. Suddenly, her inner walls clamped down in a violent, spasming vice, and an intense, blinding orgasm ripped through her body, leaving her thrall to a helpless, vocal screaming moan as her legs shook violently around his waist.
The frantic, desperate squeezing of her slick walls against his pulsing length, combined with the raw, high pitch of her orgasm, broke Simon’s last remaining thread of sanity. His control shattered completely. With a heavy, guttural roar that echoed from deep within his chest, a massive, brutal orgasm tore through him. He fired deeply inside her, his whole body locking up, rigid and trembling with a violent, overwhelming release that lasted for several agonizing seconds before he finally went entirely limp, collapsing heavily over Eve’s twitching, exhausted form.
***********
The adrenaline had finally drained, leaving behind a heavy, post-coital languor that seemed to quiet even the rhythmic creaking of the old fishing boat. They lay close together on the tangled wool blankets spread across the deck, the cool Mediterranean night air a sharp contrast to the slick, burning heat of their skin.
Simon was flat on his back, his bare chest rising and falling in a slow, steady rhythm as his dark eyes stared up at the vast canopy of stars. Her wild red hair was a tumbled mess around her, and her gaze was fixed entirely on his uncovered face, tracing the sharp, rugged lines of his jaw in the moonlight.
For a long time, the only sound was the gentle lapping of the dark water against the hull. Then, without breaking his gaze from the sky, Simon’s gravelly baritone cut through the quiet.
"How did you know I wasn't gonna kill you the second you entered that room?"
Eve didn't blink. A small, enigmatic shadow of a smile touched her lips.
"I didn't."
Simon shifted, turning his heavy head to look at her directly. His dark eyes locked onto hers, demanding more than a cryptic two-word answer.
Eve met his stare evenly, shifting her weight slightly as she explained. "I had the remote detonator palmed the exact moment I cleared the threshold. If you had lunged at me like a feral beast the second I walked in, I would’ve activated it well before you could have snapped my neck.
Simon’s brow furrowed slightly, his tactical mind immediately analyzing the scenario. "And if you didn't have time to press it? If I managed to knock it from your hand?"
Eve leaned in just a fraction closer, the dangerous, playful lilt returning to her voice as a slow, wicked smirk spread across her lips.
"Well..." she murmured, her green eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated mischief.
"In that case, Simon... you wouldn't have had your first real orgasm in years."
Simon stared at her, his face deadpan as the absolute audacity of her words hung in the air. A tense, heavy silence stretched between them for a beat, his jaw tightening as he kept his eyes locked on hers, completely serious.
Then, breaking the stare, he slowly turned his head back toward the sky, shaking it faintly. As his dark eyes tracked the vast canopy of stars, the hard line of his mouth finally gave way, his lips subtly curving into a very slight, quiet smile in the dark—a silent, rare surrender to her absolute madness.
**********
Ghost moved through the haze with a predator’s steady, rhythmic gait. The air was thick with the acrid stench of cordite and burning rubber—the graveyard of Shepherd’s final, desperate gamble. His skull-painted mask was spattered with grime, his dark eyes scanning the mangled wreckage until they locked onto a lone figure slumped in the dirt beside a lifeless Shadow Company operator.
Eve was a ruin of earth, ash, and drying blood. A jagged laceration above her brow had sent a crimson streak down the side of her face, and she was breathing in shallow, gritted hitches. Her hand was pressed firmly, almost possessively, onto the hilt of her tactical knife, her fingers white-knuckled even in her delirium. A deep, ugly shrapnel wound marred her leg, the fabric of her jeans soaked dark and heavy.
As Ghost’s shadow fell over her, she snapped her head up. Even through the fog of shock and exhaustion, her gaze remained sharp, flickering with a faint, defiant spark the moment she recognized the towering silhouette.
Without a word, Ghost reached down. Eve didn't hesitate; she mirrored his reach, her fingers locking around his gloved hand. He hauled her upward in one fluid motion, but as her weight hit her injured leg, her knees buckled with a sharp, involuntary hiss of pain. Ghost caught her before she could collapse, his arm an unyielding iron bar around her waist. He realized immediately she wouldn't make the trek on foot.
Ghost turned his back to her and crouched low, his posture firm. "Jump." His voice was a low, gravelly rasp that brooked no argument.
Eve leaned into him, hooking her arms around his neck and locking her boots around his waist. Ghost adjusted his grip on her thighs and stood. He rose with terrifying ease, as if her weight were nothing more than a shadow on his shoulders. He didn't look back; with Eve secured against his spine, Ghost began the long walk toward the extraction point, his boots crunching over the debris as they vanished into the smoke together.
The extraction point was a desolate, windswept stretch of tarmac, the silence broken only by the low, hungry rumble of idling engines. Ghost was still trudging forward when two black SUVs screeched to a halt, cutting off his path. From the lead vehicle, Laswell stepped out, flanked by two stone-faced tactical operatives. From the second, Price, Soap, and Gaz emerged, their expressions grim and unreadable.
The mission was a success—the data was live, the ledger exposed, and Shepherd’s influence was crumbling—but the air was thick with a new, lethal tension. Thorne’s innocence was still a ghost in the system, a truth not yet proven.
"Get away from Thorne, Riley," Laswell commanded, her voice devoid of its usual warmth, sounding more like a judge than a handler.
Ghost went dead still, his eyes burning behind the mask. The operatives with Laswell didn't hesitate; they raised their rifles, leveling them directly at his chest.
Ghost shifted, his muscles coiling, but Price stepped into his line of sight, his voice low and urgent. "Stand down, Simon. Do it. We’ll find a way out of this wreckage—I promise."
Ghost looked at his captain. Price’s face was a mask of weary resignation, but his eyes held that familiar, stubborn promise.
Eve slid off Ghost’s back, her movements slow and agonizing. She limped away from him, her hands raised in a clear, silent gesture of surrender. The two operatives intercepted her with unnecessary violence; they kicked her legs out from under her, forcing her into the dirt. A sharp, pained cry escaped her as her wounded leg slammed into the gravel.
Seeing her handled that way snapped something vital inside Ghost. He surged forward, but a rifle muzzle was shoved hard into his chest. Ghost didn't flinch. He stepped into the weapon, looming over the soldier, his voice a low, terrifying snarl.
"You gonna shoot me, you fuckin' asshole!?"
"Ghost!! Ghost stand down!" Price barked, stepping closer.
"Shoot me, motherfucker!!" Ghost spat, his focus entirely on the soldier as the metallic click of handcuffs echoed across the tarmac.
"SIMON!"
Price’s roar finally cut through the red haze. Soap moved in instantly, grabbing Ghost’s shoulder and hauling him back, creating a sliver of distance between him and the operative's trigger finger. Ghost’s chest heaved, his posture a spring of redirected, barely contained violence.
They hauled Eve up by her arms, dragging her toward the SUV. Just before they shoved her into the backseat, she turned her head. Her green eyes found Ghost’s—one last, piercing look that held no regret, only a silent acknowledgment of the war they had just waged together.
The door slammed shut. Laswell gave the 141 a final, lingering look before climbing into the front. The SUVs sped off, kicking up a blinding cloud of dust and gravel, leaving the four men standing alone in the wasteland, watching the only thing that mattered to Ghost disappear into the horizon.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - fanfic
The heavy metal door of the Beirut safehouse groaned as Ghost shoved it open, stepping into the dim, oil-scented garage first. Both of them were covered in a layer of sweat, dust, and dried blood, their bodies carrying the crushing weight of a mission that had gone completely sideways. Without a word, Ghost immediately drifted into the shadows, his rifle raised as he began a cold, methodical sweep of the perimeter.
Eve stumbled past him, the adrenaline that had kept her upright for the last three hours finally evaporating. Every breath was a sharp wave of agony. A massive, jagged slash tore through the back of her tactical gear—a deep, brutal knife wound that throbbed with a sickening heat.
Grimacing, her teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached, she began tearing off her equipment. The plate carrier dropped to the grease-stained concrete with a heavy thud, followed by her tactical belt and gloves. Stripped down to just her black tank top, she reached out, her trembling hands catching the edge of a rusted metal workbench.
"Fuck..." she hissed under her breath.
Her vision swam, and her knees suddenly buckled, completely giving out beneath her.
Before she could hit the floor, a massive, gloved hand caught her by the arm, and Ghost’s heavy frame slid in to intercept her fall. He caught her securely against his chest, his brute strength effortlessly arresting her descent.
As he held her, Ghost shifted his grip to support her weight, and his palm pressed against her back. It instantly came away slick and wet. His dark eyes narrowed under his skull mask as he looked down at his hand, then at her back. The fabric of her black tank top was completely drenched, sliced open to reveal a long, deep gash that was still actively pumping dark blood. It was wide, ugly, and needed to be closed immediately.
Eve gripped the front of his jacket, her knuckles turning white as she forced her trembling legs to find their purchase again. With a sharp, ragged exhale, she re-established her footing, leaning heavily into his solid frame for support as she forced herself upright.
"You're bleeding out, Thorne. I need to stitch you." Ghost said, his deep voice carrying a rare, grave edge that cut through the silence of the garage.
Eve looked up at him, her green eyes heavy with exhaustion, and simply nodded.
Without a word, Ghost slid his arms beneath her and lifted her up. Her head fell naturally against his shoulder for a brief second before he set her down carefully onto the edge of the cold metal workbench. Grunting through the pain, Eve shifted, gripping the table for balance as she slowly rotated her body to present her back to him.
Ghost stepped closer, evaluating the damage. The black fabric of her top was soaked and clinging to her skin, obscuring the full extent of the laceration.
"You need to take your shirt off," he muttered.
As the words left his mouth, his hands moved to the velcro strap of his right tactical glove, ripping it open with a sharp, loud snap before pulling the heavy material off his hand. He tossed it onto a nearby crate and immediately went to work on the left one, his bare, scarred skin finally exposed as he kept his dark eyes locked on her.
Eve swallowed hard, staring at the concrete floor. "I can't fuckin' move... just rip it."
Ghost pulled his tactical knife from his sheath, the steel catching the dim light of the safehouse. With precise, deliberate care, he slid the blade beneath the collar of her tank top and sliced downward, completely splitting the ruined fabric to expose the raw wound.
Eve groaned, leaning her upper body forward to relieve the tension on her spine. With a slow, painful effort, she pulled her arms out of the shredded, blood-soaked shirt, letting it drop to the floor. She instantly crossed one arm tightly over her chest, covering her breasts, her shoulders trembling from the cold and the shock.
Ghost leaned in, inspecting the deep, jagged tear in her flesh. It was deep enough that he could see the fatty tissue beneath the skin, still oozing dark crimson.
His fingertips brushed the unbroken skin just at the edge of the wound. The contrast was stark—his fingers were rough, heavily scarred, and warm against her clammy, trembling skin. His touch was firm, a silent demand for her to stay still, yet there was an underlying, careful precision to it that made her breath catch.
He leaned closer, his chest almost brushing her shoulder, and his voice dropped to a low, quiet murmur meant only for the space between them.
"It's a fuckin' ugly gash, Thorne."
"Just stitch me back together, Riley..." Eve murmured, her voice dropping to a low, fragile whisper, every word costing her an immense amount of energy. "...and don't look at my breasts."
Ghost paused, his fingers wrapped around a fresh pack of nylon sutures. He didn't look up from the medical kit laid out on the table, his expression hidden beneath the stark white of his skull mask as he deliberately focused on lining up the curved needle. His tone remained deadpan and utterly unfazed.
"I'm looking at a piece of meat that needs sewing, Thorne. Don't flatter yourself."
A faint, ragged breath escaped her lips as Eve let out a weak, breathless laugh despite the pain.
"Liar..." she murmured, her voice barely a thread in the quiet garage, but laced with her usual stubborn bite.
Ghost didn't reply. The only sound that followed was the sharp, metallic snap of the suture as he locked the curved needle into place, his focus entirely locked onto her skin.
Each pull of the needle through her flesh was an agonizing tug, but Eve anchored herself, her jaw clenched so tight it fractured her breathing. A strangled "Fuck..." slipped past her lips as she pressed the palm of her free hand flat against the cold metal workbench, her knuckles turning white under the strain.
Ghost's movements were steady, precise, and completely focused. Sensing the tension in her muscles, he murmured in his low, gravelly baritone, "Hold on. Almost done."
He finished the final knot, snipped the thread, and used a clean piece of gauze to wipe away the excess blood. As he cleared the skin, his hands lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary against her bare skin. The warmth of her body contrasted sharply with the cold steel of the room. He didn't move away immediately; instead, his dark gaze traced the curve of her exposed back, caught in a rare, uncharacteristic trance.
"There's a spare shirt in my pack..." Eve muttered, her strained voice cutting through the silence and breaking him out of his thoughts.
Ghost blinked, pulling his hands back. Without a word, he stepped away, located her discarded tactical backpack, and pulled out a clean, dark combat shirt. He walked back and stood directly in front of her, the shirt held in his hands.
Eve was still leaning forward slightly, one arm pinned tightly across her chest to cover her breasts. She looked up at him, her face pale. "I can't move, Riley. You have to help me."
Without saying a word, Ghost unzipped the high collar of the tactical shirt and stretched the fabric open. He stepped closer, stepping into her personal space, and carefully guided her arms through the sleeves before lifting the collar over her head. It was a fiercely intimate moment, the silence between them heavy and thick. Ghost tried to remain entirely professional, but as he adjusted the fabric over her shoulders, his eyes involuntarily flicked downward, catching the soft curve of her exposed cleavage and the sharp, undeniable contour of her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing
Eve didn't notice—or at least, she seemed too consumed by the throbbing pain in her back and the effort of getting dressed to care. She focused entirely on sliding her arms in, letting out a ragged sigh of relief as the dark fabric finally covered her skin.
With a slow, agonizing movement, she reached up and pulled the zipper up to her throat. Once secured, she braced her hand on the edge of the metal table and carefully slid her feet back down to the concrete floor.
Because Ghost hadn't stepped back, the motion brought her directly into his space. They stood mere inches apart, the sheer bulk of his massive frame looming over her. Eve paused, holding her breath against a sharp pang from her stitches, and lifted her chin. Looking straight into the dark eyes behind his skull mask, she whispered, "Thanks."
Ghost simply gave a single, tight nod.
Eve turned slightly, stepping past his shoulder to retrieve her discarded tactical gear from the floor with visible difficulty. She didn't look back at him as she reached down, but a faint, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of her lips.
"I know you looked," she murmured softly.
Ghost didn't even flinch. His voice returned to its cold, deadpan baseline. "Fuck off, Thorne."
Despite the raw ache in her back, a weak, breathless laugh escaped Eve's chest as she hauled her plate carrier onto the workbench.
They sat on the oil-stained concrete floor, waiting for the extraction team to signal their arrival. Positioned directly across from each other, the silence of the garage stretched between them. Eve had her eyes closed, her head resting heavily against the damp concrete wall behind her as she tried to breathe through the lingering throb in her back. Ghost sat with one leg bent, his forearm resting casually over his knee, his dark eyes never leaving her face.
Without opening her eyes, her head still resting against the wall, Eve broke the quiet. "Where are you from?"
Ghost didn't answer right away. The silence stretched until Eve slowly lowered her head, opening her green eyes to look across the small gap at him, waiting.
"Manchester," Ghost finally muttered, his deep voice muffled slightly by the fabric of his mask. "Salford."
Eve’s brows knit together, a faint glimmer of genuine surprise in her eyes. "No shit... I lived there when I was five." She leaned her head back slightly, studying the stark white skull painted on his face. "How old are you?"
"Older than you," he replied deadpan.
A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "Clearly... Is that why you wear the mask? To hide the aging, or just to protect your fragile ego?"
Ghost turned his head away with a look of mock annoyance, staring into the dark corner of the garage. "You're very annoying, Thorne."
"Yeah… and I’ve also saved your ass several times," she shot back.
Ghost's gaze snapped back to her. Eve met his look with a playful grin, playfully arching her eyebrows at him, completely unfazed by his intimidating aura.
With a soft exhale, she closed her eyes again, letting her head drop back against the concrete wall. "Admit it. You like having me around."
Ghost didn't look away this time. His dark eyes remained fixed on her, tracking the slight rise and fall of her shoulders.
"Maybe," he said quietly.
A small, genuine laugh escaped her lips, disappearing into the dark, quiet corners of the garage.
*******************
Eve was sitting on the edge of the examination bed in the base infirmary, getting her fresh stitches cleaned and dressed. She was hunched slightly forward, her clean tactical shirt unzipped and hanging loosely from around her neck. With her torso exposed, she held one arm tightly across her chest, securing her privacy as the nurse worked meticulously on her back.
Suddenly, the heavy door clicked open. Ghost stepped into the room, his massive frame instantly consuming the space. The moment his eyes adjusted and he realized what was happening, he froze in his tracks, his dark gaze locking onto her.
An awkward, sudden stillness washed over the room. The nurse stopped moving, the gauze hovering in her hand, while Eve slowly turned her head to look at him, completely unfazed.
A faint, sharp smirk touched Eve's lips. "Hey, Riley. Are you here to stare at my breasts again?"
The nurse’s eyes widened slightly, shifting between the two of them. Ghost cleared his throat behind the fabric of his skull mask, his posture stiffening as he forced his tone into a deadpan, strictly professional baseline.
"Price and Smith need us in the briefing room in ten minutes."
Eve held his gaze for a long, quiet second, her green eyes sizing him up as if waiting for him to crack. Finally, she gave a slow nod. "Then I'll be there."
Without another word, Ghost spun on his heel and walked out, the heavy infirmary door clicking shut behind him.
************
The thudding beat of the rotors shook the night air as Gaz held the chopper steady a few feet above the dirt. It was a hot extraction. Soap scrambled inside first, followed closely by Eve, with Ghost bringing up the rear, checking his corners as he hauled his massive frame into the bay. The helicopter was already climbing, the ground dropping away rapidly while the side door was still sliding shut.
Eve glanced back through the opening one last time. Through the dust and the dark, a flash of moonlight caught a figure on a nearby rooftop, lifting a heavy metal tube to his shoulder.
Her eyes widened, and she slammed her hand against her comms headset. "RPG!!!" she screamed at the top of her lungs, her voice tearing straight through the static and into Gaz's ears.
Up front, Gaz didn’t hesitate. He yanked the collective, wrenching the chopper into a violent, sickening bank to the left.
The world tilted on its axis. Soap slammed hard against the interior wall, his boots finding purchase as he anchored himself. Eve's fingers gripped a structural rib of the fuselage, her teeth rattling from the sudden G-force. But Ghost, caught mid-stride, lost his footing completely. The violent lurch whipped him toward the wide-open door. His fingers managed to grab the metal edge of the frame for a fraction of a second—a weak, desperate hold against the sheer physics of the turn that barely arrested his fall. He was slipping, his heavy body already dangling halfway out into the empty, rushing air.
In a fraction of a second, seeing his grip give way, Eve let go of the rib and lunged forward. She hooked her right arm around a secured interior cargo strap, anchoring herself to the belly of the bird, and at the exact same moment, her left hand shot out into the void. Her fingers locked onto the thick webbing of Ghost’s tactical vest with a death grip just as his own fingers lost their purchase on the metal frame. Instantly, as the momentum tore him completely free of the chopper's edge, Ghost's gloved hand snapped up, clamping onto her forearm like a steel vice to stop his terminal descent.
The sheer weight of him nearly tore her shoulder from its socket. Hanging on with everything she had, her right hand white-knuckled around the anchor strap inside the cabin, her left arm bore his full, crushing mass against the brutal drag of the wind.
"Soap!" she roared, her voice raw and vibrating with the immense strain. "Shoot that motherfucker!"
Soap swung his rifle around, leaning out of the open bay door, his eyes locking onto the rooftop. He pulled the trigger, letting loose a brutal, controlled burst of automatic fire. The rounds ripped through the darkness, tearing into the insurgent just as he was about to lock onto the bird's new trajectory. The enemy collapsed, the unguided rocket firing harmlessly into the night sky.
"Gaz, straighten the bloody bird!!" Soap screamed over the deafening roar of the rotors and into his mic.
Gaz slammed the controls back, leveling the chopper with a hard jerk. The momentum swung Ghost’s body back toward the interior. With a brutal surge of his own strength, Ghost used his grip on Eve's arm to launch himself inward, crashing heavily onto the metal floor—and landing almost entirely on top of her.
Soap slammed the side door shut, cutting off the rushing wind, and slid down against the bulkhead, panting heavily. "Bloody hell..."
Ghost moved slowly, his breathing heavy and ragged under his mask as he pushed himself up on his forearms, relieving the crushing pressure on her chest.
Eve stayed completely flat on her back, staring at the cabin ceiling as her heart hammered violently against her ribs. She let out a long, breathless, exhausted sigh.
"You're so fuckin' heavy..." she muttered, unable to lift a finger.
Ghost pulled himself entirely off her, his own adrenaline slowly fading as he slumped against the opposite wall, sitting on the floor right beside her, utterly spent.
************
The base pub was alive with its usual low hum of clinking glasses and background chatter. The Task Force was gathered around their regular booth, but Ghost wasn’t paying attention to the conversation. His dark eyes were locked entirely on a small table across the room.
Eve was sitting there with two men. They wore civilian clothes, but everything about their rigid posture, their hyper-vigilant eyes, and the quiet authority they carried screamed intelligence operatives. They looked serious, cold, and lethal. Eve was leaning forward, her expression intensely focused as she spoke to them in hushed, deliberate tones.
At one point, as if feeling the sheer weight of his stare, Eve shifted her gaze. Her green eyes met Ghost’s across the smoky bar—a brief, unreadable second of intense contact—before she calmly looked back at her companions, continuing the serious conversation.
After a few more minutes, the two operatives abruptly stood up. They gave Eve a single, deeply respectful nod, which she returned, before they vanished into the crowd toward the exit.
Eve paused at the table for a moment, letting the dust settle. Then, she picked up her drink, stood up, and walked over to the Task Force booth. She slid into the seat right next to Price. Without a word, she subtly pressed a small, metallic flash drive into the Captain's palm.
Price’s fingers closed over it instantly. "Is this what I think it is?" he asked, his voice low beneath the pub's noise.
"Everything they managed to pull from the Damascus network," Eve replied quietly, her face tight. "It’s clean, it’s raw, and it’s time-sensitive."
Price evaluated the weight of the drive in his hand, then tapped the table, looking over at Gaz. "Change of plans. We need to process this intel immediately before the encryption cycles change."
Gaz nodded, draining the rest of his pint in one swallow. Price stood up, giving Eve a tight, appreciative nod. "Good work, Thorne."
With that, Price and Gaz navigated through the crowded bar and left.
Through all of it, Ghost hadn’t moved a single muscle. He sat in the corner of the booth, his masked face turned squarely toward Eve, his piercing gaze tracking her every breath.
Suddenly, Soap’s eyes lit up as he looked toward the entrance of the bar. "Rochester!" he shouted over the noise, spotting Maggie walking in. He practically threw himself out of the booth, waving his arm, and eagerly headed off through the crowd to meet her.
The sudden departure left the table instantly quiet. The bustling noise of the pub seemed to fade into a dull hum, leaving Eve and Ghost completely alone in the booth, the air between them thick with unspoken tension.
Eve let the silence hang for a few beats, completely unfazed by the weight of his stare. She casually reached out, swirling the ice in her glass before taking a slow, deliberate sip of her whiskey. Setting the glass back down, she leaned back into the vinyl booth, a knowing, dangerous smirk playing on her lips as she finally met his eyes.
"If you'd stared any harder, Riley, those operatives would've caught fire."
Ghost didn't blink. He leaned forward slightly, bringing his massive frame into the dim light of the booth, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration meant for her ears only.
"They were about two seconds away from needing an ambulance."
Eve’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second, her breath catching at the raw possessiveness in his tone. But she recovered quickly. A soft, breathless laugh escaped her lips, and she reached for her glass again, taking another slow sip. She tilted her head, looking at him with a playful, testing glint in her green eyes.
"Do I need your permission to talk to other men, Simon?"
Ghost didn't match her playful tone. His expression behind the balaclava remained deadly serious, his entire posture stiffening. He leaned in even closer, invading her space until the shadow of his frame completely cut her off from the rest of the crowded bar.
"Don't test me, Morgan," he muttered, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a dark, warning edge.
The playfulness vanished from Eve's face, replaced by a sudden, intense gravity. She leaned in to meet him halfway, her gaze locking onto his with unyielding defiance.
"Or what?" she challenged quietly.
The air between them turned electric, the latent sexual tension snapping tight like a wire. Simon stared at her, his dark eyes boring into hers with a brutal, suffocating intensity that made the noise of the pub fade into absolute nothingness.
"Finish your drink," he commanded quietly, the authority in his voice laced with a sudden, thick hunger. "We're leaving."
**************
They were in Eve's apartment, worlds away from the dust and blood of the field, completely stripped of their armor, masks, and defenses. Both lay naked in the quiet dark of her bed. Eve was lying on her stomach, her fingers buried tight into the sheets, her knuckles turning white as she anchored herself to the mattress.
Simon hovered over her from behind. He braced his weight with one massive hand planted firmly against the mattress, while his other hand moved with a rare, devastating tenderness, his fingertips tracing the jagged line of the silver scar that now permanently marked her back.
As his rough skin grazed the healed tissue, Eve lowered her forehead against the mattress, letting out a deep, trembling sigh that was thick with heat and surrender.
Simon leaned down, pressing his lips directly against the scar. He began to kiss his way up her spine, his lips and tongue following the smooth contour of her back with agonizing slowness until he reached the sensitive skin at the base of her neck.
The hand that had been tracing her scar moved upward, his thick fingers tangling sensually into the damp hair at the nape of her neck. With careful but unyielding possessiveness, he tilted her head back, forcing a raw, breathless gasp from her lips as he began to drive into her again, his hips moving with a sudden, ferocious intensity and a voracious hunger that threatened to consume them both.
Eve began to moan with pure, unadulterated pleasure, the sound echoing softly in the quiet bedroom. Arching her back against him, she turned her head to the side, looking for him. The moment their eyes locked in the darkness, Simon leaned down and hungrily captured her mouth in a bruising, breathless kiss, smothering her moans as he continued to drive into her with unyielding, powerful strokes.
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Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - Headcanon based on the new trailer of MWF4.
The harsh daylight beat down on the concrete roof, mixing with the heavy smell of smoke and copper. Sirens wailed in the distance, but on the rooftop, the only sound was the ragged, labored breathing of two broken men.
Price was on his knees, both hands planted heavily on the ground to support his weight, struggling to draw air into his lungs under the glaring sun. A few paces away, his massive frame cutting a terrifying silhouette against the amber sky, stood Ghost. He was balanced, coiled, and a split second away from lunging to deliver a final blow. The tactical knife in his hand gleamed under the bright light, the blade steady, aimed with ruthless intent at his Captain.
"You broke a lot of rules, Price," Ghost rumbled, his deep voice dripping with cold, unyielding fury.
He tightened his grip on the hilt, ready to advance, when the sharp, unmistakable click of a weapon being cocked echoed right behind him. The sound was deafeningly close.
Ghost stilled, his muscles locking up. He didn't drop the knife, but his dark eyes narrowed under his skull mask as an unknown figure stepped out from the shadows of the rooftop stairwell. The operative was clad entirely in black tactical gear, face completely obscured by a dark balaclava, a rifle raised with lethal precision, aimed straight at the center of Ghost's chest.
"Stand down, Riley," a cold, authoritative voice commanded through the heat.
On the ground, Price let out a weak, coughing breath of relief. Seeing Eve holding the line, the Captain relaxed his posture slightly and began to slowly push himself up from the concrete.
Ghost’s eyes locked onto her. He had no idea who this woman was, but instead of backing away, a flash of pure, reckless defiance washed over him. He took a heavy, deliberate step forward, closing the distance toward Price, testing her resolve.
BANG.
A high-caliber round shattered the concrete mere inches from Ghost's boots, sending sharp fragments of stone flying against his tactical trousers.
"I said stand the fuck down!" she roared, her voice cutting through the open air, completely unyielding.
Ghost stopped, his entire body tense with absolute, unadulterated fury. He stared at the masked operative, his jaw clenching so hard it was visible beneath the fabric of his own skull mask.
She stepped closer, keeping the rifle perfectly steady, her sights never leaving his chest. "Drop the knife. Now. On your fuckin' knees."
For a long, agonizing second, Ghost didn't move. Then, with a slow, deliberate tilt of his head, he let his fingers uncurl. The tactical knife clattered against the roof. Slowly, agonizingly, he dropped his massive frame onto his knees, his hands raising to the sides of his head, his lethal glare fixed entirely on the unknown shooter.
Price pushed himself up, wiping blood from his mouth as he stumbled over. He reached into his vest, pulling out a pair of heavy-duty zip-ties. He stepped behind Ghost, grabbing his wrists and securing them with a harsh, professional jerk.
As the plastic teeth clicked into place, Price leaned down close to Ghost's ear, his voice low and heavy with exhaustion. "What I'm doing is necessary, Simon. You of all people should know that. You should have trusted me."
Ghost didn't reply to Price. He didn't even look at him. His dark eyes remained fixed entirely on the woman standing in front of him, trying to analyze this new threat.
Under the golden light of the setting sun, Ghost tried to analyze the intensity in the unknown woman's green gaze while silently swearing a vow of retribution, but Eve, recognizing the soldier's latent danger and intention to break his bonds, decided not to give him the chance to act.
With a swift, practiced motion, Eve dropped her stance and swung the solid stock of her rifle downward, the heavy composite butt connecting violently with the side of Ghost’s head with a sickening CRACK. The brutal force rattled through his skull, instantly splintering his vision into a white-hot flash of pain before darkness took over, sending his massive frame collapsing limp onto the concrete roof.
Eve lowered the rifle back into a low-ready position, her breathing steady as she looked down at the unconscious man. She glanced over at Price, her voice flat and cold through the fabric of her mask.
"We need to move. Now."
***************
Perched on the freezing iron grate of an abandoned fire escape overlooking the Lower East Side, Ghost adjusted the collar of his civilian jacket. In his scarred hand, a modified tactical tablet glowed faintly against the shadows, its screen split between a live reconnaissance drone feed and a secure, encrypted satellite uplink.
He pressed his comm-piece, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that barely carried into the wind. "Gaz. Tell me you’ve bypassed the NYPD transit grid."
A sharp hiss of static cut through the earpiece before Gaz’s voice responded, typing sounds clicking rapidly in the background. "Almost there, Ghost. Bypassing Manhattan’s C-Tech security isn't exactly a walk in the park from a safehouse across the state line. Give me five seconds... Alright, I'm in. Feeding the drone telemetry and facial recognition software directly to your tablet now."
On the screen, the thermal signature of a micro-drone hovering a hundred feet above the crowded avenues shifted into a high-definition optical lens. Ghost manipulated the screen with his thumb, rewinding the footage from the outer perimeter of the rooftop incident.
"Isolate the stairwell exit," Ghost commanded. "Frame forty-two. She dropped her mask for a split second to clear her breath before hitting street level. Zoom and enhance. Run it through the cross-referenced database."
"On it," Gaz murmured, his tone shifting into professional focus. "Bypassing the standard intelligence networks and diving straight into the UKSF encrypted mainframe at Credenhill. If she’s home-grown elite, her biometric signature will be in the base shadow files."
The tablet screen flickered violently, a red progress bar loading over a pixelated capture of Eve's face. The golden hue of the setting sun from the rooftop illuminated the sharp contours of her jaw and the fierce, burning gaze of her green eyes. The system cycled through thousands of encrypted profiles at a blistering speed until a sudden, sharp electronic chime echoed through the comms.
ACCESS GRANTED: LEVEL 5 CLEARANCE ONLY.
A heavily redacted military dossier materialized on the screen. Ghost’s dark eyes narrowed into a razor-sharp glare as he scanned the text.
"Bloody hell, Ghost..." Gaz breathed over the line, his voice laced with genuine disbelief. "You've stumbled into a shadow of our own. That's Morgan Eve Thorne. Rank: Lieutenant. Unit: Special Reconnaissance Regiment."
Ghost’s jaw tightened beneath his tactical gaiter. SRR.
He knew that acronym all too well. The Special Reconnaissance Regiment was the pinnacle of Tier 1 covert surveillance, close reconnaissance, and psychological warfare. They operated in the absolute shadows, often embedded with the SAS.
"She’s Tier 1," Ghost rasped, his eyes locked onto her operational history. "And she was stationed out of Credenhill. Same base as us."
"Yeah, but look at her deployment record," Gaz added, the clicking of his keyboard slowing down. "Classified operations in Al Mazrah, deep-cover tracking in Las Almas, blood-and-dirt counter-insurgency in Iraq and Afghanistan, and two tours of counter-terrorism operations under the direct, off-book supervision of... the Captain. Her file has Price’s digital signature all over it, but her current status is completely wiped. She’s a ghost."
Ghost stood flat against the brick facade, digesting the data. This woman wasn't some soft, desk-bound handler or a random asset the upper echelon had sent to leash Price. She was a lethal, highly trained apex predator. A Tier 1 operator who specialized in tracking the untrackable. She knew how he hunted because she had crawled through the exact same mud at Credenhill. She was anything but an easy target.
Yet, the core question remained like a splinter in his mind. Why? Why would a top-tier SRR operative risk her career, her life, and burn every international protocol to act as Price's rogue shadow in a black op? What did she know that the rest of the Task Force didn't?
"She’s a hunting hound," Ghost rumbled, his bloodshot eyes flashing with a cold, calculating wrath. "And she's currently running a counter-surveillance loop in Manhattan. She thinks she broke containment."
"What's the play, Ghost?" Gaz asked, a hint of caution in his voice. "If she catches you tracking her, she won't hesitate to put a bullet in you. She’s elite, Simon."
"Let her try," Ghost growled softly, cutting the connection with a sharp click.
He slid the tablet into his jacket vest. He didn't have the skull mask on; instead, a low-profile black baseball cap was pulled low over his eyes, and the plain tactical neck gaiter was tugged up over his nose, hiding his permanent scars. But his eyes—dark, intense, and frantic with a calculating wrath—were entirely exposed.
*******
Ghost was a ghost no longer. He was a hunting hound.
He stood flat against the brick facade of a brownstone, his massive frame partially camouflaged by a dark civilian jacket. He was wearing the baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, and the tactical neck gaiter tugged up over his nose.
Across the busy Manhattan avenue, the glass storefront of a crowded artisan cafe reflected the bright afternoon sun.
And then, he saw her.
Even in civilian clothes, her posture was a dead giveaway to a trained eye. Eve pushed the heavy glass door open and stepped inside the establishment. Ghost didn't waste a single millisecond. He checked the traffic, lunged off the brick wall, and crossed the street with rapid, predatory strides, his heavy boots cutting through the sea of pedestrians like a kinetic wave.
Inside, the cafe was a buzzing hive of chatter, clinking ceramic, and the heavy aroma of roasted espresso. Eve didn't look back, but she didn't need to. The moment she approached the counter, she caught his massive, unmistakable silhouette reflecting perfectly against the polished dark laminate of the display case. Her heart gave a sudden, violent thud against her ribs—not out of fear, but from pure tactical panic. He found me.
She could feel his eyes on her. It was a physical weight, a suffocating, predatory gaze that seemed to heat the air at the back of her neck as the front door chimes rang, signaling his entrance. The wolf was in the fold.
Eve knew she couldn't fight him here—not with fifty civilians acting as meat shields. Without breaking her stride or giving him the satisfaction of a panicked glance, she abandoned her order and began to smoothly weave through the tight maze of small wooden tables, moving directly toward the back of the establishment.
Once she reached the service corridor near the restrooms, she stopped. She turned on her heel, her vivid green eyes locking straight onto his dark, shadowed gaze across the sea of unsuspecting patrons. For two agonizing, unblinking seconds, they held a silent, electric visual deadlock. He was a monolithic machine closing in; she was the scalpel ready to cut the lights.
With a lightning-fast reflex, Eve reached beneath her jacket, drew her sidearm, and intentionally tilting her wrist upward, she fired a single, deafening unsuppressed round straight into the plaster ceiling.
BANG.
Plaster rained down. The reaction was instantaneous.
Absolute, unadulterated chaos erupted. Women shrieked, tables were violently overturned, and coffee mugs shattered on the tiles as dozens of terrified civilians scrambled for the deck or rushed the front exit in a frantic, stampeding mass.
Eve didn't waste a breath. She turned, vaulted effortlessly over the polished marble service counter, and crashed into the employee kitchen.
"Hey! You can't be back here—" a line cook yelled, but Eve shoved past him, her boots skidding slightly on the greasy metal floorboards as her eyes scanned the room, instantly locating the heavy steel push-bar of the rear exit door.
Behind her, the stampede of bodies in the main dining room had created a temporary wall of flesh, slowing Ghost down. He was forced to physically shoulder his way through the screaming crowd, his massive hands shoving frantic civilians aside with brutal, unyielding strength. He had lost precious seconds, but the moment he cleared the counter, his focus re-anchored.
He drove his massive shoulder straight through the swinging kitchen doors, splintering the wood with a loud CRACK.
The kitchen staff scattered in terror as the giant, masked operator materialized in their space. Ghost didn't even glance at them. His dark eyes were fixed entirely on the heavy rear door as it began to swing shut.
Like an unleashed machine, his boots hammered against the floorboards, his breathing turning into a series of low, guttural snarls as he tore after his prey into the dark alleyways of New York.
The heavy steel rear door of the cafe slammed shut behind her, the echo swallowed instantly by the roaring cacophony of Manhattan. Eve didn’t look back. She hit the pavement running, her boots pounding against the asphalt as adrenaline surged through her veins like liquid fire. She knew exactly what was tracking her. A machine. An unstoppable, furious force of nature that wouldn’t stop until he had his hands around her throat.
She turned sharply into a narrow alleyway, weaving violently between towering stacks of industrial waste and parked delivery vans, using every inch of the urban maze to break his line of sight. Emerging onto a crowded avenue, she deliberately dove into the thick of a tourist stampede, her movements fluid and calculated.
Spotting the illuminated green globe of a subway entrance, Eve bolted down the concrete stairs two at a time. She swiped her transit card with a practiced flick of her wrist, slipping through the turnstile and disappearing into a sea of commuters boarding an outbound Q train just as the automated doors began to hiss shut.
As the train screeched to life, pulling into the dark tunnels toward the East River, she finally allowed herself a ragged, shallow breath. She had broken containment.
For now.
****************
By the time she emerged from the subterranean depths into Brooklyn, the harsh afternoon sun had completely died, leaving the city draped in a heavy, humid nighttime shadow. The streetlamps cast long, distorted amber reflections across the damp pavement as she navigated the quieter, industrial corridors of the borough. Her chest was still tight, her heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her ribs from the sheer vertigo of the hunt.
She reached the designated safehouse—a weathered, unassuming brick loft building near the waterfront. Eve checked her six one last time, ensuring the dark street was empty, before slipping inside the dim stairwell.
She climbed to the third floor, her hand instinctively resting on the grip of her concealed sidearm. Reaching the heavy steel door of the apartment, she entered the master key code, listening to the electronic tumblers click open. She stepped inside, closing the door behind her with a soft, final click, the dark sanctuary completely silent.
Then, the air shifted.
The metallic tang of gun oil and cold sweat hung faintly in the stillness. Before her tactical instinct could even translate the warning to her muscles, an icy jolt of pure dread struck her chest. Something was fundamentally wrong.
Eve whirled around, her hand flying to her holster as she lunged back toward the deadbolt, desperate to break containment and throw herself back into the night.
She never got the chance.
Out from the absolute blackness of the entryway corridor, a colossal shadow materialized in a fraction of a millisecond. Ghost was entirely over her. The sheer, terrifying momentum of his massive frame hit her like a kinetic train wreck. Catching her from behind as she turned, he slammed his heavy body weight forward, pinning her brutally flat against the solid steel door with a deafening, metallic CRACK that vibrated straight through her spine.
"Going somewhere, Thorne?" Ghost rumbled directly into her ear, his voice a low, gravelly snarl that sent a shiver of pure, unadulterated danger down her neck.
He didn't give her an inch to breathe, let alone fight back. In one swift, authoritative motion, his large, scarred hands shot out with vice-like precision, capturing both of her wrists and pinning them securely against her lower back. He pressed his entire naked face close—the cap and gaiter gone, exposing his harsh, rigid scars and wild, bloodshot eyes through the shadows—his broad chest heaving violently against her back as he completely immobilized her under his crushing weight.
Eve’s instincts bypassed her brain entirely. The suffocating weight of his body was a death sentence, and her training took over with feral precision.
With a sudden, explosive burst of kinetic energy, Eve drove the back of her head hard into Ghost’s face. The bone-crushing impact cracked squarely against his nose, forcing a sharp grunt out of him. At the exact same fraction of a second, she snapped her wrists, breaking his vice-like grip with a violent, practiced twist of her joints and throwing her entire body weight backward into him.
The unexpected momentum caught Ghost off balance, forcing his massive frame back a staggering step into the dark corridor.
Free for a microsecond, Eve’s hand flashed to her side, her fingers wrapping around the grip of her concealed sidearm. She drew it in a fluid blur, but Ghost was a machine built for close-quarters violence. Before she could bring the barrel up, his large, scarred hand shot forward like a striking viper, his palm slamming brutally against the top of her slide, locking the mechanism. With a harsh, downward twist of his wrist, he wrenched the weapon entirely from her grasp, sending it clattering loudly across the hardwood floor into the shadows.
Eve didn't hesitate. Capitalizing on his forward lean, she drove her knee with bone-crushing force straight into his sternum.
Ghost grunted, the air violently driven from his lungs as the impact shoved him back another two steps. Eve didn't stay to watch him recover. She turned on her heel, her boots skidding on the floor as she bolted deeper into the studio apartment, her eyes locked onto the glowing red exit sign of the emergency stairwell at the far end of the loft.
She almost made it.
Behind her, an unhinged, gravelly roar echoed through the rafters. Ghost lunged. He didn't chase her; he launched his colossal frame through the air in a brutal, tactical tackle. The sheer mass of his body collided with the back of her thighs, completely taking her legs out from under her.
They hit the floorboards together with a deafening, hollow thud. Before Eve could even attempt to crawl, Ghost wrapped his thick, heavy arms around her torso from behind, pinning her chest flat against his. He violently rolled his weight backward, shifting his center of gravity until he was flat on his back on the floor, dragging her tightly on top of him to use his own massive frame as an anchor.
In the same fluid, suffocating motion, he snaked his thick forearm underneath her chin, locking her into a brutal, oxygen-depriving rear-naked chokehold, his chest heaving violently against her spine as he began to constrict her windpipe.
Eve’s vision began to blur at the edges, the lack of oxygen sending a wave of panicked heat through her veins. In a desperate, final bid for survival, her hand fumbled blindly down to her boot sleeve, her fingers wrapping around the hilt of her emergency tactical knife. She pulled it free, flipped the blade in her grip, and violently drove the steel backward, burying it deep into the meat of Ghost’s right thigh.
A guttural, agonizing grunt of pure, white-hot pain tore from Ghost's throat. His body convulsed, his vision flashing white as the blade severed muscle tissue. The sheer agony forced his iron grip to falter, the crushing pressure around her neck loosening just enough for the air to rush back into her burning lungs.
Gasping, her voice a fractured, scraping whisper, Eve choked out the words through the darkness.
"Makarov... Price's gonna... kill Makarov..."
The effect was instantaneous.
The moment that name sliced through the dark, the violent momentum of Ghost's entire body ground to a sudden, rigid halt. The word Makarov acted like an emergency brake on his nervous system.
Ghost violently shifted his immense weight right where they lay. Keeping her pinned flat against the hardwood floor with her face pressed hard into the wood, he straddled her hips from behind, crushing her lower body beneath his massive frame. He drove his large, heavy hand into the back of her neck, his fingers locking into her auburn curls to press her firmly against the cold timber, completely neutralizing any leverage she had left.
The tactical knife was still embedded deep in his thigh, the agonizing pulse of the wound rhythmically painting his trousers a dark, slick crimson, but his focus had completely narrowed to a cold, razor-sharp edge.
"The fuck did you say?!" Ghost roared down at the back of her head, his voice a guttural, terrifying vibration that rattled straight through the floorboards. His chest heaved against her spine, his grip on her neck unyielding as he demanded the truth.
Eve’s cheek was scraped against the rough wood, her breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps under his suffocating weight. But the fire in her green eyes didn't dim for a single second. She bared her teeth against the floor, her voice a strained, raspy snarl that cut through the agonizing pressure.
"Price... is going to... kill Makarov," she wheezed out, coughing slightly as she forced the words past her bruised throat. "He found him... Now get the fuck off me, you beast!"
Ghost slowly peeled his massive weight off her, but he didn’t let her go. He reached down, grabbing her right arm with a vice-like grip, and violently hoisted her to her feet, dragging her along with him as he began to move deeper into the dark loft.
The second her boots hit the floor, Eve fiercely resisted. She twisted her torso sharply, digging her heels into the hardwood. Capitalizing on his slight imbalance from the limp, she snapped her left arm upward, breaking his grip on her other wrist, and spun her entire upper body into the motion. With a devastating, fluid execution, she delivered a brutal hammer-fist strike directly into the side of Ghost's jaw.
The sheer force of the blow rattled Ghost, his head snapping back as he staggered a couple of steps away, finally forced to release her entirely to keep his footing. He recovered quickly, his weight balanced despite the knife still protruding from his heavily bleeding thigh, but he didn't advance. His guard stayed up, but he didn't try to grab her again.
Eve backed up until her spine hit the brick wall across from him. She leaned against it, her chest heaving violently as she fought to claw oxygen back into her burning lungs. Neither of them broke eye contact. They stood there, breathing heavily in the dim light, staring at each other like two wounded apex predators waiting for the other to bleed out.
Desperate to stabilize her breathing, Eve bent forward slightly, resting her palms flat against her knees. She wiped a streak of sweat and blood from her forehead, her burning green eyes locked onto his shadowed gaze.
"Price didn't turn," she rasped, her voice a low, friction-laced whisper that cut through the silence. "He went off-grid because he found a leak. A dirty channel inside MI6 that was shielding Makarov. He had to use FSB back-channels and black-market intelligence to track him. He tortured an Ultra-Nationalist asset in Prague to get the coordinates. That's why the upper echelon thinks he's a traitor—because he burned their protocols to ashes to get to him."
She took a sharp, ragged breath, her gaze hardening. "And right now? He's tracking him through a subterranean bunker in New Jersey. He's probably pulling the trigger as we speak."
Ghost stared at her, his posture going completely rigid. For the first time, a flash of genuine astonishment washed over his scarred, unshielded features. The calculated madness in his eyes fractured, replaced by the crushing weight of her words.
Right then, a sharp, electronic chirp shattered the silence.
Eve’s tactical radio, sitting flat on the dining table a few paces away, began to buzz with a secure, heavily encrypted frequency. Eve kept her eyes glued to Ghost for one heavy second, warning him with her stare, before she straightened up.
She shot him a sharp, venomous look. "For the record... I let you sit over me; you prick."
With that, she walked deliberately toward the table. She swiped the receiver up and pressed the comm button, her eyes never leaving Ghost's massive frame.
"Kilo-1, status," she said, her voice instantly dropping into a cold, flat military cadence.
The audio hissed through the static, a deep, raspy, and thoroughly exhausted voice responding from the other end. "Echo-6. Terminal objective achieved. The package has been permanently decommissioned. Sector is dark."
Price had killed him. It was over.
Eve closed her eyes for a split second, absorbing the gravity of the confirmation, before her gaze snapped back to Ghost, who was watching her like a hawk.
"Copy that, Echo-6," Eve replied clearly into the mic, her tone laced with a deliberate, tactical subtext as she stared Ghost dead in the eyes. "Be advised, I’ve been compromised at the safehouse. Riley has intercepted me. He’s in the room."
A heavy, agonizing silence stretched over the airwaves. For five long seconds, the only sound was the faint hiss of static. Then, Price’s voice cut through, low, heavy, and unyielding.
"Bring him with you. Move to the secondary rendezvous point immediately. Out."
The line went dead with a sharp click.
Eve slowly lowered the radio back onto the table.
Ghost stood frozen, his dark eyes narrowed as he processed the reality of the situation. He looked at the radio, then back to her, a deep, suspicious rumble vibrating in his chest.
"Why does he trust you?" Ghost rasped, his voice dropping into a thick, demanding growl. "Price doesn't bring anyone into a black op without a tether. Why you?"
Eve stared at him for a few quiet, unblinking seconds, her expression completely unreadable in the dark. Without a word, she moved smoothly across the floorboards, leaning down to retrieve her sidearm from where it had rolled into the shadows. She checked the slide, cleared the mechanism, and smoothly slid the weapon back into her holster with a solid, metallic click.
Once the weapon was secure, she tilted her head up, a subtle, lightweight touch of irony pulling at the corner of her lips as a soft smirk broke through her guarded expression.
"Because I'm family," she murmured softly.
Ghost’s jaw tightened, his brow furrowing in genuine, silent confusion. He didn't understand.
Eve took a slow, deliberate step closer into his space, her green eyes locked onto his raw, unshielded face.
"My mother's name is Price," she whispered.
Ghost went entirely still, staring down at her, completely astonished. His tactical brain, always calculating, did the math in a fraction of a second, her mother was John Price’s sister.
This woman wasn't just a random operative sent to tether the Captain. She was Price's blood.
The cold fury in his eyes fractured, replaced by a tense, heavy silence. He didn't speak; he just stared down at her, his jaw tightly clenched as his tactical brain completely locked up under the weight of the realization. For a few heavy seconds, the world seemed to stop between them.
Eve broke the silence, her eyes dropping down to the tactical knife still buried deep in his right thigh. She let out a small, tired sigh. "We have to stitch that."
Ghost slowly blinked, tracking her gaze down to his leg. He looked genuinely surprised, as if the sheer adrenaline of the confrontation and the shock of her revelation had made him completely forget there was a piece of military-grade steel protruding from his muscle.
Eve walked past him toward the table, searching for the safehouse's field medical kit.
Ghost grunted, his voice tight as he watched her back. "You fuckin’ stabbed me."
"You were trying to fuckin’ choke me!! Besides I didn't even twist it, so stop complaining and take your pants off," Eve shot back smoothly, grabbing the heavy black nylon kit and turning around to face him.
Ghost’s expression hardened instantly, his dark eyes narrowing into a fierce, dangerous glare. He stared at her as if she had just crossed a lethal line.
Eve rolled her eyes, walking back into his space with the kit in hand. "I need to access the wound and I can't do that through heavy tactical fabric."
Grunting in reluctant defeat, Ghost dragged a wooden chair over from the dining table and sat down heavily. With a brutal, fluid, and completely reckless motion, he grabbed the hilt of the knife and yanked it out in one sharp tug. He didn't even flinch, though a fresh, heavy surge of dark crimson immediately pooled from the open gash. He unbuckled his tactical trousers, pulling the fabric down just enough to fully expose the thick, heavily muscled contour of his thigh.
Eve approached, but as her eyes fell on the stark, powerful musculature of his leg, she found herself momentarily distracted. She blinked, forcing her professional focus to snap back into place, and pulled a second chair up, seating herself directly in front of him.
In absolute silence, she went to work. She expertly cleaned the edges of the wound with antiseptic, ignoring the slight twitch of his muscles beneath her hands.
As she began to carefully loop the first neat, professional sutures through his skin, the room fell into a heavy quiet. Eve remained completely focused on her stitches, her fingers moving with steady precision, but she could feel the weight of his gaze. Ghost hadn't taken his dark eyes off her for a single second, studying every line of her face under the dim light.
Without looking up from her work, Eve spoke, her voice carrying a dry, calm edge. "It's not polite to stare."
Ghost didn't look away. His expression remained hard, intense, and unblinking as his deep rumble cut through the quiet.
"Where is the RP?" he demanded.
Eve pulled the knot tight on the final suture, snipping the thread with a clean click. She straightened her spine, rose slightly, and looked him dead in the eyes, her green gaze burning with absolute certainty.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - fanfic
They didn't talk. But they knew each other.
For months, Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley and Lieutenant Morgan Eve Thorne had moved in the same classified circles, their orbits crossing in briefing rooms, underground hangars, and rain-slicked tarmacs. It was a wordless acknowledgment—a heavy gaze held a second too long over a topographic map, the distinct click of her boots drawing his eyes toward the hallway, or the way she would subtly shift her posture whenever his massive, masked frame entered a room. They were mutually drawn to each other, a quiet, magnetic pull that neither admitted, yet both actively sought out.
Compounding that unspoken tension was the fierce, deeply rooted rivalry between their units. Ghost was the poster boy for the SAS—brutal, direct, moving with the crushing weight of a hammer. Eve belonged to the Special Reconnaissance Regiment—the SRR—an elite intelligence and covert surveillance force that operated like a scalpel in the dark. The SAS thought the SRR spent too much time overcomplicating things with digital metrics and psychological profiles; the SRR thought the SAS relied too much on brute force and body counts. It was a classic clash of doctrines, and lately, between Ghost and Eve, that military rivalry had turned into something highly personal, sharp, and intensely competitive.
Today, in the damp, claustrophobic depths of the Hereford base, that friction was about to materialize.
Under the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light of a damp underground holding cell in Hereford, a bloodied and hardened insurgent commander sat bolted to a metal chair, stubbornly refusing to break even after two agonizing hours of pressure points, psychological isolation, and the sheer terror inflicted by a monolithic Ghost, whose tactical gear was splattered with sweat and the prisoner's blood.
Behind the two-way mirror in the observation room, Captain Price rubbed the bridge of his nose, the ash on his unlit cigar cold. He stared at the monitor, defeated. They were running out of time; the satellite uplink coordinates would change in an hour.
Price sighed, a heavy, rough sound, and reached for the secure comms unit on the desk. He commanded, his voice tight with the bitter taste of having no other option. "Bring in Thorne."
Twenty minutes later, the heavy electronic lock of the observation room hissed open.
Eve was out of uniform, wearing a fitted black tactical turtleneck, her rich, auburn curls pulled back into a neat, low ponytail. In her right hand, she carried a simple ceramic mug of steaming tea. Her presence brought an immediate shift to the air—silent, clinical, and completely lethal.
Ghost, having abandoned the interrogation room to let the prisoner chew on his own fear, was already standing near the back wall of the observation booth. His massive frame was tense, his arms crossed over his chest, his dark eyes radiating a dangerous, defensive energy—until the heavy metal door clicked open. The moment she stepped into the room, something shifted behind his skull mask; his rigid posture faltered for a fraction of a second, the lethal focus in his eyes fracturing as her presence completely derailed his train of thought.
Morgan stepped past the equipment racks, offering Price a brief, respectful nod. "Captain.” Then, she turned her head. Her vivid green eyes cut through the dim light of the booth and locked onto Ghost.
She studied him with unhurried, razor-sharp scrutiny, her gaze tracking the broad planes of his shoulders, the white paint of the skull, and the cold deadness in his eyes. He stared back at her with a total, unyielding absence of intimidation. He was the reaper of the SAS; he didn't bow, and he didn't blink. But Morgan didn't back down either. If anything, a microscopic, dangerous spark of amusement flickered in her green eyes as she met his lethal glare, completely unfazed by the myth standing before her.
"I heard the heavy lifting wasn't enough," she said, her voice dripping with a dry, Manchester edge. "The hammer clearly cracked, but it didn't open the door. Good thing you called the scalpel."
She set her mug down on the console, adjusted the small recording device on her collar, and turned toward the heavy steel door leading into the cell.
"Watch and learn, boys," she murmured over her shoulder.
The heavy door groaned on its hinges as Morgan stepped inside. She closed it with a soft, final click that echoed louder in the silence than a gunshot.
She ignored the prisoner at first. She pulled out the metal chair opposite him, the screech of its legs against the concrete floor the only sound in the room. She sat down, leaning back with a relaxed, almost bored posture. She didn't look like a soldier; she looked like a predator that had already won.
Behind the glass, Ghost stood as still as a statue. His arms crossed, his chest rising and falling in slow, rhythmic bursts of suppressed frustration. He watched her every move, his pride stinging as he waited for her to fail.
Morgan finally looked at the man. She leaned in, her voice a velvet whisper that bypassed his defenses and went straight for his psyche.
"You think you're a martyr, Hassan," Morgan whispered, leaning into his space. "But you're just a liability. The Colonel didn't give you a mission; he gave you a deadline. Your safehouse in Al-Mazrah? The cartel cleaned it out twenty minutes ago. You're bleeding out for a man who’s already spent your blood money."
The prisoner flinched—a tiny twitch of the eyelid. Morgan caught it instantly.
"You think your family is safe in the safehouse in Al-Mazrah," she continued, her voice gaining a sharp, clinical edge. "But the Colonel sold the coordinates to the cartel ten minutes after you were detained. You're holding out for a man who has already replaced you."
She leaned back, crossing her arms. "I don't need to break your bones, Hassan. Your own people have already broken your life. I’m just here to offer you the only thing they won't: a chance to see your daughter again."
The man’s resolve shattered. It wasn't a slow crumble; it was a total collapse. The mention of his daughter, the betrayal—Morgan had found the one thread that held his reality together and snapped it. He began to speak, the words spilling out in a desperate, panicked rush. Names, dates, and the specific frequency for the uplink.
Price looked at the stopwatch on the console. Six minutes and forty-two seconds.
"She got it," Price breathed, a mix of relief and genuine awe in his voice.
Morgan stood up, the metal chair scraping harshly against the floor. She walked toward the two-way mirror and stopped inches from the glass, her green eyes piercing through the dark reflection, aiming straight for the exact point where she knew Ghost was standing. Though the glass was an impenetrable void to her, she stared into his very center with a terrifyingly accurate intuition.
Her lips curled into a smirk that was equal parts mockery and invitation. Then, with a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, she closed one eye in a sharp, knowing wink—a silent, lethal challenge to the man behind the mask.
In that second, the air in the observation booth felt as if it had been electrified. A dark, jagged fascination sparked in Ghost’s chest, a feeling he hadn't felt in a lifetime. He hated her for the ease of her victory, and yet, he couldn't look away. The reaper had finally met someone who wasn't afraid of the shadows he cast.
*********
The bar was nearly empty, the late-hour crowd having dwindled down to a few shadows in the corners. The jukebox had gone silent, leaving only the low, persistent hum of the refrigerator behind the bar.
Ghost sat at the far end of the counter, nursing a glass of whiskey. Without the armor, he looked less like a machine and more like a man, though the tension radiating from his shoulders made it clear he was still very much on edge.
The door chimes signaled an arrival, but he didn't turn. He heard the distinct, rhythmic click of boots on the floorboards, a gait he had memorized in the last weeks.
Eve walked straight to the bar and pulled up the stool directly beside him. She was wearing just a dark, sleeveless shirt that left her arms bare, showcasing the clean, functional lines of a soldier’s frame.
She caught the bartender's eye, ordered a neat bourbon with a sharp nod, and then turned her attention entirely toward Ghost.
"Carrying the weight of the entire SAS on your shoulders, Lieutenant? Or just mad that someone else saved the day?"
Ghost’s eyes flickered toward her, his gaze heavy and unreadable behind the dark, fabric mask that clung to his features. With a slow, deliberate movement, he hooked a finger under the edge of the balaclava, pulling it just high enough to clear his mouth and take a sip of his whiskey, before letting the fabric snap back into place.
"Tactics aren't a race, Thorne," he rumbled, his voice low enough to vibrate against the wood of the bar. "Precision keeps people alive. Your method just leaves a mess for the rest of us to clean up."
Morgan let out a soft, mocking huff of laughter, swirling the ice in her glass. She didn't look offended; she looked entertained—as if he were a puzzle she had already solved.
"A mess?" she echoed, her voice dropping to a smooth, taunting register. "I got the intel without a single drop of blood spilled, without a single shot fired…”
She leaned in, her eyes locking onto his with predatory intent. "Maybe your 'precision' is just fear of losing control... Does it bother you that the world didn't fall apart without you holding the leash?"
Ghost finally turned, facing her fully. The movement was slow, deliberate—a predator shifting its weight. He leaned in, his large frame dwarfing her, yet he kept his hands braced against the counter, a silent testament to his discipline.
"You want to talk about leashes, Thorne?" He rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to anchor itself in the space between them. "You think because you pulled off one maneuver, you’ve somehow managed to—"
"To what?" Eve cut him off, her voice smooth as velvet, her gaze dropping pointedly to the rise and fall of his chest before drifting back to his eyes. "To unnerve you, Lieutenant?"
Ghost’s eyes narrowed behind the dark fabric of his mask. He leaned in closer, until the faint scent of whiskey clung to the space between them.
"Distracting?" She let out a soft, mocking laugh, leaning in until her shoulder brushed his arm—a calculated, dangerous provocation. She watched his pupils dilate, even in the dim light of the bar. "Funny. You don't look distracted. You look like a man trying very hard not to lose his grip."
Ghost went perfectly still. The air between them grew thin, thick with the weight of things left unsaid. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the glass, but he didn't bring it to his lips. Instead, he slid the glass slowly across the polished wood, his movements hypnotic.
As he did, his knuckles brushed against her wrist—a deliberate, lingering friction that sent a jolt of electricity straight to her pulse. He left his hand resting there on the counter, inches from hers, effectively trapping her in his space without ever breaking the visual lock of his eyes.
"If I lose my grip," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous, intimate rasp that seemed to vibrate through the wood and into her skin, "it won't be in a room full of people."
Eve tilted her head, her smile turning predatory. "Is that a promise, Simon?"
Ghost remained completely paralyzed, staring down at her, his pulse thumping heavily in his jaw. The challenge hung in the dark space between them, thick and suffocating. Eve didn't wait for him to break. In one fluid, unhurried movement, she threw back the rest of her drink, her throat flexing as she swallowed the bourbon. She set the empty glass down, fixed him with a playful, teasing smile, and whispered, "Good night, Lieutenant."
She slid off the stool and walked away. Ghost tracked her with his eyes, watching the rhythmic sway of her shoulders until the door chimes rang and she vanished into the cold night air. His hand was still resting on the counter, his knuckles still burning where they had brushed her skin. He let out a long, ragged breath, realizing he had just been a hair's breadth away from completely losing control.
***************
Two weeks later, the rivalry froze to sub-zero. A mission to an abandoned Siberian outpost had gone sideways, leaving them trapped in a reinforced holding cell.
The temperature was plummeting. Eve leaned against the opposite wall, her arms crossed so tightly her knuckles were white, her breath billowing in thick clouds. Ghost watched her from the shadows. His massive frame retained heat much better, but the involuntary shudder that began to rack the lieutenant's shoulders didn't escape him.
"Move it, Thorne," Ghost’s voice rumbled, harsh and devoid of any warmth. "Your pride isn't going to keep your fingers functional if we have to fight our way out of here."
"I'm perfectly fine," she snapped, though the chattering of her teeth ruined the firmness of the lie.
Ghost let out a dark huff. He wasn't going to beg her. He unbuckled the upper straps of his tactical vest, loosening the heavy layers of his combat jacket, and slid down the concrete wall until he was sitting.
"It’s not a fuckin’ invitation," he growled, reaching out a massive, gloved arm to grab her by the jacket, hauling her into his space with a blunt, efficient jerk. "If you catch hypothermia, you're a liability for extraction."
Eve tensed instantly, her green eyes flashing with fury as she found herself trapped between his legs, her back pressed against his chest. She tried to wrench herself away, but Ghost locked his arms around her like a vice, burying her beneath the weight of his heavy winter combat jacket.
"Let go of me," she hissed, even as the searing heat radiating from the SAS operator's body hit her nervous system like a goddamn lifeline.
"Shut your mouth and take the fuckin’ heat, Thorne," he muttered near her ear, his voice a low vibration that betrayed the fact that having her this close wasn't leaving him indifferent either.
Defeated by the sheer physics of survival, Eve stopped struggling, but she didn't soften. She rested the back of her head against Ghost's armored chest, a freezing, persistent smirk painting itself onto her lips.
"My, my, Lieutenant..." she murmured, feeling the heavy, accelerated thud of Ghost's heartbeat against her back. "For such a cold bastard, you're the closest thing to a bloody hellfire I've felt all day."
Behind the fabric of his mask, Ghost’s jaw tightened. His grip turned a fraction more possessive—almost bordering on a warning—trapping her completely against him in the dead silence of the cell. Neither of them spoke again. The professional animosity was still there, but the line dividing them was growing dangerously thin.
***********
The silence of the base at 3:00 AM was heavy, but for Ghost, it was loud. Every time he closed his eyes, he didn't see the blood or the missions... He saw Eve.
He felt the phantom weight of her gaze onto him, the words she had said in the pub, the heat of her body pressed against his heart in that freezing Siberian cell. He was a man built for war and precision, a weapon sharpened to a razor's edge, but she was the only thing that had ever made him feel like he was made of flesh and blood again.
Lying in his darkened room, the sheets felt too rough, the air too still. He shifted, a low groan escaping him as he felt the undeniable, pulsing ache between his legs. The memory of her smirk—the way she had looked at him with that dangerous, emerald fire in her eyes right before she closed one eye in that mocking wink—was a fuse lit in his mind.
Ghost let out a frustrated breath and reached down, his hand sliding into his sweatpants. He wrapped his fingers around his length and stroked himself a few times. The erection was immediate and punishingly hard. His shaft throbbed, fully engorged, stretching the skin tight as it pulsed against his palm. He closed his eyes tight, and suddenly he wasn't alone in the dark. In his mind, he was back in that Siberian bunker, but they weren't just hiding from the cold.
He imagined her hands sliding up his chest, her fingers tracing the jagged line of his scars. He imagined the staggering difference in their sizes as he pulled her flush against him, her delicate frame disappearing into his massive one.
He began to stroke himself, his pace slow and agonizingly deliberate at first. He focused on the friction, the way his skin felt stretched and hypersensitive. He pictured her looking up at him, having to tilt her head back that way he loved, her lips parted as she whispered his name.
"Simon..."
The thought made his hips jerk off the mattress. His breath hitched, turning into a series of jagged, shallow gasps. He increased the speed, his grip tightening as the image in his mind became more vivid. He imagined lifting her up, her legs locking around his thick waist, pinning her against the wall. He pictured his large hand wrapping firmly around her throat holding her steady while he drove into her listening to her sharp, breathless moans echoing in the dark.
He could almost smell her... He could almost feel the way she would arch beneath him.
The tension in his body reached a breaking point. His muscles coiled, his back arching off the bed as the pleasure began to crest like a tidal wave. He was moving faster now, his thumb grazing the slick tip of his length, a guttural, primal sound tearing from his throat.
With a final, choked growl into the silence of the room, he shattered. His body convulsed, his hips buckled, and the release hit him with a violent intensity that left him gasping and lightheaded, his seed spilling thick across his hand and stomach.
As the adrenaline slowly faded, Ghost lay there in the quiet, his heart thundering against his ribs like a trapped bird, the cool air hitting his damp skin. He stared at the ceiling, his mind finally still, but the truth remained. He rolled over, wiping his hand dry, and stared into the shadows. She's a hazard, he thought, his chest tightening. She's going to tear me apart from the inside out, and the worst part is, I'm going to let her.
*******
The next morning, the air in the gym felt thick, as if the oxygen had been replaced by pure tension. Ghost was already there, punishing a heavy bag with a rhythmic, violent intensity. Each strike of his fist left a deep indentation in the leather, the chains rattling against the ceiling like a warning.
The doors hissed open. Eve walked in, clad in cropped top over a black sports bra and athletic shorts. She started wrapping her hands with methodical, sharp movements.
Despite her focus, her eyes kept tracking the way Ghost’s back muscles rippled and bunched beneath his sweat-soaked training shirt, the dark fabric clinging to his massive shoulders like a second skin with every violent strike he landed on the heavy bag
"You're swinging like you're trying to break the floorboards," she remarked, her voice cool but edged with a hidden spark. "Who's winning the fight in your head? Because right now, you look like you're losing."
Ghost stopped mid-swing. He didn't turn around immediately; he needed a second to steady his breathing. The memory of the previous night—the heat, the shadows, the way he had whispered her name into the silence of his room—flashed behind his eyes.
When he finally turned, he was a wall of stone. "Just clearing my head, Thorne."
"Clearly," she said, stepping onto the mat. She beckoned him forward with a flick of her fingers. "Enough with the inanimate objects. Come here. Let's see if you’ve actually learned how to defend yourself, or if you’re still moving like a tectonic plate."
They met in the center of the mat. Ghost usually was a wall of focus, but today, his eyes kept losing their way, catching the line of her collarbone, the curve of her waist, or the way she moved with a restless, sharp energy.
The spar began. It was fast and professional, but Ghost was struggling. He was reactive, his movements a half-second behind because he was too aware of the skin-to-skin contact every time they collided. He reached to catch her wrist, but his grip lacked its usual crushing certainty.
"You're distracted," she hissed.
She didn't give him time to deny it. Eve dived low, weaving inside his guard. With a precision that had nothing to do with strength and everything to do with timing, she drove her leg into the back of his knee.
Ghost grunted, his balance shattering as he hit the mat on one knee. Before he could recover, she was behind him, trying to take his back. He reacted on instinct, reaching back to hook her waist and hauling her over his shoulder to slam her down onto the mat.
The impact was heavy, but he followed her down, pinning her shoulders. He stayed braced over her, his chest hovering inches from hers, his arms on either side of her head like pillars. For a long, agonizing beat, the gym went silent.
Ghost was staring down at her, his breath coming in hot, heavy rasps. He could feel the warmth radiating off her skin, the scent of her filling his head until he couldn't remember the next move. He was mesmerized by the pulse jumping frantically in the hollow of her throat.
"Well?" she whispered, her voice rough and defiant. "Are you going to finish the move, or are you just going to stare me to death?"
Ghost’s jaw tightened. The frustration of his own lack of control was a physical weight. He wanted to close the distance, but the cold discipline of a soldier forced him to break the spell.
 He pushed himself off her abruptly, turning his back to her as he stood up, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing how hard his heart was beating.
"Session's over," he said, his voice a low, strained rumble. "You're getting faster."
Eve rolled to her feet in one fluid motion, unfazed. As she walked past him, her shoulder dragged against his chest for a fraction of a second too long.
"And you’re getting slower," she said over her shoulder. "Maybe you need more sleep. Or maybe you just need to stop thinking so hard."
Ghost stood alone on the mat, his hands balled into fists. He wasn't thinking at all—that was the problem.
**************
Ghost was leaning against the briefing room table later that afternoon, his eyes fixed on the hallway where Eve had just disappeared. He was so deep in his own head—replaying the way her skin had felt in the gym that morning—that he didn't hear the soft footfalls behind him.
"You're burning a hole in the back of her head, LT."
Ghost nearly jumped, his elbow clipping the metal table with a dull clatter. Soap was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed, a knowing, dangerous smirk playing on his lips.
"Fuck off, Johnny," Ghost grumbled, turning his attention to a stack of mission logs as if they were the most interesting documents on earth.
Soap let out a low chuckle. "Just saying, man. If you stare any harder, her hair's gonna catch fire."
Ghost looked up slowly, his eyes turning into two slits of pure murder. "One more word, MacTavish, and I'll use your mohawk to scrub the latrines."
Soap held his hands up in mock surrender, still grinning. "Aye, aye, LT. Message received."
*******
Eve was in her office in front of the computer, reading the document in front of her for the fifth time. She couldn't concentrate; a restless buzzing, a humming heat, was vibrating beneath her skin.
She was losing her edge, her mind stubbornly looping back to the suffocating friction in the gym and the low rumble of his voice in the bar. Lieutenant Simon Riley was no longer just a blunt instrument from the SAS; he was an unpredictable variable she couldn't calculate. Eve didn't flinch away from high-risk scenarios—she orchestrated them—but this was different. This was a dark, territorial pull that threatened to shatter her precision completely.
"It’s just an electrolyte imbalance," she muttered to the empty room, rubbing her temples. "No, Thorne. No crushes on SAS beasts."
But her eyes remained fixed on the darkened screen reflection, wondering if he was still downstairs in the hangar, wanting nothing more than to feel that stormy intensity crash against her once more.
*****
The atmosphere inside the surveillance van was a goddamn pressure cooker. Twelve hours cooped up in a reinforced steel box outside a Jersey warehouse, tracking rogue Russian tech, had turned the small space into an arena of suffocating tension.
Eve sat at the primary monitor station, her fingers tapping commands into the console with rhythmic, aggressive precision. Beside her, Ghost was a monolithic, restless shadow, shifting his massive frame in a space that felt smaller by the minute. Every time the van settled, their shoulders brushed—a brief, coarse friction of tactical nylon that sent a jolt of raw static through the air.
"You're burning through the oxygen," Eve murmured, her eyes never leaving the thermal feeds.
"It’s a standard surveillance chassis, Thorne," Ghost rumbled back, his gravelly voice vibrating right against her jawline in the cramped space. "Deal with it."
The proximity was dangerous. Ghost was counting the seconds, his dark eyes locked on her profile in the blue glow of the monitors. He felt like a caged animal, fighting a toxic, visceral urge to simply reach out, hook his hand around her neck, and drag her into his space. Eve wasn't doing any better; her clinical focus was fraying, her skin hypersensitive to the heat radiating off him.
A sudden, sharp metallic crash from the warehouse courtyard snapped them both to alert.
They moved simultaneously, lunging toward the narrow, reinforced observation slit. In the cramped scramble, there was no room for elegance. Ghost’s massive shoulder shoved into her side as he claimed the window, and Eve, refusing to be blocked out, wedged herself directly into his personal space, her hip bracing hard against his thick thigh to get a clear angle.
Instinctively, Ghost’s gloved hand shot out, his fingers locking around her waist to anchor her—or perhaps to keep her from crowding him out. The grip was punishingly tight, his palm searingly hot through her gear as he clamped her against his side.
They froze. The courtyard was forgotten.
In the dim, shadows of the van, Ghost’s masked face was inches from hers. His breathing was heavy, the fabric of his balaclava shifting with his jaw.
"Get out of my light, Morgan," he rasped, his voice thick, dangerous, and completely contradicted by the fact that his hand hadn't moved a single millimeter from her hip.
"I'm tracking the asset," she sised back, her voice dropping to that sharp, mocking register, her breath hot against his mask. "Don't choke on your own ego, Riley."
The spell was shattered by a deafening rifle crack that punched a neat, spider-webbed hole through the van’s reinforced upper panel.
The transition was instantaneous. The suffocating sexual tension was violently redirected into lethal military focus. Eve wrenched herself free, her sidearm clearing her holster in a fluid blur, while Ghost grabbed his custom rifle, his boots hitting the rear door lever.
They spilled out into the pouring Jersey rain like a well-oiled machine. On the pavement, Ghost was pure brute force, venting twelve hours of repressed, agonizing frustration on the advancing scavengers with terrifying, mechanical efficiency. Above him, Eve was the scalpel—scaling the fire escape in seconds, her suppressed shots dropping the roof snipers before they could even re-index their targets.
When the street finally went silent, they stood in the downpour, mud and cordite washing over their gear. The adrenaline was slowly receding, leaving that same punishing, unresolved ache in its wake.
Eve lowered her weapon, wiping a mix of rain and blood from her cheek. She looked at Ghost, a freezing, predatory smirk returning to her lips.
"You're messy when you're frustrated, Riley," she teased, her voice sharp despite the rain. "The hammer almost missed a beat."
Ghost approached her slowly, a towering shadow in the dark, the rain cascading off the white paint of his skull mask. He stopped just inches away, his massive frame trapping her against the brick wall of the fire escape.
"You talk too much," he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that anchored itself between them.
The tension wasn't resolved; it was just humming in the rain, raw, bloody, and waiting to detonate.
*****
The dust had barely settled before the heavy structural groans began. The explosion had triggered a cascading failure through the old facility, causing the entire concrete stairwell and ceiling of the main corridor to cave in. The massive collapse sealed them inside the reinforced hallway, the exit buried under tons of impenetrable debris.
"You had to take the shot early, didn't you?!" Ghost roared, his voice echoing off the shattered masonry and jagged concrete. He was pacing the tight corridor like a caged beast, his adrenaline still spiked from the blast. "I told you to wait for my signal!"
Eve wiped a streak of blood from her forehead, her green eyes flashing with a dangerous, furious light. "The detonator was compromised, you asshole! If I didn't blow it then, we'd be vaporized. At least now I only have to listen to you whine until Price finds us!"
"I'm not whining, I'm stating the fact that you're a goddamn liability!" Ghost snapped, stepping hard into her space. The weeks of tension, that goddamn surveillance van, the accidental touches in the gym, and the suffocating tension had finally pushed him over the edge. "You're a distraction, Morgan—a virus under my skin!"
Eve went furious.
"A distraction?!" Eve stood her ground, refusing to back down an inch, and slammed both her hands hard against his chest plate. "Is that what this is?! You've been fuckin’ impossible for months because I'm a distraction?!".
Ghost snapped. The last threads of his hard-won self-control shattered into nothing. He lunged forward, crowding her back, and slammed his fist into the wall right behind her head with a deafening CRACK.
Then, with a sudden, furious motion, he hooked his fingers under the fabric of his balaclava and ripped the mask completely off his face, tossing it blindly into the dirt. His features were raw, twisted with a dangerous, untamed anger as he bared himself to her entirely.
"I can't fuckin' think!!" Ghost roared straight into her face, his chest heaving violently against hers, his voice a raw, desperate confession. "I spend every goddamn second trying not to touch you because I know if I start, I won't be able to fuckin' stop! AND YOU JUST KEEP PUSHING!!!"
Before she could even process the words, his massive, gloved hands shot up, grabbing her by the collar of her tactical vest and hauling her flush against his armored chest until there wasn't a millimeter of air left between them. "You wanted to break the hammer, Thorne?" he rasped, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. "Congratulations. You fuckin’ broke it."
The air between them turned to pure fire. Eve stared up at his bare face—at the hard lines of his jaw, the heavy shadows of his gaze, and the sheer, trembling fury of his silhouette. The sight didn't make her shrink; it lit a wild, chaotic intensity in her own eyes.
"Then stop fuckin’ talking," she gasped, the words tearing from her throat as she completely abandoned her clinical restraint. Her green eyes blazed, locked onto his bare, scarred face with a predatory, desperate hunger. She didn't just pull him; she anchored her hands into his tactical gear, her knuckles straining as she aggressively hauled his massive frame down, forcing his lips to the exact precipice of hers.
"Take what you want, Simon. Do it now.”
That was the absolute breaking point. He didn't kiss her; he collided with her.
Seizing her lips in a hungry, desperate kiss, Ghost crowded her back with a sudden, brutal lunge, trapping her completely against the cold, unyielding stone wall. The heavy ceramic plates of their tactical vests slammed together with a dull, metallic thud, a rigid barrier of armor crushing between their chests. Neither of them cared to strip it off; there was no time, only a frantic, feral urgency that demanded immediate surrender.
With clawing, impatient hands, without breaking the kiss, Eve fumbled with his gear, her fingers fighting the rigid nylon of his tactical belt. She popped the heavy plastic buckle with a sharp snap, wrenching it aside before tearing at the button and fly of his combat trousers.
Meanwhile, Ghost was relentless. His large hands were trembling with pure, unadulterated need to access her. His fingers clawed at her waist, unbuckling her heavy tactical belt with a violent jerk and letting it clatter uselessly to the dirt floor. Then, he tore at the heavy zipper of her tactical pants, aggressively shoving the dark canvas down past her hips and thighs, bunching the fabric around her knees, and then stamping his own boot down to drag the material down to her ankles, where it caught against the thick leather of her combat boots.
With her skin exposed to the cool, dusty air and her lower legs bound by her own uniform, Ghost caught her by the hips. With a low growl, he lifted her effortlessly, driving her back again and slamming her frame against the cold stone. Eve locked her thighs around his waist with desperation, her boots scraping the masonry for any leverage she could find, while her arms whipped around his neck, her fingers tangling fiercely into the hair at the nape of his neck to anchor him to her.
Ghost aligned himself and entered her with a deep, powerful surge that stole the breath straight from her lungs. Eve spilled a sharp, broken whimper straight into his mouth, her lips crushing against his as the sheer force of him filled her completely.
The restriction of their armor forced them closer, clamping them together in a vice grip of sweat, leather, and cordite.
"I've been fuckin’ dying for months," Ghost rasped against her throat, his teeth biting into the soft, tense muscle of her shoulder, his breath hot and ragged.
"Fuck, Simon… bloody hell," she choked out, her head slamming back against the stone in a sharp gasp as his mouth traced a path of pure fire down her neck.
The sex was frantic and feral. Ghost hammered into her with a brutal, relentless intensity, his massive frame driving forward again and again with a powerful surge that left her utterly breathless, pushing her past the brink of sanity.
She arched her back into the wall, her hands lost in the massive span of his shoulders. Her nails dug deep into his neck, tearing through the thin fabric of his t-shirt beneath his vest. Ghost groaned—a sound of pure, agonized relief echoing through the cavernous basement.
He moved with a violent, rhythmic intensity that crushed her into the wall. Every thrust was an exorcism of the heavy, toxic tension that had been killing them both since Hereford. The stiff canvas of their vests rubbed and ground together with every movement, an industrial, rough soundtrack to their desperation.
"Fuck... Simon... don't stop," Eve whimpered, her face buried in his neck, her hips meeting his with an equal, desperate hunger that matched his brutal pace.
He didn't slow down. He gripped her thighs harder, his massive muscles coiling and straining beneath his uniform as he drove them both toward the edge. In that buried, ruined room, the world outside ceased to exist. There was only the friction, the suffocating heat of their bodies inside their gear, and the heavy sound of their breathing.
When they finally broke, Ghost slumped forward, his forehead resting heavily on her shoulder. He didn't let her down; he kept her pinned against the stone, his massive arms wrapped securely around her waist and hips, anchoring her against his chest plate as if he were afraid she’d vanish if he let go. The anger was entirely gone, replaced by a heavy, humid peace that filled the quiet room.
"Still a distraction?" Eve whispered against his ear, her voice shaky, but that familiar, smug lilt returning to her words.
Ghost let out a low, huffed laugh, his lips brushing the warm, sweat-slicked skin of her neck. "The worst one I've ever had."
REDCOAT: Victory has a dark side, and for Eve, the shadow of the Al-Jabr operation is starting to consume her. After months deep undercover and the weight of a mission that forced her into an impossible choice, the line between "hero" and "monster" has completely blurred. But she isn’t carrying this burden alone. In the aftermath of the tactical win that tore her world apart, Ghost—the only man who understands the cold, quiet agony of pulling the trigger—is the one constant in her fracturing reality. This isn’t just a story about soldiers; it’s about the raw, desperate connection between two people who were built for war but are slowly learning how to be human in the wreckage of their own choices.
RUINING ME: After being pushed to the breaking point, the masks have finally fallen. In the quiet, suffocating aftermath of a mission that almost took everything, Ghost—the man who has spent a lifetime turning his heart into a fortress—finally admits the truth: he wasn't just fighting an enemy, he was fighting the one person who had the power to destroy him. From tactical standoffs to moments of devastating, whispered vulnerability, this is the story of two lethal weapons who realized that the only thing more dangerous than the battlefield is letting someone in.
THE BURN NOTICE The ledger is exposed. The betrayal is absolute. But for Ghost and Eve, the mission was never about the data—it was about surviving the man who tried to erase them both. From the dark, high-stakes infiltration of a luxury Preveza estate to a raw, breathless night on the Mediterranean, these two have burned their bridges and built a dangerous new world in the wreckage. But as the dust settles and the Task Force closes in, the cost of their defiance hits hard. With the system turning its full, lethal weight against them, they have one final, brutal choice: surrender to the lie, or fight for the truth together until the very end.
SILVER STITCHES: Survival isn't just about the mission; it's about who you trust when the world is burning. Ghost and Eve are back from a Beirut operation that pushed them to the absolute brink. From a brutal field surgery in a dim, oil-scented garage to a death-defying hot extraction in the skies, the lines between professional rivalry and raw, visceral necessity are disintegrating. But as the adrenaline fades, the truth becomes impossible to ignore. In the quiet corners of the bar and the silence of a private apartment, the armor—physical and emotional—is finally stripped away. When you’re built for war, can you ever really make room for someone else?
MODERN WARFARE BLOODLINES: The rooftop was just the beginning. After Price’s rogue actions, Ghost is a man on a mission—a hunting hound tracking the elite operative who dared to stand between him and his Captain. But when he finally corners his target, the mission shifts from a tactical takedown to a revelation that changes everything. She isn't just a Tier 1 operative; she’s a secret weapon with a direct line to Price’s own bloodline. The rivalry that started with a bullet in a Manhattan cafe just turned into a dangerous alliance. Stab wounds, tactical sutures, and a mission that leads straight to Paris—this is just the beginning of the chaos.
KEEP PUSHING: They were never meant to cross lines. He is the SAS’s brutal "Hammer"—massive, masked, and dangerous. She is the SRR’s clinical "Scalpel"—razor-sharp, unbothered, and entirely lethal. In the cramped, high-stakes world of classified ops, Ghost and Eve have been locked in a silent, magnetic war for months. Their rivalry isn’t just military doctrine—it’s a suffocating, electrifying tension that demands a breaking point. When a high-stress mission leaves them trapped in the dark, the professional animosity finally burns away. What happens when the reaper meets someone who refuses to fear his shadow? A slow-burn, high-octane enemies-to-lovers story that is as brutal, desperate, and intoxicating as the battlefield that birthed it.
AFTERWATCH: After the mission ends, the chaos begins. He’s the silent sentinel who spent hours watching her back from the scope. She’s the operative who just walked out of a bloodbath, completely unraveled. There’s a locked door between them, a suffocating silence, and a tension that’s been building for months. When the armor finally drops and the adrenaline crashes, there’s nowhere left to hide. One look is all it takes for the control to shatter. Read the slow burn that turns into a wildfire.
WHERE PHANTOMS BLEED: The Ice-Cold Soldier and the Fire-Red Specialist. When the legendary, masked operator Ghost meets the lethal, red-headed Lieutenant Morgan Eve Thorne, it’s not just a mission—it’s a collision. Attached to Task Force 141 for a high-stakes rescue, these two predators quickly realize that when the world explodes, they are the only ones who don't flinch. In a world of tactical precision, hidden dangers, and burning intensity, Ghost and Eve are fighting a war on two fronts: one against the enemy, and one against the magnetic, dangerous pull between them. Task Force 141 x SRR. Slow burn, high-stakes, enemies-to-lovers, pure chaos. Are you ready to see what happens when the fire starts?
TACTICAL RETREAT: They were broken, chained, and left to die in the dark. But they forgot one thing: Ghost and Thorne aren't just operators—they’re a survival mechanism. When the enemy thought they’d finally shattered the SAS commander and his SRR counterpart, they accidentally gave them the perfect window to burn the whole place down. Two lieutenants. Zero room for error. And a "first date" involving broken bones, tactical genius, and enough raw, kinetic tension to set the screen on fire. Survival is the mission. The after-party is just for them.
STATIC: "I nearly fookin' blew your brains out." Task Force 141 and the SRR were supposed to be the perfect joint operation. Instead, they got trapped in a server farm labyrinth with nothing but red emergency lights and a suffocating amount of tension. When a breach goes wrong and a tactical closet becomes their only shelter, the professional line between a cynical, sharp-tongued Manchester-born operator and a towering, masked legend doesn't just blur—it shatters. Secrets, lies, and a lethal amount of chemistry. Welcome to the circus.
WITHOUT RESTRICTIONS: Ten months of silent observation. Ten months of unyielding, magnetic gravity. Morgan Thorne is a lethal SRR specialist with a fuse short enough to burn down a base, and Simon "Ghost" Riley is the only thing standing between her and a court-martial. After a mission goes catastrophically wrong and the betrayal of a fellow officer pushes Eve to the brink of total collapse, the cold, detached Commander finally breaks his own rules. From the shadows of the training gym to the freezing rain of an Albanian safehouse, they are trapped in a volatile game of push and pull. She’s fighting for vengeance; he’s fighting to keep her in his orbit. When the line between enemy fire and forbidden intimacy finally snaps, there’s no turning back. One mask. One target. Zero restraint.
ACROSS THE LINE: She’s an elite SRR operative with a sharp mind and an even sharper blade. He’s a terrifying, skull-masked monolith from the SAS with a reputation for playing by his own rules. They were supposed to be enemies, forced into the same territory by competing orders. Instead, they’ve ignited a volatile, high-stakes game of cat-and-mouse that keeps them locked in a cycle of tactical precision, bitter resentment, and a magnetic, suffocating lust that neither can escape. From the rain-slicked balconies of Geneva to the dark shadows of Berlin, one thing is clear: when the world is burning, the only thing more dangerous than the enemy is the person you’re forced to work with.
LETHAL SYNC: He’s the SAS’s deadliest myth—a man built for the dark. She’s the ghost in his periphery, the SRR operative who’s been covering his blind spots from the shadows. When a mission implodes and leaves Simon "Ghost" Riley bleeding out in a frozen Highland keep, his world is dismantled by a woman he never saw coming. Forced to hunt as a pack to survive a sprawling, high-stakes conspiracy, they quickly learn that the only thing more dangerous than their enemies is the lethal chemistry igniting between them. Tension, tactical expertise, and a collision of two lone wolves who finally realize they don’t have to run solo.
UNDONE: He’s the Task Force’s deadliest enigma. She’s the SRR legend who rewrites the rules. When a high-stakes mission forces Ghost and Lieutenant Morgan Thorne into a partnership, the professional friction is immediate—but the chemistry is explosive. Beneath the gunfire, the adrenaline, and the tactical shadows, a dangerous, possessive game begins. In a world where one wrong move means death, they’re playing with fire, and they’re both itching to get burned.
PREDATORY: What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? For Simon "Ghost" Riley, the mission is everything. But when he crosses paths with Morgan "Eve" Thorne—an SRR operative with a razor-sharp tongue, nerves of steel, and a deadly obsession with pushing his buttons—the professional line vanishes. From a high-stakes standoff in the dark to a slow-burn battle of wits and dangerous friction, they are two apex predators who can’t decide if they want to kill each other or burn the world down together. One thing is certain: in the shadows of the 141, they’ve finally met their match. And it’s going to be a war.
THE BLIND SPOT: "You're mine." The Mission was supposed to be simple. Surviving the partner was the real objective. Lieutenant Morgan Thorne is sharp, dangerous, and the only thing standing between the world and total chaos. Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley is the 141’s most lethal operator—a man of iron, steel, and a mask that hides everything. When they are forced together for a high-stakes joint operation, the professional tension explodes into something visceral, raw, and impossible to control. From the claustrophobic kill-boxes of the Balkan corridor to the suffocating quiet of a safehouse, this isn’t just a war—it’s a collision of two broken people who refuse to stay down. “You’re my ruin.”
EXTRACTION: In the shadow of betrayal, one soldier is erased. The other is coming for blood. When Ghost is declared KIA after a brutal setup, he’s not just dead—he’s being owned in a hidden hellhole. Task Force 141 is mourning, but they didn’t count on Lieutenant Morgan Thorne. A lethal SRR ghost with a grudge and a target, she’s the only one who knows the truth: He’s alive. What starts as a desperate, pulse-pounding extraction spirals into a lethal game of cat-and-mouse. Between broken bones, high-altitude jumps, and a chemistry that burns as hot as the firefights, they’re going off-grid to dismantle the rot from the inside out. One impossible mission. Two ghosts in the mist. Zero mercy.
THE GHOST WHISPERER: When Lieutenant Morgan "Eve" Thorne steps out of the shadows, she doesn't just bring intel—she brings absolute chaos. After months of deep-tier infiltration, this red-headed specialist has arrived to turn the tide for Task Force 141. But she’s not just here for the mission; she’s here to push the limits of the one man who thought he was untouchable: Ghost. Between high-stakes infiltrations, Soviet-era bunkers, and a lethal, slow-burn tension that could cut glass, Eve and Ghost are forced into a partnership that’s as dangerous as it is explosive. Can they survive the mission, or will the heat between them burn everything down? Read the story of their volatile, high-octane partnership.
STRIKE: Need a new obsession? Task Force 141’s newest recruit isn’t just Lead Intel—she’s the only one who can bring the legendary Ghost to his knees. Sparks, knives, and lethal chemistry. It’s not just a mission; it’s a collision course. Get ready for: Cold-blooded operatives, high-speed tactical action, forced proximity, slow-burn angst, and the kind of chemistry that breaks every rule in the book.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne - ONE SHOT fanfic
The heavy, suffocating scent of iron and ozone followed her into the hotel room.
Ghost was already there, his massive frame stripped of his plate carrier and tactical harness, wearing only a dark, form-fitting combat shirt and his trousers. He had spent the last four hours behind a heavy caliber rifle at the hotel window, providing overwatch while Eve walked straight into a hornets' nest. He didn't have his mask on. His raw, heavily scarred face was exposed, his dark eyes hyper-focused the second she crossed the threshold.
Eve entered rapidly, her movements hurried but her gaze slightly lost, unfocused. She immediately began talking in a flat, clipped tone, stating that the target was neutralized and that they could now contact the base. She deliberately avoided looking him in the eyes, her voice carrying an unnatural, eerie detachment that immediately signaled something was deeply wrong.
"Look at me," Ghost said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the silence of the room.
Eve still didn't look at him. She bent down, her hands visibly trembling as she fumbled with the straps of her high heels, trying to wrench them off.
"I'm fine," Eve muttered, her voice flat, mechanical, and entirely hollow.
Ghost moved even closer, his shadow falling over her shaking frame. "You're bleeding."
"It's not my blood," she whispered, still refusing to look up.
Ghost closed the distance between them. He reached out, his large hands enveloping her wrists, forcing her to halt her frantic movements.
"Eve. Look at me."
She was shivering. The shock was finally settling into her nervous system, causing a fine, uncontrollable tremor to rattle through her fingers. The elegant evening dress she wore was heavily ruined, soaked through with dark, sticky crimson patches, and a splatter of dried blood marred the pale skin of her jawline.
Reluctantly, she forced her head up, her eyes finally meeting his gaze head-on.
"I'm fine," she repeated, the lie sounding fragile as she wrenched her hands out of his grip. She didn't look at him anymore. She couldn't. "I need a fuckin' bath."
Ghost stood frozen exactly where he was.
Without waiting for a response, she disappeared into the bathroom, the heavy click of the lock sealing her away from the world.
He remained still, his eyes locked onto the closed wooden door. A heavy, unfamiliar ache tightened in his chest—a sudden, suffocating urge to just breach the door, to pull her into his arms and hold her until the trembling stopped.
********************
Eve finally emerged from the bathroom. The ruined dress and the copper stench were gone, replaced by an oversized grey t-shirt that hung loosely off her shoulders. She slipped into the bed, pulling the covers up.
Hours crawled by in a dense, suffocating silence. Sleep was an impossibility. Her mind was a chaotic, spinning loop of the violence she had unleashed hours prior.
Unable to lie still, she slowly sat up. She slid down the mattress until she was sitting right on the edge of the bed at the foot of the frame, her bare feet dangling just above the carpet.
From the shadows across the room, Ghost watched her. He hadn't moved from his position at the desk chair, sitting like a silent sentinel in the dark.
When Eve tilted her head up, the look in her eyes was entirely different. The sharp, lethal defenses of Morgan Eve Thorne had completely dissolved, replaced by a soft, raw vulnerability—a quiet, absolute surrender to the exhaustion of the hunt. She didn't mask her expression this time; she looked across the dim room at him with an unvarnished, aching need.
Ghost’s breath hitched in his chest. The heavy, predatory gaze she threw his way was an invitation he had no desire to refuse.
Slowly, deliberately, Ghost stood up. His massive silhouette cut through the amber shadows as he advanced toward the foot of the bed, his footsteps completely silent. Her green eyes tracked every single inch of his movement until he was positioned directly in front of her, his towering frame casting a shadow over her small lap.
She reached out, her movements slow, almost tentative, as her fingers brushed against his large forearm. She traced the hard line of his wrist, slowly taking his hand and lifting it until she pressed his heavy, rough palm flat against the side of her neck.
Ghost swallowed hard. The searing, vibrant heat of her skin radiated straight into his palm, and the rhythm of her racing pulse thudded directly against his thumb. In that single, quiet second, the iron-clad barriers he had spent a lifetime building began to crumble into ash.
Eve kept her hand resting over his, anchoring him there, but Ghost was done waiting.
His fingers shifted, locking onto her jawline with a sudden, possessive strength. He slid his hand upward, his thick fingers tangling deep into the auburn curls at the base of her skull, forcing her head to tilt backward to expose the long line of her throat. Eve let out a soft, breathless gasp, releasing her hold on his hand as she leaned back, completely yielding to his touch.
Ghost raised his knee onto the mattress, leaning his massive frame slightly over her as he crowded her space. His other hand came up to cup the opposite side of her neck, framing her face in a vice-like, unyielding grip. He stared down into her burning green eyes, his own dark gaze wild and completely undone by the sight of her beneath him.
A low, ruined sound tore from his chest.
"Fuck," he growled.
He crashed down.
Ghost slammed his mouth over hers with a desperate, ravenous hunger, obliterating the remaining distance between them. It was a brutal, open-mouthed collision of teeth and tongue, full of liquid heat and a starved, unchecked passion that had been building for months. Eve let out a muffled, desperate whimper against his lips, her hands flying forward to fist into the fabric of his combat shirt, violently pulling him down, craving the crushing weight of him.
Without breaking the kiss, Ghost snaked his massive arms down to her waist, his large hands locking onto her hips and lifting her effortlessly off the mattress to bring her flush against his chest. He shifted his weight, driving them both forward until they crashed onto the center of the bed together, his massive, heavy frame pinning her down in a tight, tangled embrace of pure, unadulterated lust, their mouths still locked in a deep, bruising rhythm that completely drowned out the rest of the world.
*************
The morning light bled through the curtains, cold and clinical. Eve stirred, the warmth of the previous night replaced by a haunting, hollow chill. She reached out, but the sheets beside her were already cooling.
She sat up, her movements lethargic, and found Ghost standing at the desk. He was already fully geared, the skull mask pulled back into place, rendering him the silent, impenetrable sentinel once more. He was meticulously organizing his gear, his back turned to her.
"What time is it?" she asked, her voice raspy and drained of all emotion.
Ghost didn’t turn. He didn't even pause his movements. "06:30," he replied, his voice a flat, gravelly vibration. "We move at 07:00. Extraction team is at the rally point by 07:15."
Eve didn't offer a rebuttal or a question. She simply swung her legs over the side of the bed, her naked form pale against the dark carpet, and walked toward the bathroom. As the door clicked shut, Ghost stopped his movements entirely. The rigid tension in his frame collapsed; he let out a long, shuddering breath, his shoulders dropping in a display of profound, silent resignation as he stared at the wood of the bathroom door.
Twenty minutes later, Eve emerged. She was fully dressed in her tactical gear, her movements precise and devoid of any lingering softness. Ghost was still at the desk. As she stepped into the room, their gazes collided—a brief, sharp intersection of unspoken turmoil. Neither spoke. Eve wordlessly holstered her sidearm into her bag, slid her aviators over her eyes, and walked toward the hotel door.
"Let's go," she said, her tone cold and final. Ghost stood in silence, shouldered his pack, and followed her out into the dark.
*******************
The flight back to Hereford was a funeral procession of silence.
Hours later, they were huddled in the briefing room. Captain Price sat at the head of the table, flanked by Captain Smith from the SRR and two other senior operators.
"The extraction was successful, but the cost was high," Smith stated, tapping a file on the table. "We neutralized the primary target, Aleksandr Drazen. However, there was confirmed collateral damage. Drazen’s four-year-old son was killed during the breach."
Ghost eyes were locked on Eve across the table. He saw the exact second the words hit her—the way her jaw tightened, the muscles of her face pulling taut beneath her skin like wires being stretched to the breaking point. She didn't look up, her gaze fixed with terrifying intensity on a singular scratch on the metal table.
"Collateral damage is a stain on the mission, but it’s a reality of the work we do," Smith continued, his voice devoid of pity. "It's a tragedy, but we hit our mark."
Eve felt the weight of Ghost’s stare—a heavy, burning pressure she could feel on her skin. Slowly, painfully, she raised her head. Her eyes met Ghost’s, searching his for a fleeting second before she dropped her gaze back to the table, her expression a mask of hardened, frozen stone.
When the briefing finally wound down, Eve stood up before Smith could dismiss them.
"Captain" she said, her voice steady but layered with an icy, professional distance. "I’m requesting seventy-two hours of leave. Immediate effect."
Smith studied her for a moment, sensing the volatile energy radiating off her. "Granted, Thorne. Get some air."
She nodded sharply, offering a crisp, professional salute to the room. Before exiting, her gaze drifted to Ghost one last time. It wasn't a look of goodbye, but of profound, irreparable distance.
Ghost remained rooted to his chair, motionless. He watched her leave, his hands gripped tightly beneath the table. The information about the child sat like lead in his stomach, but the true agony was the sight of her retreating figure. He wanted to reach out, to shatter the professional wall she had reconstructed, but the distance between them had become a chasm he didn't know how to cross. He sat in the lingering silence, left only with the suffocating realization that he had touched the woman beneath the soldier, only to have her retreat back into the shadows where he couldn't reach her.
***************
The first twenty-four hours were a slow descent into madness for Ghost.
Back in his own quarters, the silence was deafening. Every time he closed his eyes, the sterile reality of the briefing room vanished, replaced by the ghost of the night before. He could still feel the phantom heat of her skin against his palm, the desperate, erratic rhythm of her pulse, and the sound of her breath hitching against the friction of his hips as he buried himself deep inside her. It was a sensory loop he couldn't break. The cold, mechanical mask he’d donned that morning hadn't been a shield; it had been a cage, and he was the one who had locked himself inside.
He paced his room like a caged animal, the internal dissonance tearing him apart. He had been the one to pull away first, to retreat into the safety of the mask because the raw vulnerability she’d shown was something he wasn't equipped to handle. But now, that distance felt like an error he couldn't undo.
He didn't think; he just moved. By the time he pulled his truck up to Eve’s building, the adrenaline was cold and sharp in his veins. He stood before her door for a long beat, his hand hovering over the wood. With a sharp, decisive movement, he reached up, hooked his fingers into the skull mask, and peeled it off, dropping it into his pocket. He didn't want the barrier anymore.
Inside, through the feed of her security monitor, Eve watched him. She didn't look surprised. She looked exhausted, her frame swallowed by an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. She didn't move immediately; she stared at the screen, her expression unreadable, before finally walking over and disengaging the lock.
She opened the door, gave him a slow, blistering look from head to toe, and turned her back on him, walking deeper into the apartment. Simon stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft, final click.
Eve made straight for the kitchen counter, where a half-empty bottle of bourbon and a glass waited. Her movements were jagged, uncharacteristically sloppy.
"What do you want, Riley?" she snapped, her voice raspy, not even bothering to look back. "I’m off-duty, if you didn't know."
Simon stopped a few paces behind her. He didn't like the way she was clutching that glass, like it was the only thing keeping her upright. "You shouldn't be drowning yourself in bourbon," he said, his voice low, lacking his usual command.
The glass hit the counter with a sharp crack. Eve spun around, her eyes wild and bloodshot. "I killed a fuckin' kid, Simon!!!" she roared, the sound echoing off the bare walls. "Back the fuck off!!"
She shoved the bottle aside, her hands shaking violently as she pressed them to her face. The air left her lungs in a jagged, broken sound. "Fuck..." she choked out, and then, the architecture of her composure simply collapsed. Her knees buckled, and she slid down the cabinetry, hitting the floor in a heap of fabric and raw, ugly grief.
The sight broke Simon. Every defensive instinct he possessed vaporized.
He was across the kitchen in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of her. He didn't offer empty platitudes—he didn't know how. He simply surged forward, pulling her into his arms and bracing her against his chest. Her body was rigid at first, trembling with the force of her sobs, but he didn't give her the option to pull away. He gripped her tighter, his hands sliding up to cup her face, forcing her to look at him.
"Stop," he growled, his voice thick, his jaw tight as he fought his own demons. "Look at me. I wasn't there for you before... I won't be like that now. Look at me."
She met his gaze, her eyes swimming with tears, the look of utter devastation cutting him deeper than any blade. She didn't hold it back anymore. With a sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, she buried her face into his neck, her hands fisting into his shirt, anchoring herself to him with a desperate, crushing strength.
He wrapped his massive arms around her, pinning her to him as if he could physically shield her from the memory of what she’d done. He held her through the tremors and the ragged, broken breathing, his jaw set, his eyes hard and focused on nothing but keeping her from shattering completely. He didn't say a word; he just held her, holding the pieces together until she finally stopped fighting the weight of it.
The silence in the room deepened, broken only by the ragged rhythm of Eve’s breathing as her sobs finally tapered off into shuddering gasps. Simon kept his arms locked around her, his massive frame a solid, unyielding weight that anchored her to the floor. He could feel the fine, residual tremors still rattling through her, but they were slowing, replaced by the heavy, exhausted heat of a body that had reached its breaking point.
He shifted his grip, his large, rough hands sliding from her back to cradle her face. He forced her to lift her head, and when she met his gaze, the raw, hollow devastation in her green eyes was almost more than he could bear.
"Eve," he murmured, his voice a low, raspy vibration that seemed to bypass her brain and sink straight into her chest.
He leaned in, closing the distance until their breaths mingled. He captured her lips, his kiss slow and agonizingly deliberate—a grounding pressure that had nothing to do with the frantic hunger of the previous night and everything to do with tethering her back to reality. He pressed into her, his tongue sweeping firmly against hers, deepening the kiss into a slow, rhythmic exploration that tasted of raw desperation.
Eve let out a broken, hitching breath against his lips, her hands loosening their death grip on his shirt to slide up, her fingers tangling deep into the short hair at the nape of his neck. She surrendered to the steady, forceful rhythm of his mouth, meeting his tongue with her own, her movements mirroring the intensity of his. She leaned into him, her lips parting as he took total control of the kiss, deep and languid, pulling a low, shaky moan from her throat as his presence filled the suffocating void that the mission had carved out inside her.
As the kiss deepened, the grief began to ebb, replaced by a searing, undeniable need. Simon’s hands drifted down, mapping the trembling line of the sides of her back. He slid his palms beneath the hem of her oversized hoodie, his calloused skin grazing the soft, sensitized flesh of her waist. He let out a low, guttural growl at the contact; her skin was burning, her pulse thudding a frantic, rhythmic plea against his fingertips.
He didn't break the contact, standing in one fluid, powerful motion while hauling her up against his chest. She instinctively wrapped her legs around his waist, her arms locking behind his neck as he carried her the few short steps to the bed. He lowered them both, his dark, intense gaze never once leaving hers.
With methodical, heavy-lidded focus, Simon pulled the hoodie over her head, his eyes darkening as he took in the sight of her. He traced the slope of her collarbone with his lips and tongue before moving down to the sensitive skin of her breasts, his breath hot against her skin. When he reached for her sweatpants, she helped him, her hands trembling as they worked to shed the remaining fabric.
Then, she reached for him. Her fingers fisted into his jacket, and with his help, she stripped it away, followed by the shirt beneath. When his bare chest pressed against hers, the sensation was devastatingly primal —the friction of his coarse chest hair, the hard, unforgiving planes of his muscles against her softness. Simon let out a shaky breath, his hands roaming her curves with a possessive, grounding strength, mapping her as if he were memorizing a map in the dark.
Eve arched into him, her thighs sliding firmly around his hips. When she felt the blunt, hard pressure of his arousal against her center, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from her throat, matched by the rough sound of Simon’s frustration. The friction was unbearable, an electric current that made her vision swim.
He pulled back just enough to tear off his boots and trousers, his eyes never leaving hers, fueled by a raw, unadulterated need. When he dropped back onto her, his weight was a glorious, crushing anchor. He kissed her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point, before his hand slid into her hair, gripping the nape of her neck to tilt her head back. With one slow, deliberate thrust, he sank into her.
Eve let out a long, shuddering moan that dissolved into a gasp of pure surrender.
It was a slow, agonizingly deliberate dance of reconnection. Every movement was a vow, every friction a silent promise. Simon moved with a steady, firm cadence, his forearms braced on either side of her head, their foreheads pressed together. He watched her face—watched the way her eyes fluttered, the way her lips parted for broken, airy whimpers as he hit her rhythm, deep and steady.
She felt every inch of him, the stark contrast of his scarred, hardened skin against her own, the heat of his sweat-slicked body coating hers. Her nails dug into his back, pulling him closer, wanting him buried as deep as physically possible. Each breath they shared, each deliberate friction, was a frantic attempt to drown out the echoes of the mission. She felt his heart hammering against her ribs, synced with her own, steady and alive.
The rhythm between them accelerated, the slow dance shifting into something more desperate and consuming. Simon’s movements grew more forceful, his hands gripping her hips with a bruising intensity as he drove deeper, claiming her with a hunger that bordered on savage. Eve’s head fell back, her spine arching off the mattress as sharp, guttural whimpers tore from her throat, her legs locking tighter around his waist to pull him further into her core. The friction reached a searing, fever-pitch intensity, every nerve ending in her body singing with the overwhelming weight of him.
When the release finally hit, it was a total unraveling. Eve cried out, her voice raw and shattered as she tightened around him, her internal pulses clenching rhythmically as she tipped over the edge. Simon let out a low, rough growl of his own, his muscles coiled and straining as he surged forward, his body shuddering against hers as he followed her into the dark, exhilarating descent.
When they finally collapsed together into the quiet aftermath, she was no longer vibrating with the shock of the hunt. She was anchored. The room was heavy with the scent of them—salt and skin—and the only sound was the ragged, syncopated harmony of their breaths slowing in the dark. Simon pulled her flush against him, his chin resting atop her head, his heavy arm draped across her waist as he held her through the stillness, ensuring that as long as they were in this room, the rest of the world—and the ghosts of the mission—could not touch her.
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Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne fanfic
The air in the Hereford pub was thick with the scent of stale ale, tobacco, and the rowdy energy of off-duty soldiers. It was the usual Friday night crowd—loud, cramped, and humid. Tucked away in the back, in their customary corner booth, sat Task Force 141.
Soap was already three pints deep, a crooked grin plastered on his face as he told a story Gaz had heard a dozen times. Gaz was leaning back, nursing a beer, while Price sat stoically, his eyes scanning the room over the rim of his glass. Ghost sat at the edge of the shadows, a silent, armored monolith. His skull-patterned balaclava was pulled up just enough to allow for the glass of neat whiskey sitting untouched before him.
The heavy front door swung open, cutting through the pub's noise. Four figures walked in, moving with a synchronized, high-tier lethality that made the room feel suddenly smaller. Three men and one woman.
"Bledy hell," Soap chuckled, leaning in toward the table. "Look at that lot. Think they’re lost on their way to a funeral, or did the Avengers finally decide to recruit in Hereford?"
Price’s eyes narrowed, his posture shifting ever so slightly. "That’s SRR," he rumbled, his voice low. "Special Reconnaissance Regiment. They’ve been dark for ten months on a deep-cover op in Iraq. Just got back this morning."
Ghost didn't join the banter. His attention was locked on the woman leading the pack. She was striking—a cascade of deep red hair, eyes that looked like they had seen the end of the world and survived it, and a presence that demanded space. Morgan Eve Thorne.
The four operatives moved toward a central table. As they settled in, Morgan sat directly across from Ghost’s line of sight. For a long, heavy moment, the pub faded away. Their eyes locked—a silent, jagged collision of two predators recognizing each other’s scars. The connection held, vibrating with a strange, unspoken intensity, until one of the men at her table leaned in to whisper something in her ear, breaking the spell.
Soap whistled low under his breath, his eyes fixed on Morgan. "Now, that is a bonnie lass. Reckon she’s as dangerous as she looks? I wouldn't mind being the one to buy her next round and find out."
Price grunted, his gaze shifting between Ghost and the redheaded Lieutenant. "Careful, MacTavish. That’s Lieutenant Morgan Thorne. High-tier intel and field specialist. Command’s attaching her to the 141 for the next string of operations. She’ll be briefed with us at 0800."
Ghost didn't respond, but he didn't look away either. Across the room, Morgan’s gaze drifted back to him, her expression unreadable but focused. Once more, their eyes met through the smoke and the noise—a silent promise of the fire to come.
***********************
The Hereford base was bathed in the harsh, early morning light, the air crisp and biting. Ghost pulled his Land Cruiser into the gravel lot, the engine cutting out with a heavy, mechanical thud. He stepped out of the vehicle with a surge of brutal, kinetic energy, his shoulders set and his presence dominating the space around him. He didn’t hurry, but his stride was heavy with purpose.
A few meters ahead, the rhythmic, high-pitched scream of a high-performance engine cut through the morning stillness. A sleek, black Ducati Panigale carved into the lot with surgical precision, sliding into a parking spot just a short distance from him.
Ghost stopped dead. His eyes tracking the machine as the rider brought it to a standstill. The engine whined down into silence. The rider’s gloved hand reached up, unbuckling the chin strap with practiced ease. As the helmet was lifted off, a cascade of vibrant, auburn curls spilled out, catching the sunlight. Morgan Thorne shook her hair back, her movements fluid and utterly composed.
She swung her right leg over the saddle, sliding off the Ducati with a grace that seemed almost practiced, her boots hitting the gravel with a solid, confident thud. She took her time peeling off her leather gauntlets, her focus shifting.
Her gaze snapped toward him, locking onto his eyes instantly. The world seemed to fall away; the sounds of the base—the distant shouting of recruits, the rumbling of trucks—faded into a dull hum.
Eve didn’t break the contact. She stood there, perfectly poised, her posture radiating a dangerous, quiet confidence. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of dark aviators, sliding them onto her face with agonizing slowness. A subtle, sharp smirk tugged at the corner of her lips—a silent acknowledgment of their game, a challenge written in the set of her jaw.
Without a word, she turned her back to him. With a rhythmic, confident sway of her hips, she started walking toward the base entrance, leaving Ghost standing in the gravel, his chest rising and falling with a slow, heavy rhythm as he watched her disappear into the steel structure of the compound.
**********************
The briefing room was still, the air thick with the quiet focus of Task Force 141 as they prepped for the session. Ghost was already there, leaning against the back wall, a shadow among shadows. Soap and Gaz were leaning over the central holographic table, checking their gear manifests, when the heavy steel door hissed open.
Price walked in, but he wasn't alone. Morgan Thorne followed him, her presence just as grounding as it had been on Friday night. She was in full tactical gear now, her red hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, revealing the sharp, intelligent angles of her face.
"Listen up," Price rumbled, gesturing toward her. "As you know, we’re absorbing a specialist for this op. This is Lieutenant Morgan Thorne, SRR. She’s officially attached to the 141 for the duration of the rescue mission."
Morgan stepped forward, her eyes sweeping over the men before locking onto the dark hollows of Ghost’s mask. "Hello, boys," she said, her voice smooth but carrying a serrated edge of authority.
Soap stood up straighter, a playful, roguish glint in his eyes. "Well now, Lieutenant. If I’d known the SRR was hiding talent like yours, I’d have transferred regiments years ago. You’re even more dangerous looking in the daylight."
Morgan didn't smile. She tilted her head just enough to catch the light. "Keep talking like that, MacTavish, and you’ll find out exactly how dangerous I am before we even hit the LZ.”
Soap let out a low whistle, grinning at Gaz, who just shook his head.
Price tapped the holographic display, bringing up a 3D schematic of a high-rise glass building. "The objective is extraction. We have three high-value hostages on the 40th floor. It’s a vertical fortress—tight corridors, glass walls, and a single bridge for exit. High risk of collateral."
Ghost, who had been a silent monolith in the corner, finally moved. His massive frame cast a long shadow over the map. He didn't look at Price; he looked at Morgan.
"Thorne," Ghost’s voice was a low, gravelly rasp. "A vertical structure is a cage. If the elevators fail or you get squeezed between floors, you’re trapped in a bottleneck. How do you adapt when a forty-story building becomes a death trap?"
Morgan met his gaze with a terrifyingly calm intensity, her green eyes never wavering from his. "You don't fight the structure… you adapt. If the upper levels are compromised, you drop to the basement. If the ground gets choked, you fight your way back up and take the roof. You move where the enemy isn't."
The silence that followed was heavy. Ghost stared at her for several long seconds, the air between them thick with the same jagged energy from the pub, but now honed into something lethal and professional.
Ghost didn't say a word. He simply gave her a slow, barely perceptible nod, his dark gaze lingering on hers for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he leaned back into the shadows, his point made.
*************************
The briefing had been tense, but the execution was lethal. Task Force 141, reinforced by Morgan’s SRR squad, moved like shadows through the service entrance of the Burj-style skyscraper.
"Squads split," Price’s voice crackled over the comms. "Ghost, you’ve got the flank. Eve, you’re leading with Soap. Gaz and I are on the primary sweep for the remaining hostiles on the lower levels. Move."
They were halfway up the service stairs when the air changed. Eve stopped dead, her hand snapping up in a fist. "Wait," she hissed. The silence was too heavy. "We're burned. Ambush!"
The door above them kicked open. Chaos. Muzzle flashes illuminated the stairwell in strobe-like bursts. Eve didn't flinch; she leaned into the fire, her rifle spitting lead with surgical precision. "Soap, suppressing fire! Move to the 40th!"
"Copy that!" Soap yelled over the thundering echoes of the stairwell.
"Price, we’ve got a leak," Eve called out while reloading in a blur of motion. "They were waiting for us. Roof is hot."
"Confirmed," Ghost’s gravelly voice broke through. "I’ve got a heavy bird approaching from the North. Sniper support on the glass. Thorne, get those HVTs out now."
Morgan’s squad breached the 40th floor. Glass shattered everywhere as the enemy helicopter opened up with a minigun, shredding the luxury office space. They grabbed the three hostages, shielding them with their own bodies.
"Bridge is a kill zone!" Price barked from the floors below, where he and Gaz were engaged in a fierce firefight to keep the stairwells clear. "Elevators are cut. Head for the parking garage, now!"
They plummeted down the service lift, hitting the basement level. Ghost was already there, his vest splattered with blood, eyes narrowed behind his mask. "Get them in the SUV! Move!"
Ghost shoved the hostages into the back of a blacked-out rig. Soap and Eve jumped into a lead vehicle to clear the path. As they sped toward the exit, a rocket hissed through the air. RPG!
The lead car flipped, skidding across the concrete in a shower of sparks. Eve and Soap kicked the doors open before the vehicle even stopped moving. They rolled out, rifles raised. Morgan tossed a flashbang into a cluster of mercenaries, the white light blinding them just long enough for her and Soap to dismantle the line with rhythmic, alternating fire.
But the enemy reinforcements were endless. Eve and Soap were pinned behind a concrete pillar, the air thick with hot lead.
"Ghost! We’re pinned down! Hurry the fuck up!" Morgan screamed into her comms, ducking as bullets chipped the stone inches from her head.
"Coming to you!" Ghost roared. He floored the SUV, charging toward their position to draw fire. A second RPG slammed into his front tire, sending the heavy vehicle into a violent spin. He bailed out, hitting the ground running while the SUV skidded to a halt near Morgan's position.
Two insurgents rushed the SUV where the hostages were cowering. From fifty yards away, Ghost fired two shots—one head, one heart. The first fell. The second lunged at Ghost as he approached. He met him with a brutal knee to the gut, caught the man’s throat, and slammed him against a car. A third enemy jumped his back. Ghost reached for the man’s vest, pulled the pin on the enemy's own grenade, and performed a tactical throw, launching the man over a row of sedans.
BOOM. The explosion painted the garage orange. Ghost didn't even look back.
"Eve, Soap—get to the roof! Take their wings!" Ghost commanded, his voice steady despite the carnage. "Extraction bird is orbiting. I'll bring the HVTs up behind you."
"Copy!" Eve shouted.
Eve and Soap raced back into the building, fighting floor by floor. "Ghost, we're in the elevator, heading for the roof!" Soap called out.
Ghost stayed one floor below, clearing the path for the hostages. Suddenly, the glass facade buckled under an explosion from an external drone. Ghost was thrown outward. For a terrifying heartbeat, he was suspended 40 stories in the air, hanging onto a jagged metal strut with a single, straining hand.
The enemy leader stepped toward the edge, grinning as he aimed his sidearm at Ghost’s head.
CRACK.
A single 5.56 round took the leader in the temple. He tumbled into the abyss. Eve appeared at the edge, her silhouette dark against the Dubai skyline. She dropped her rifle to her sling and reached down, grabbing Ghost’s forearm.
"Got you," she exhaled, her muscles tensing as she hauled his massive frame back onto the ledge.
Soap arrived with the hostages just as the extraction chopper hovered over the helipad. One last desperate insurgent fired, hitting a hostage in the shoulder. Ghost didn't hesitate; he put a round through the shooter's visor, scooped the bleeding HVT into his arms, and leaped into the chopper.
Eve was the first one in the cockpit, her hands blurring over the controls as the engines roared to life. Ghost was on the floor, his large hands surprisingly steady as he applied a tourniquet to the hostage. "Apply pressure here!" he barked at Soap.
Ghost tapped his comms, his eyes fixed on the retreating skyline. "Price, we have the HVTs. We are Oscar Mike. Extraction in progress."
"Good work, 141," Price’s voice came through, weary but proud, as he and Gaz prepared for their own extraction on the ground level.
Eve banked the bird hard, diving away from the skyscraper as more RPGs chased them into the clouds. She leveled the helicopter out, her eyes cold and focused on the horizon. "Everyone OK?" she called out over the roar of the rotors.
Ghost looked up from the wounded man, his eyes meeting hers. He was covered in soot, blood, and sweat, but for the first time, there was a dark glint of genuine recognition in his gaze.
"Yeah," Ghost rumbled. "Let's get out of here."
*****************
The atmosphere in the pub was lighter tonight, the adrenaline of the extraction still humming in their veins but softened by the rhythmic thud of darts hitting the board. Eve was at the line with Soap, her movements fluid and relaxed, a half-empty glass of whiskey waiting for her on a nearby ledge.
She landed her final dart squarely in the triple twenty, a small, triumphant smirk tugging at her lips.
"Bledy hell, Thorne! You’re cheating, you’ve got to be," Soap protested, waving a frustrated hand at the board. "No one hits that after three rounds of Macallan."
"Maybe you’re just out of practice, Johnny," Eve fired back over her shoulder. She stepped away from the line, leaving him grumbling at the score, and moved back toward the booth. She let herself fall into the seat with a heavy, relaxed sigh.
Soap turned his sights on Gaz. "Gaz! Get over here and defend the 141's honor. I'm being humiliated by a guest."
Gaz laughed, pushing off from the table. "Fine, but if you lose again, I’m not buying the next round."
As Gaz and Soap stayed at the board, arguing over the score, the noise of the pub receded. Eve moved back to the booth and slid into the seat directly across from Ghost. He was a shadow in the corner of the booth, his eyes dark and unwavering behind the mask. He had his gaze fixed on her, tracking her every movement.
Eve tilted her head slightly, her fingers tracing the rim of her glass. She didn’t need to look up to know his eyes were on her; she could feel the weight of his stare like a physical pressure against her skin.
"Something on your mind?" she murmured, finally meeting his gaze. "Or are you still trying to figure out how I didn't let you drop forty stories to the pavement?"
Ghost reclined slowly, his movement silent and controlled. "I'm figuring out if you're a godsend or a curse, Thorne," he rumbled, his voice a jagged vibration. "Most people flinch when the world explodes. You... you look like you’re coming home."
He leaned forward, invading the center of the table, his massive frame looming over her. "It’s a dangerous habit, making it this hard to look away."
Eve didn't back down. She took a slow, dark swallow of her whiskey, set the glass down with a deliberate clack, and leaned in until she was inches from his mask. She could feel the phantom heat radiating from him.
"Then keep looking," she whispered, her voice a low, jagged caress. "But if you’re going to watch me... make sure you can handle the view when the fire actually starts."
Ghost didn't pull away. His breathing shallowed, the air between them turning electric. "Careful, Thorne," he rasped, the warning sounding more like a dark invitation. "I don't know how to stop once I've started a hunt."
Ghost’s gaze darkened, his pupils blowing wide as he looked at her with a raw, predatory hunger—an intense, visceral need to bridge the remaining distance and claim the fire she was offering. He looked like he was about to tear the world apart just to get to her.
"Thorne! Come here!"
The spell shattered instantly. Soap slid back to the table, grinning ear to ear and smelling like spilled ale. He grabbed Morgan by the arm, completely oblivious to the lethal tension he had just interrupted.
"Gaz is crying over the darts, and I need a witness for the final score," Soap laughed, pulling her toward her feet. "Come on, don't let the big man bore you to death with his brooding. The night's still young!"
Morgan allowed herself to be pulled away, but her eyes never left Ghost’s. She threw one last, lingering look over her shoulder, a faint, dangerous smirk on her lips as she watched him sit there in the shadows, radiating a silent, frustrated fury.
Ghost stayed anchored to the booth, his hands fisted on the table, watching her walk away with the same gaze of a man who had just found something he was never going to let go.
*********************
The rain was just beginning to pick up, drumming a relentless, heavy rhythm against the hood of the tactical command SUV. They were parked in a dark, debris-strewn alley a block away from the primary objective. Price, Soap, and Gaz had already moved out in the main transport, acting as the primary escort to get the first two rescued hostages to the field hospital kilometers away. Ghost and Eve had been ordered to stay behind, tasked with sweeping the local comms grids from their mobile setup and waiting for the heavy cargo transport to clear the sector.
To escape the cramped interior and keep a visual on the alley, they had set up at the rear of the SUV. The heavy tail-gate was swung open, acting as a makeshift shield against the downpour. Eve was hunched over the portable tech terminal resting on the trunk's flatbed, her eyes scanning the post-mission data feeds, while Ghost stood just a foot away, his back a broad wall of tension as he wiped a smear of enemy blood from his forearm. He had led the sweep. He had called the "all clear."
"Ghost," Eve’s voice was barely a whisper, but it cut through the hum of the electronic equipment like a serrated blade.
He didn't move, but his shoulders locked.
She enlarged a thermal grain on the portable monitor, her fingers steadying on the screen. "The heat signatures in the sub-basement... they didn't dissipate with the flashbangs. There’s a lingering rhythm. A heartbeat."
Ghost leaned over her shoulder, his massive shadow swallowing the screen. He stared at the flickering pulse on the thermal map. A third hostage. The one the intel said didn't exist. The one he had overlooked.
The air in the alley curdled. Price and the rest of the 141 were already miles out of range, their comms jammed by the heavy concrete infrastructure and the worsening storm. There was no time to call for reinforcement, no time to wait.
Ghost didn't hesitate. He simply grabbed his C8 rifle resting against the interior wall of the trunk and pivoted toward the driver's side door, his movements fueled by a cold, quiet fury that was far more dangerous than an outburst.
"Ghost, wait," Eve said, her pace matching his as she slammed the portable terminal shut and scrambled out from under the tailgate.
He didn't stop. Taking advantage of his massive stride, he reached the driver's door with a frigid determination, ignoring the downpour. He threw himself into the seat, and before Eve could even round the hood to reach the passenger side, the central lock engaged with a sharp, final click.
Eve struck the driver’s side glass with her fist, once, firm. "Ghost, open the fuckin’ door. You’re not going back in there alone."
Through the rain-streaked window, he didn't even look at her. His eyes were locked forward, his hands gripping the steering wheel with enough tension to snap it. For him, the failure was his, and the fix would be too.
"Open it, dammit," she insisted, her voice low but carrying an authority he usually respected.
Ghost cranked the engine. The roar of the modified V8 drowned out everything else as he slammed the SUV into reverse and tore out of the alley, leaving Eve standing in the downpour, a cloud of exhaust clearing around her.
She didn't waste a single second. The structure was barely a kilometer away through the narrow, dark alleys. Pushing her body to the absolute limit, Eve spun on her heel and took off into the rain at a full sprint. Her boots pounded the wet asphalt, the freezing air burning her lungs as she tracked the distant echo of his engine.
Ghost arrived at the structure, killed the headlights, and slipped inside like a phantom. Moving through the pitch-black corridors with clinical precision, his breathing shallow and silent, he began his methodical sweep of the sub-basement levels to locate the thermal pulse. It took him minutes of tense, silent navigation before he finally reached the back holding room and breached the door in a single, fluid motion.
The third hostage was there, strapped into a heavy canvas vest laced with C4. Behind him, the surviving insurgent held a pistol to the man's temple and a remote detonator in his other hand.
"Drop it," the insurgent rasped. "Now!"
Ghost assessed the vest. Deadman’s switch. No clean shot. He lowered his rifle and let it clatter to the concrete.
The enemy shoved the hostage aside, his thumb hovering over the detonator's trigger. He leveled his sidearm at the skull mask, his face twisted in a mask of pure, murderous hatred.
He stepped closer, his eyes locked on Ghost’s, savoring the finality of the moment.
"Die like the dog you are," the insurgent spat, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Outside in the hall, Eve slipped through the main entrance, her breath hitching as she heard the muffled voices from the sub-basement. She moved down the stairs like a shadow, guided by the tension in the air.
A shadow flickered in the doorway. The insurgent spun, firing a panicked round just as a muzzle flash erupted from the dark entrance.
Morgan’s bullet caught him clean in the shoulder. The remote detonator flew from his shattered grip, skidding across the concrete floor and disappearing under a row of heavy crates. But the insurgent's own shot, fired in that frantic, dying arc, slammed heavily into Eve’s chest, striking her on the upper right side, just where the protective plate of her tactical vest ended.
The kinetic force of the round fractured the bone beneath, tearing through muscle and fabric, sending her staggering back against the wall.
Ghost launched himself across the room, a blur of ballistic nylon. He tackled the insurgent into a row of metal crates, the sound of the impact echoing through the room. Ghost pinned him down, raining brutal, heavy blows until the man was broken, then grabbed the fallen pistol.
Two shots. Point blank. Silence.
Across the room, Eve sank to the floor, breathing in ragged, wet hitches, her hand pressed against the dark stain spreading over her black tee. The hostage, trembling and frantic, crawled toward the crates and retrieved the remote. He scrambled to Eve’s side, his hands shaking as he pressed the small device into her palm.
With fingers that were starting to grow numb from the shock and vision beginning to tunnel, Eve focused on the remote's interface. She flipped a toggle on the side of the unit, her thumb forcing the safety switch down. The red arming light on the device blinked once, then turned a steady, peaceful green.
The hostage stripped the vest off, sobbing in relief, but Eve couldn't move. Her head fell back against the cold brick, her eyes glazed as she watched the massive, dark shape of Ghost scramble toward her.
Ghost skidded to his knees beside her. He ripped a trauma dressing from his kit and pressed it hard against the wound on her upper chest, his hands—usually as steady as stone—possessing a microscopic tremor that he crushed with sheer force of will. The vest had taken the brunt of the lethal velocity, but the damage was severe enough to make every breath a battle.
Eve’s head fell back against the brick, her fingers digging into his forearm as a sharp, broken hiss escaped her teeth. She didn't speak; she couldn't. Her eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, were beginning to glaze over, the edges of her vision tunneling into black from the intense trauma.
She just looked at him. Her eyes, clouded by the encroaching shadows of shock, searched for the dark pits of his through the lenses of his mask. She exhaled a long, ragged breath—a sound of pure, quiet relief. In that fading gaze, there was no fear of death, only the absolute certainty that he was there.
Ghost felt a cold, sharp jolt of panic spike through his chest, a sensation so foreign and violent it felt like a physical blow to his ribs. It was a terrifying realization of how close the fire had come to going out. He ignored it, his movements remaining firm and clinical as he anchored her to the world, even as his own pulse thrummed a frantic, jagged rhythm against his chest.
For a second, the rest of the world—the hostage, the mission, the rain—ceased to exist. There was only the weight of her gaze and the heat of her blood against his hands.
*****************
The military hospital was a stark contrast to the battlefield—cold, sterile, and eerily quiet. Eve drifted awake to the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor and the smell of antiseptic. The room was bathed in the deep blues of the midnight hour.
Then, she saw him.
Ghost was sitting in the corner, half-hidden in the shadows. His eyes fixed on her with an intensity that felt like a physical weight. He didn't move for a long moment, simply watching her breathe.
He didn't offer a standard "thank you." He didn't have the words for it, and they both knew he wouldn't use them if he did.
Instead, he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. His voice dropping into a low, gravelly register that sounded less like a confession and more like a dark, suppressed warning.
"You crossed my line of fire," he rumbled, the words coming out tight, almost lethal. "You ran a kilometer through active territory without tactical clearance. You could have been killed before you even reached the sub-basement."
He wasn't just angry about the breach of protocol; he was furious at the fact that she had made him feel something he had spent years burying. He was furious that she had given him a blind spot.
Eve looked at him, a faint, tired shadow of her dangerous smirk touching her lips despite the ache in her chest. She knew exactly what lay beneath that cold, military reprimand.
"I’d do it again," she whispered, her voice rasping but entirely certain. "I'd do it a thousand times, Simon."
The use of his real name hung in the sterile air, heavy and sharp. It wasn't a comfort; it was a direct strike to his remaining defenses.
Ghost froze. His shoulders locked, his pupils blowing wide behind the fabric of his mask as if he had just been hit by a flashbang. For a man who lived as a phantom, being stripped down to Simon was the ultimate exposure—and it terrified him.
Slowly, almost painfully, he stood up. His massive frame loomed over her bed, blocking out the blue moonlight.
"Don't call me that," he rasped, his voice vibrating with a sudden, dangerous tremor. He pulled his gloves tighter over his knuckles, his hands fisting at his sides. "There is no Simon here, Thorne. You saved an asset. That's all this was."
It was a blatant lie, a desperate attempt to claw back the control he had lost when he felt her blood on his hands. He was retreating into the shadows because staying an inch closer meant tearing down everything he was.
Even pale and anchored to a hospital bed, her green eyes locked onto his with an unyielding intensity, refusing to let him hide. "Keep telling yourself that, Lieutenant."
Ghost didn't respond. The silence between them turned electric, suffocating, vibrating with a jagged hunger and a heavy, unspoken frustration. He looked down at her for one last, agonizing second—a silent predator staring at the fire he desperately wanted to claim but didn't dare to touch.
Without another word, Ghost turned his back on her. His heavy combat boots hit the floor in a slow, rigid rhythm as he moved toward the exit, his shadow retreating into the darkness of the hallway.
********************
The Hereford gym was a cacophony of clanking iron and heavy breathing. Soap and Ghost were deep into a grueling sparring session, sweat drenching their training gear as they circled each other on the mats. Ghost, as always, was a machine—controlled, lethal, and focused, his dark training mask glued to his face, hiding everything but the cold precision of his eyes.
The heavy steel door swung open, and the atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.
Eve walked in. She was dressed in black athletic shorts and a loose, cropped tank top. Beneath the strap, the dark edge of a heavy medical compression wrap was barely visible against her right shoulder—the only proof of the bullet she’d taken days prior. She didn't offer a nod or a glance at the men training; she moved with a singular, detached purpose straight to the heavy lifting area. She plugged in her earphones and began a series of intense, focused core exercises, intentionally avoiding any movement that strained her healing clavicle, her jaw set in quiet defiance against the residual pain.
Ghost’s movements didn't falter, but his focus had fractured. Every time he pivoted or threw a hook at Soap, his eyes flickered toward her. He was tracking her, watching the sharp, disciplined lines of her body, his posture noticeably tenser than usual. He was furious that she was out of a hospital bed so soon, and even more furious that she was ignoring him.
Thirty minutes passed. Eve finished her routine, her skin flushed and glowing with exertion. She walked over to the stretching area, positioning herself directly in the line of sight of the sparring mats. She braced her uninjured left hand against the wall, pulling her heel back to stretch her quadriceps, her form lean and impossibly graceful.
Ghost stopped mid-motion. His eyes locked onto her, his guard dropping for a fraction of a second too long.
"Eyes on me, LT!" Soap barked, spotting the lapse.
Before Ghost could recover, Soap capitalized. He lunged, driving his shoulder into Ghost’s massive chest and sweeping his legs. Ghost went down hard, the impact of his heavy frame hitting the floor mats with a jarring thud that echoed through the gym.
The sudden noise caught Eve’s attention. She straightened up, turning her head slowly to look over at the mats. Her expression was unreadable, save for a faint, knowing curve of her lips.
She had caught him looking.
Soap stood over Ghost, panting, a mischievous grin plastered across his face. He looked down at him and shook his head, then shot a pointed look toward the woman stretching a few yards away.
"You're losing your edge, LT," Soap teased, keeping his voice just low enough so only Ghost could hear. "Must be the distraction of having the SRR’s finest roaming around in your peripheral vision, eh?"
Ghost grunted, pushing himself up with brutal force, his eyes dark with irritation—not at Soap, but at himself for being caught off guard.
Soap turned toward Eve, his grin widening into something purely chaotic, and gave her a bold, exaggerated wink.
She simply held Soap’s gaze, then shifted her eyes to Ghost, who was now back on his feet, looming like a thundercloud and watching her with a look of possessive intensity. She offered him a slow, mocking smirk—a silent reminder that he couldn't control her—then turned and walked toward the showers.
Ghost stayed anchored to the mat, his eyes locked on the empty doorway, his chest rising and falling in a heavy, frustrated rhythm. The air in the gym remained thick with an unspoken, dangerous tension, and Soap wisely chose to take a step back.
***********************
The rain had turned the rooftop into a slick, treacherous kill zone.
Eve was entirely cut off on the eastern ledge, flanked by two syndicate mercs who moved with aggressive, synchronized intent. She didn't panic. Lunging low, she swept the legs out from under the first attacker, sending him crashing into the concrete, but her momentum left her exposed for a split second. The second merc—a massive, heavily armored enforcer—threw his entire weight forward in a brutal, desperate tackle. The kinetic impact slammed into Eve's chest, knocking the air from her lungs and striking her head hard against the parapet.
 Darkness claimed her instantly as she fell over the edge.
She plummeted straight down into the floor below, crashing through the glass perimeter of the building’s upper atrium. Her limp body hit the sloped, rain-slicked glass pane of the structural skylight, beginning a terrifying, silent slide down the translucent incline toward the absolute void of the city streets several feet below.
On the roof above, Ghost was locked in a vicious, close-quarters struggle with an enemy who refused to give him an inch of breathing room. Through the shattered rain and the chaos of the gunfire, his dark eyes locked onto the edge just in time to see Eve disappear over it.
A sudden, violent spike of pure desperation tore through his chest—a rare, terrifying fracture in his cold military composure.
He didn't have time for a tactical stalemate. Driven by a frantic need to end the fight instantly, Ghost ducked under a swung rifle butt, slipped into his opponent's blind spot, and locked his thick forearm around the man's throat. With a brutal, snapped execution wrench, he twisted his entire torso, breaking the merc's neck in a single fluid motion. He let the corpse drop like stone.
Before the body even hit the deck, Ghost drew his sidearm. He sprinted to the ledge, looked down at the sloped atrium glass below, and fired three rapid, heavy rounds into the glass facade directly beneath him. The reinforced panels shattered into a web of crystalline shards.
Without a second of hesitation, Ghost vaulted over the edge, dropping into the ruined opening. His heavy combat boots hit the interior concrete, and he threw himself into a dead sprint across the slick floor, racing against gravity as Eve’s unconscious form slid closer and closer to the precipice of the open air.
She was slipping off the edge of the glass framework. Her boots cleared the metal lip, her legs dangling into the empty sky.
Ghost lunged forward, throwing his entire massive frame flat against the wet concrete, his right arm shooting out over the abyss just as her body began to completely roll into the void.
His gloved hand clamped hard around her bare forearm.
The jarring, violent arrest of her dead weight nearly tore Ghost’s shoulder from its socket. He let out a harsh, guttural roar of absolute strain, his muscles locking as he anchored his boots against a steel structural beam. The panic of losing her, of watching another person slip through his fingers into the dark, made his breath hitch violently in his throat.
"Thorne, come on!" he bellowed, his gravelly voice cracking with a raw, uncharacteristic terror that tore through the howling wind. "Morgan! Wake up!"
Down in the empty air, the sharp jerk on her arm and the sheer force of his voice pierced through the blackness in Eve's mind. Her eyes snapped open, her pupils dilating in instant, adrenaline-fueled shock as she realized she was dangling onto the concrete jungle, held only by the vice-like grip of the skull-masked soldier.
Survival instinct took over with Tier-1 immediacy. She swung her free arm upward, desperately reaching for him, her fingers clawing at the rain-slicked fabric of his tactical vest until she secured a tight, unyielding handful of his gear.
"I've got you!" Ghost growled, the sheer relief bleeding into his anger as he used his immense upper-body strength to haul her upward.
Reaching down with his other arm, he wrapped his massive hand firmly around her waist, locking her body against his chest. With one final, agonizing heave, he hauled her over the shattered lip of the structure, pulling her completely out of the sky and slamming both of them safely onto the hard, solid concrete of the interior floor.
The momentum of the rescue carried them inward, crawling and scrambling away from the deadly drop until they collapsed together on the shattered floor. With a final, desperate tug, Ghost had pulled her flush against his chest, causing Eve to land squarely on top of him.
The adrenaline of what had just happened was a deafening roar in their ears. Straddling his waist, Eve looked down at him, her hands still gripping the fabric of his tactical vest, while Ghost stared straight up at her, his large hands resting heavily on her hips where he had caught her. The physical and emotional tension between them was absolute, suffocating, and brutal. Neither of them moved. They simply stared at each other, their eyes locked in the dim, ruined light, their chests heaving in perfect sync as they shared the freezing, rain-misted air. Ghost’s gaze burned up into hers with a raw, unmasked hunger, his grip on her hips tightening against the fabric of her pants as if fighting every instinct to pull her down and crush the distance between them.
The spell held until it was entirely unbearable. Eve was the first to break it. Shaking off the shock, she placed her hands on his chest and pushed herself up, sliding off him with practiced agility to stand on her feet. Ghost stayed on his back for a fraction of a second longer, staring at the ceiling as he forced his frantic pulse to slow down, before rolling over and pulling himself up into the shadows.
************************
During the morning briefs, he completely froze her out. He shot down her operational suggestions, ignored her presence entirely, and went out of his way to treat her like an unwanted nuisance in front of the rest of Task Force 141, pushing her patience past its absolute limit.
But the final straw came an hour later. Eve was checking the digital logistics board in the main corridor when she saw it: her name had been systematically wiped from the active roster for the upcoming infiltration cycle, replaced by a cold, bureaucratic reassignment to perimeter watch. Ghost had benched her.
Her blood turned to liquid fire. An SRR operator didn't get sidelined because a Lieutenant was having a psychological crisis. Snatching her data pad, she marched through the labyrinthine concrete halls of the Hereford base, her boots striking the floor with lethal intent. She tracked his massive, unmistakable silhouette straight to his office at the end of the wing.
The metal door flew open, and Eve stormed into the room.
Ghost was sitting at his desk, a towering wall of stony silence.
“The fuck is your problem with me, Riley?" she demanded, her voice vibrating with a dangerous, controlled rage.
With a sharp, violent motion, she threw the tablet across the desk. It clattered loudly against the metal surface, sliding straight into his space, but Ghost barely flinched. He sat rigid, his fists clenched so tightly the leather of his tactical gloves groaned under the strain, maintaining a facade of absolute, icy indifference.
"Don't know what you're talking about, Lieutenant," he muttered, his tone dismissive, cold, and thoroughly unpleasant. "Check the board. Your assignments come—"
"Don't give me that shit," Eve snapped, cutting him off without a shred of hesitation.
She closed the distance between them in two aggressive strides and slammed her hands down, leaning over the desk directly in front of him.
"You know exactly what I'm talking about," she hissed, forcing him to look up and look at her.
The pressure valve finally snapped. Ghost stood up with terrifying velocity, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a raw, suffocating intensity as he rose, the sheer force of his sudden movement kicking his chair back. His towering frame cast a massive, predatory shadow over her under the harsh fluorescent lights. He was furious, his broad chest heaving, trembling with a rare, half-uncontrolled rage that threatened to rip his military composure to shreds.
"You want to know my problem, Thorne?" he hissed, leaning over the desk to meet her face-to-face, his gravelly voice dropping into a harsh, erratic whisper that carried the terrifying weight of a decade of buried trauma. "You're a liability. A target. A fuckin’ complication I don't need in my field." He paused, his jaw clenching hard beneath the fabric of his mask as his gaze narrowed, deliberately measuring the weight of his next words. "If the enemy ever figures out what you are to me..."
He choked on his own breath, a brutal, agonizing pause cutting through his words as the sheer horror of the thought paralyzed him for a split second. Then, the darkness spilled out.
"...they won't just kill you—they'll use you to break me piece by piece. They will hang your body right in front of my face, just like they did with the rest of them. So stay the fuck away from me."
It was a staggering, brutal admission. The raw hunger and fear he had tried to crush on the atrium floor was now laid bare, twisted into a violent warning.
But Eve didn't flinch. Her own rage surged to the surface, her eyes flashing like flint, flatly refusing to let him retreat into his self-imposed fortress of isolation. Her posture remained completely firm, direct, and brutally unyielding as she looked straight into the dark, hollow sockets of his mask.
"I’m not a fuckin' civilian, Simon," she rasped, her voice cutting through his panic with absolute, Tier-1 precision. "I'm your bloody equal, so stop treating me like I'm some proper amateur just because you're too scared of your own fuckin' mind—"
Her words hit him harder than any ballistic round ever could, tearing through his remaining armor and ripping straight into the rawest, most guarded depths of his trauma. The truth didn't just provoke him—it shattered him, leaving him instantly consumed by a blinding, white-hot fury.
Before she could finish the sentence, Ghost’s fist slammed down onto the metal desk with a deafening, thunderous CRACK that made the paperwork rattle and the monitors shake. It was a violent, animalistic explosion of pure rage, a desperate warning to back off before he completely lost control.
But she didn't even blink. She dug her fingers into the edge of the desk, leaning in even closer, her voice dropping into something cold and lethal.
"—I'm not afraid of you," she countered, her gaze boring into his like a laser sight. "You can push me away all you want, but that won't change a bloody thing… If they come for me to get to you, they'll find out the hard way that I fight back. They'll have to fight through a mountain of brass and a pile of fuckin' corpses to even touch me..." She stepped even closer, her voice dropping into a lethal, venomous rasp that pinned him to the floor. "...'cause that's who I am, Riley. And I'm so fuckin' good at it. So stop burying me before I'm even dead!"
She held his gaze for three agonizing, suffocating seconds, her green eyes burning through him with absolute lethality, leaving him completely breathless and utterly speechless behind his mask. The great, unshakeable Ghost was paralyzed, trapped in the wreckage of his own exposed emotions.
Without another word, Eve pushed herself off the desk, turned on her heel, and marched out of the room.
The heavy door slammed shut behind her, leaving Ghost completely alone in the quiet office, standing in the middle of a massive, devastating emotional shockwave.
*********************
Two hours later, the tension had shifted from the clinical cold of the base to the quiet, dark sanctuary of Eve’s apartment.
The studio was cast in deep shadows, illuminated only by the faint, warm amber glow of a small bedside lamp. The air still carried the faint trace of steam from the bathroom. Eve had just stepped out of the shower, dressed only in an oversized charcoal-gray t-shirt that hung loosely over her frame. Her head was down, her focus entirely on using a towel to dry her damp hair, when she suddenly froze. Her heart skipped a beat—a instinctual jolt of fear hitting her chest—but she didn't react defensively. She simply went dead still.
She stopped in the center of the room. She hadn't heard the lock turn. She hadn't heard a single footstep.
Ghost was sitting on her sofa, his large hands resting heavily on his knees. The moment his eyes found her, he stood up slowly, without saying a single word. He was completely silent, a massive silhouette tracking her movements with an intensity that felt almost physical.
Eve just stood there, observing him quietly through the dim light. He took a hesitant step forward, then stopped, his usual unshakeable posture betraying a subtle, fractured hesitation.
Closing the distance herself, Eve took a few slow, deliberate steps toward him. As she drew closer, she noticed the true breakdown of his rigid defenses. The feared, legendary soldier was visibly unraveling in the dark. His breathing was too shallow, his jaw locked so tight it looked painful. And then, she saw it—the microscopic, unmistakable tremor in his massive, bare hands. Simon Riley was terrified, trapped in a silent, controlled panic attack, drowning in the sheer weight of a vulnerability he hadn't allowed himself to feel in years.
Ghost averted his eyes, staring down at the floorboards between them, unable to hold her gaze. Then, in a sudden, jerky movement that caught Eve entirely off guard, his hands moved to the hem of his skull mask. With a rough pull, he stripped it off and tossed it onto the floor, keeping his eyes downcast, refusing to look at her.
Eve froze for a fraction of a second, her throat tightening at the raw, unshielded sight of him. She stepped closer, closing the final distance until she was standing right in front of him. Slowly, with clinical precision and infinite tenderness, she raised her hands and cupped his scarred, rugged face, her palms mapping the harsh lines of his jaw.
The moment her skin touched his, Simon flinched as if burned. His large, rough hands shot up, wrapping around her wrists with a desperate, crushing grip—not to push her away, but to anchor himself to the physical reality of her presence, fighting the urge to lose control and spiral into the dark. He was breathing heavily, his broad chest heaving against her.
His knees trembled slightly, the phantom weight of his past threatening to buckle his massive frame. Desperate for balance, his hands slid down from her wrists to her waist, gripping her hips with a fierce, possessive strength. Yet, he still refused to look at her, his eyes twisting away, deeply ashamed of the cracks in his armor.
Eve didn't let him hide. She tightened her grip on his jaw, her fingers pressing firmly against his cheekbones.
"Look at me," she whispered, her voice a steady, unyielding lifeline in the middle of his storm. She physically forced his head up until his dark, fractured eyes were finally locked directly onto hers. "I've got you. I'm right here... and I'm not fuckin’ leaving."
Something inside Simon finally ruptured. A heavy, ragged exhale tore from his throat, a sound of total, absolute surrender.
He lunged forward, his mouth crashing onto hers with a starved, savage desperation. It was a ravenous, deeply passionate kiss—wild and breathless, born from a man who had been dying of thirst in a desert of his own making. He cupped the back of her head, pulling her into him as if he wanted to devour her, to pull her beneath his skin where the world couldn't touch her.
Simon’s hands began to roam hungrily over her entire body, tracing the curve of her hips, sliding up to her waist, mapping the shape of her breasts through the thin fabric, before his fingers tangled fiercely into the hair at the nape of her neck. Eve met his hunger with her own fierce intensity, her arms winding tightly around his neck, holding him up, matching his desperation stroke for stroke as they drowned together in the quiet dark.
The starved, desperate kiss completely destabilized them, shattering what little remained of Simon’s professional restraint. Still trembling, off-balance from the sheer emotional vertigo of his own vulnerability, he let himself be guided blindly by her touch.
Eve’s movements were deliberate and steady. Keeping her mouth locked to his, her hands found the heavy zipper of his tactical jacket, pulling it down and peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, forcing him to take slow, uncoordinated steps backward into the room. Next came his dark military shirt. She tugged it up and off, the heavy garments hitting the floorboards with a succession of dull thuds.
When they finally reached the edge of the mattress, the backs of Simon’s knees hit the frame, and he collapsed heavily into a seated position. His massive, bare hands shook noticeably as he rested them against her waist, feeling her body through the oversized t-shirt. He watched her through narrowed, heavily hooded eyes, his mind still struggling to process the absolute surrender of the moment.
Eve dropped to her knees on the floor between his thighs, her focus unyielding. She reached down to unlace his heavy combat boots, pulling them off one by one and discarding them into the shadows. Rising slightly to her knees so she was level with him again, she placed her hands firmly on his waistband. She leaned in, reclaiming his lips in a deep, slow kiss. Simon’s hands drifted back, palms flat against the mattress on either side of his hips to anchor his towering frame.
With practiced efficiency, Eve unbuckled his tactical belt and unbuttoned his trousers. She began to slide the heavy fabric down his hips, and Simon blindly cooperated, lifting his weight slightly off the mattress to help her slip them away.
As his trousers pooled on the floor, Eve climbed onto his lap, straddling his thighs. Her fingers tangled into his hair and wrapped around the back of his neck, pulling him into a searing kiss before trailing her lips down to the column of his throat. At the same time, her palms moved flat across his chest, tracing the brutal, jagged network of his physical history.
Simon felt a profound, overwhelming sensation of pleasure and absolute defilement of his own rules—a total surrender he never believed existed within his fractured soul. He grabbed her waist with a fierce intensity, shoving his large hands up underneath her t-shirt to desperately trace the bare skin of her back, his fingers digging into her skin from her hips all the way up her spine.
The physical need for her touch became agonizingly desperate. His breathing turned into shallow, ragged gasps, and a low, carnal growl ripped from deep within his chest.
Eve shifted, claiming his mouth once more, and as she did, she began to deliberately roll her hips, rubbing her center firmly against his rigid erection. The friction sent a violent jolt through Simon's system. He gripped her waist with a crushing, possessive force, digging his fingers into her skin as he pinned her hard against him to force an even deeper, tighter friction. Eve held on just as tightly, anchoring herself by his hair and neck as the pace intensified, the friction generating a blinding heat between them as she let out a series of breathless, undone moans directly into Simon’s mouth.
"Fuckin' hell," Simon gasped against her lips, his voice a broken, lethal rumble.
Then, the animalistic instinct for control snapped back to life inside him. In one swift, desperate motion, his large hands caught the hem of her oversized t-shirt, pulling it up and completely off her body, tossing it into the darkness. Before she could even process the sudden cold against her bare skin, Simon seized her by the waist and completely reversed their positions with brutally powerful force.
He caught her entirely off guard, flipping her onto her back and pinning her flat against the mattress, instantly crushing her beneath the massive, unyielding weight of his naked body as he locked his thighs securely between hers.
He went down on her brutally, his mouth attacking her lips, then trailing a path of fire down to her neck and her breasts, marking her skin with his lips and tongue. Eve gasped, a sharp cry of pleasure catching in her throat as she arched her back, instinctively winding her knees tightly around his waist to lock him close.
Simon reached up, his large hand capturing both of her wrists, pinning them securely to the mattress above her head with a single, vice-like grip. With his other hand, he reached down between their bodies, grasping himself to align with her slick, soaking center.
Fixing his dark, fractured eyes directly onto hers, he drove his hips forward in one sharp, heavy, and unyielding thrust, penetrating her completely.
Eve let out a loud, breathless moan, a sound that Simon instantly leaned down to swallow against her lips. Giving her absolutely no time to adapt to the sudden, stretching fullness, he kept her wrists locked together in that brutal, possessive grip above her head. Driven by pure, primal possessiveness, he began to embark on a relentless rhythm, embedding himself into her over and over with a brutal, crushing intensity. Both of them were lost to the dark, their voices mingling in broken gasps and raw, ragged moans that echoed softly into the quiet sanctuary of the room.
Simon buried his face into the crook of Eve's neck, his massive, slick weight pinning her flat against the mattress. With every heavy, unyielding thrust he drove into her, Eve arched her back, locking her legs tightly around his waist to pull him even deeper. She anchored him closer and closer, her slick walls clamping down hard around his pulsing length, wrenching fractured, breathless groans from deep within his chest.
Pressing his lips against the burning skin of her throat, Simon let out a ragged, uncharacteristic whimper, his breath hot and erratic.
"Bloody hell, Eve... fuck," he muttered, his voice a broken, breathless growl that dissolved into another rough moan against her skin.
They were both slick with sweat, their bodies radiating a blinding heat into the dark room. The pace of Simon’s hips grew desperate, frantic, his relentless rhythm driving them both toward the edge. Needing more point of contact, his grip finally released her wrists. His large, scarred hands slid down her body with a ravenous necessity, his fingers digging fiercely into the undersides of her hips.
Bracing his knees firmly against the mattress, Simon lifted her slightly off the bed, anchoring her to tilt her pelvis and drive himself impossibly deeper inside her.
Eve gasped at the sudden, overwhelming depth, her fingers clawing at his broad shoulders and wrapping tightly around his neck to hold on. Their mouths crashed together again in a frenzied, desperate clash of lips and teeth, ruthlessly swallowing each other’s heavy gasps and raw moans.
The friction was blinding. Eve could feel a fierce, unbearable coil of heat tightening deep within her core, spreading rapidly through her veins until it finally ruptured into a violent, shattering explosion of pleasure. Her head fell back against the pillows, a loud, intensely sensual groan tearing from her throat as her body buckled beneath the wave of her orgasm.
Through narrowed, heavily hooded eyes, Simon watched her. The raw, beautiful sight of her completely unraveling beneath him, combined with the exquisite torture of her internal walls contracting violently around his length, instantly pushed him over the precipice. His sanity shattered.
Simon slammed both hands flat onto the mattress on either side of her head, bracing his massive frame as he buried his face into the hollow of her neck. With one final, deep, and utterly brutal thrust, he sank into her to the hilt and locked his hips flush against hers. A guttural roar of absolute surrender tore from his lungs as his own powerful orgasm ripped through his body, embedding himself completely within her as they drowned together in the quiet dark.
The absolute silence of the room was heavy, broken only by the ragged, synchronized rhythm of their breathing slowing down. The faint, amber glow of the bedside lamp caught the sheen of sweat coating Simon’s broad, scarred back as he lay heavily over her, his massive frame still rooted deep within her core.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. The overwhelming intensity of the shockwave they had just triggered still vibrated through the quiet sanctuary of the studio. Eve kept her arms wound tightly around his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair, while her legs remained securely locked around his waist, holding him prisoner against her.
Against the warm skin of his shoulder, Eve let out a soft, shallow breath. The adrenaline was still humming softly under her skin, but right now, her only instinct was to shield him, keeping him anchored to her before the cold world could rush back in.
"Still think I'm a liability, Riley?" she murmured into the dark. Her voice was quiet, raspy from the moans he had torn from her throat, but it carried a distinct, lightweight touch of irony—a deliberate, tactical move to break the heavy emotional tension lingering in the air.
Simon spent a few agonizingly long seconds in absolute silence, his forehead resting heavily against the crook of her neck, his broad chest rising and falling in deep, shaky expansions against hers. The silence stretched until it felt like a physical weight, but it wasn't the cold, defensive wall from the base; it was the quiet surrender of a man who had finally run out of air to fight.
Then, he let out a long, exhausted, and thoroughly heavy sigh against her skin.
"You're a pain in the ass, Thorne," he muttered, his gravelly voice vibrating deeply against her collarbone.
Eve’s lips twitched, a genuine smile spreading against his bare chest. "But?"
The single word hung between them, a gentle demand for him to finish crossing the bridge he had just burned behind him.
Simon slowly lifted his head, his dark, heavy-lidded eyes finding hers through the dim amber light. With a sudden, deliberate shift of his massive weight, he rolled off her onto his side, but he didn't let her go. He took her entirely with him, twisting his large, powerful frame to pull her flush against his chest, locking his thighs securely with hers on the mattress.
His large, scarred hand slid down her spine and gripped her waist with a fierce, possessive strength, his fingers burying themselves so deeply into her skin it was almost bruising—a desperate, tactile reassurance that she was real, that she was there, and that he wasn't letting her slip away.
They lay there, face-to-face, their noses almost touching, their frantic heartbeats drumming a chaotic, overlapping rhythm against each other's ribs. Eve’s hand moved instinctively, her fingers mapping the harsh, rigid line of his jawline, her thumb gently tracing the edge of his scarred cheekbone, grounding him in the quiet dark.
Simon stared down into her green eyes, his gaze raw, unshielded, and stripped of every single piece of armor he had worn for a decade. The phantom terror of his past was still lingering in the corners of his mind, but looking at her, firm and unyielding beneath his touch, the shadows finally lost their grip.
"But you're not going anywhere," he rasped, his voice dropping into a thick, low rumble that sounded like a sacred vow.
Before she could even respond, Simon tightened his crushing grip on her waist, physically dragging her even closer until there was absolutely no space left between their bodies. He leaned in, his mouth crashing onto hers once more, reclaiming her lips in a deep, searing, and fiercely passionate kiss.
It wasn't a kiss born of desperation or panic this time; it was heavy with a quiet, mutual understanding. It was a slow, consuming fire that swallowed the last remnants of the storm, locking them together in the quiet sanctuary of the room as they drowned once again, completely surrendered to each other in the dark.
************
The metallic tang of copper and burnt cordite filled the narrow concrete corridor. Ghost was pinned down, his back pressed hard against the cold, rough wall, his massive chest heaving beneath his tactical vest.
Blood—thick, dark, and hot—was soaking through his trousers, pooling beneath his left thigh. It wasn't a lethal hit, but the high-velocity round had torn clean through the muscle of his thigh, leaving a jagged, agonizing wake that throbbed violently with every beat of his heart. It was the kind of deep, structural damage that instantly stole his mobility, turning his usually explosive reflexes into a sluggish, painful crawl. Ghost didn't succumb easily to pain, but the sheer weight of the injury was turning his leg into dead weight.
With his left hand, he pressed down brutally on the wound, his tactical glove already saturated in his own blood, trying to stem the flow. In his right hand, his rifle was raised, his grip unshakeable despite the microscopic tremor of shock threatening to creep into his fingers. Behind him, the narrow hallway was a graveyard; the bodies of six hostile operators lay crumpled in awkward, bloody heaps—the grim price they had paid for cornering the Lieutenant.
He had infiltrated the sub-level alone, separated from his sweeping element during the chaotic breach, and now the architecture itself was a trap.
At the far end of the narrow corridor, a heavy metal security door suddenly hissed open.
Through the threshold, a fresh fireteam of five hostiles poured in, their rifles raised in tight, professional synchronization, clearing the angles. Ghost’s entire body went rigid. He was a sitting duck. If he didn't force his useless, bleeding leg to push his massive frame off the floor right now, he was finished. He braced his back against the concrete, preparing to fight through the blinding white heat of the pain, ready to take as many of them down with him as his remaining magazines allowed.
He never got the chance.
Before the lead hostile could even lock his sights down the hallway, the loud, echoing CRACK of a suppressed rifle shattered the air. The point man’s head snapped back with violent force, a neat crimson hole opening perfectly between his eyes as he collapsed like a stone. A fraction of a second later, a second round tore through the throat of the man right behind him, dropping him into a choking heap.
Out of the shadows behind Ghost, a lethal silhouette materialized.
Eve moved past him down the narrow corridor, fluid, merciless, and terrifyingly fast. Her green eyes were flat, locked onto the remaining hostiles with absolute, fatal precision. The third enemy raised his weapon, but Eve fired on the move, two rounds to his center mass putting him down before he could pull the trigger.
The fourth hostile, desperate and cornered by her sudden speed, lunged forward to close the distance, throwing his weight into a brutal close-quarters strike to knock her rifle aside. With a lightning-fast, practiced reflex, she stepped into his guard, seizing him by the tactical vest and using his own momentum to slam him brutally against the fifth operator who was trying to aim behind him.
Using the fourth enemy as a temporary human shield, she violently twisted him around her frame, exposing the last hostile's head. She fired a single, lethal shot over her shield's shoulder, dropping the fifth man instantly. In the same fluid, unbroken motion, she brought her sidearm up beneath the chin of the man she was holding, pulling the trigger once. He went limp, sliding off her as she let the corpse drop to the floor.
The corridor fell into a sudden, ringing silence. Five men, dead in less than four seconds.
Eve kept her sidearm rise for one agonizing second, scanning the smoking threshold at the end of the hall to ensure the sector was completely clear. Satisfied, she lowered the weapon and turned on her heel toward where Ghost was slumped against the wall.
She closed the distance in two sharp, aggressive strides, dropping heavily to her knees right in front of his injured leg. Her hands moved with clinical, high-stress efficiency, tearing open her IFAK pouch. She didn't waste a single movement as she jammed a combat gauze pack directly into the bleeding track of his wound to pack it, her fingers slick with his blood.
"Why the fuck are you here alone?!" she hissed into the dark, her voice a dangerous, low growl that carried the terrifying weight of the panic she had just fought through to find him.
Ghost let out a rough, gravelly gasp as the pressure on the wound sent a fresh wave of blinding agony through his system. He leaned his head back against the concrete wall, his dark eyes locking onto hers through the hollow sockets of his mask.
"Comms went dark during the breach," he muttered, his voice tight, strained, but still thoroughly stubborn. "Had to clear the sub-level before they locked down the terminal. Didn't ask for a backup element, Lieutenant."
Eve stopped packing the wound for a fraction of a second. She snapped her head up, her green eyes boring into his behind the mask with a burning, unyielding anger—a furious glare that told him exactly what she thought of his self-sacrificing, lone-wolf bullshit. Without a word, she intentionally yanked the tails of the pressure bandage with a sharp, punishing twist, locking the dressing into place with a brutal, solid tug that made a low, guttural growl of pure agony rip from deep within Ghost's chest.
Before he could even recover his breath, Eve pressed her fingers to her comms headset, her voice cutting through the static with tight, unyielding authority.
"Watchpoint, this is Kilo 1. Visual on Ghost, sub-level corridor. Out of action, GSW to the left thigh. Hemorrhage packed and packed tight, mobility zero. We are extracting to primary RP now. Request immediate Medevac inbound to active LZ. Break, make it priority alpha. Out."
Dropping her hand from the comms, she stood up instantly, her posture unyielding as she grabbed him firmly by his tactical vest and the shoulder of his good side, using her own leverage to force his massive frame upward.
"Get up," she commanded, her voice dropping into a cold, lethal rasp that left absolutely no room for argument as she took half his weight against her shoulder. "Let's go."
Taking half of Ghost’s massive weight over her shoulder, Eve drove them forward into the maze of upper corridors. Every step was a brutal battle against gravity and his dead-weight frame, but her pace remained rapid and unyielding.
Two hostiles rounded the corner ahead, rifles raised, but Eve without dropping Ghost, brought her sidearm up with a swift, one-handed extension, her reflex sights locking onto target. Pop, pop. Two suppressed rounds tore through the lead man's chest. Before the second enemy could react, she shifted her focus and put a single bullet clean through his visor. They dropped instantly, their gear rattling loudly against the concrete floor as she hauled Ghost right past their warm corpses without breaking stride.
They burst through the heavy exit doors and into the blinding light of the landing zone, where the twin rotors of the medevac chopper were already chopping the air into a violent hurricane of dust and debris. A pararescue jumper rushed down the ramp, immediately stepping in to anchor Ghost's good side. Keeping her grip tight as she and the paramedic synchronized their strength, seamlessly hoisting Ghost’s towering, heavy frame up the incline and inside the roaring, vibrating cabin.
The moment they hit the metal floorboards, Ghost’s head rolled back. His pupils were dilated, his eyelids fluttering rapidly as the heavy blood loss finally caught up to his system. The dark fortress of his mind was slipping away into unconsciousness.
"Riley! Stay with me!" Eve barked, her voice cutting through the deafening roar of the engine.
He didn't respond, his chin sinking into his chest as he began to drift out.
Without a shred of hesitation, Eve brought her hand across his jawline, delivering a sharp, ringing slap right across the fabric of his skull mask. The violent, heavy crack of the impact jolted his entire system through the damp material. Ghost let out a sharp, ragged gasp, his dark eyes snapping open behind the hollow sockets, unfocused but conscious as he forced his gaze to lock onto her fiercely determined green eyes.
"Don't you dare close your eyes, Simon," she rasped, her hands already moving with lightning-fast, combat-medic precision as she ripped open an IV kit from the bulkhead wall, tied a tourniquet around his massive, scarred bicep, and drove a large-bore needle straight into his arm before immediately squeezing the saline bag hard to force the fluids into his depleted system.
Ghost leaned his head back against the vibrating hull of the chopper, his breathing shallow and erratic, but his eyes stayed glued to hers, anchored entirely to the raw, fierce reality of her presence.
*******************
The medical discharge paperwork was barely signed before Ghost found himself cornered in the concrete corridors of the Hereford base med-bay. He was standing unevenly, his massive frame balanced heavily on a single aluminum crutch, his left thigh tightly wrapped underneath his standard issue cargo trousers.
Eve was already waiting for him in the corridor, leaning comfortably against the concrete wall with a heavy tactical duffel bag packed with his personal gear resting at her feet. Her lips curved into a knowing, soft smirk as she watched him approach.
Ghost stopped in front of her, staring down through the dark eyeholes of his skull mask. His jaw clenched beneath the fabric, but it was a gesture of exasperated, false annoyance rather than real anger as he realized exactly what she had planned. He opened his mouth, his deep voice dropping into a low, warning rumble that lacked any true bite.
"Thorne. What the fuck is this?"
"Your ticket out of here, Lieutenant," Eve replied smoothly, her green eyes dancing with a spark of amusement that completely ignored his attempts to look intimidating. She stepped closer into his space, her voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone meant just for him. "You're not spending the next six weeks cooped up in this depressing concrete bunker, Simon, staring at the walls and drowning in your own stubborn thoughts until you completely lose your mind. You're coming home with me, so stop pretending you don't want to."
Ghost’s grip tightened on his crutch but the dramatic tension was broken by the dry, exasperated sigh that escaped from behind his mask. "I am perfectly capable of recovering in my own bloody quarters, Thorne," he muttered, rolling his eyes beneath the fabric in a display of structural, false resistance. "I don't need a babysitter, let alone one that steals my gear."
"Good, because I’m not babysitting," she countered sharply, tossing the heavy duffel over her shoulder without breaking eye contact. As she spoke, she raised her left hand, casually dangling a set of keys with a metallic clink. "My place is secure, off the base radar, and quiet. We're taking your truck."
Ghost’s head snapped down, his dark eyes widening in genuine, stunned disbelief through the cutouts of his mask. His massive hand instinctively slapped against the empty pocket of his tactical trousers as his brain scrambled to figure out exactly when the hell she had managed to pickpocket him.
Her lips twitched into a cold, dry, and thoroughly mocking smirk as her green eyes slowly scanned his dead-weight left leg. "Would've brought my bike, Riley, but you'd look proper ridiculous clinging to my waist like a terrified schoolgirl while your useless leg drags along the tarmac."
Ghost shot her a look of pure, unadulterated hatred—the kind of lethal glare that usually made seasoned recruits break into a cold sweat. "You're a real pain in the ass."
"Move your massive frame, Lieutenant."
The transition from the military base to Eve’s studio apartment was handled with professional efficiency, but the heavy, rigid armor of the base melted away the second the door locked behind them. Ghost was here because it was safe, and as he looked around the familiar space, his jaw relaxed. With a slow, unhurried movement, he raised his large hands and pulled the skull mask cleanly off his head, tossing it onto the entryway console. He was no longer the Lieutenant under the scrutiny of the base; the moment he stepped into her sanctuary, he let himself simply be Simon.
As Ghost slowly maneuvered into the center of the room, his crutch clicking against the floorboards, a fluid streak of white fur emerged from the shadows. It was Reaper, Eve’s white Angora cat. Instead of fleeing from the towering, intimidating soldier, the cat purred loudly, immediately weaving between Ghost's boots and rubbing its fluffy flanks against his good leg, before sitting down to look up at him.
Ghost stilled, staring down at the small creature. He let out a low, gravelly huff that sounded remarkably like a chuckle, his deep voice dropping into a quiet rumble.
Reaper just meowed softly in response, turning to follow him like a tiny, silent shadow as Ghost dragged his heavy left leg toward the sofa.
When he reached the edge of the cushions, Ghost collapsed heavily into the seat with a sharp, ragged grunt of exhaustion, letting his crutch clatter to the floor. The stubborn defiance he usually weaponized at the base was gone; he was tired, his thigh was throbbing with white-hot needles, and he was in Eve's sanctuary. He actually let his head fall back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a long moment.
Eve moved in without a word, her actions smooth and unhurried. She positioned herself standing right beside his good side, leaning over him as she gently lifted his injured, heavily bandaged left leg and eased it up onto the cushions to keep it elevated. Ghost opened his eyes, watching her through heavy lids as she carefully unlaced his combat boots and pulled them off, placing them neatly by the side of the sofa.
He simply let out a low, exhausted grunt, his massive frame sinking deeper into the cushions as he accepted the relief.
Eve's lips curved into a genuine, soft smile at his quiet surrender. She leaned in closer, her palm resting against the side of his neck for a brief, warm second, checking his temperature against any post-op fever before trailing her fingers down to his broad shoulder, her touch grounding him. "You're a terrible patient, Simon," she murmured softly.
Simon tilted his head up slightly against her touch, his dark eyes fixed on hers with a rare, lazy glint of amusement—a silent, heavy look that was part guilty acknowledgment and part sheer stubbornness, as if to say you're stuck with me anyway.
Within forty-eight hours, the apartment had found a comfortable, intimate rhythm. It wasn't a clinical sickroom, nor was it a cold barracks. While Ghost spent his afternoons sitting comfortably at the dining table with his leg propped up on an adjacent chair—cleaning his sidearms and reviewing intelligence reports on his tablet—the space felt shared. Reaper had taken a permanent liking to him, often curling up into a white, purring ball right next to Ghost’s cleaning rags, completely unbothered by the scent of gun oil.
Whenever the pain flared up and Simon’s fingers clenched hard into the edge of the table, Eve would walk over with a glass of water and his medication. She placed the pills directly into his massive, scarred palm, her fingers lingering against his skin. Ghost would look up, his gaze soft and unshielded as he took them from her, swallowing them down before pulling her close by the waist for a quiet, lingering moment against his chest. He was still the lethal Lieutenant of Task Force 141, but here, with her, he allowed himself the luxury of being human.
Simon went about the space with his face completely bare, his features softened by a rough, three-day growth of stubble, though the harsh, rigid lines of his permanent scars remained. The initial vulnerability of exposing his true face had dissolved into a comfortable, deeply intimate everyday reality between them. He was simply Simon—focused, a bit restless, and thoroughly annoyed by his temporary limitations, but entirely relaxed in her presence.
Later that evening, the space felt warm and quiet. Simon was slumped back on the small sofa, wearing a pair of loose gym shorts that left his injured leg completely accessible, extended comfortably along the cushions with Reaper curled up asleep near his foot. Eve walked over, dropping gently to her knees on the floor beside him to check his stitches. Her hands moved with a familiar, practiced care, her fingers lightly tracing the bare skin and the edges of the dark bruising around the clean entry wound to ensure it was healing correctly.
Simon watched her through heavy, hooded eyes, his gaze steady and intense. As she leaned in closer to check the wound, his large, scarred hand suddenly shot out. He seized her firmly by the back of her neck, his grip unyielding as he possessively yanked her upward and forward into his space, refusing to let her maintain that professional distance.
Before she could even reset her balance, his mouth parted over hers in a deep, ravenous collision. It was an intense, open-mouthed kiss, their tongues tangling with a hungry desperation that tasted heavily of bitter black coffee. He kept her pulled flush against his chest, her knees crowding right into his space, making it a fierce, breathless reminder that despite the crutch and the heavy bandages, he was still very much alive, his dominant, possessive edge completely unbroken by the injury.
Eve met the collision with her own immediate intensity, her lips parting completely as she returned his open-mouthed kiss with a hungry, desperate fervor, anchoring her hands against his broad shoulders while welcoming the familiar weight of his desire. The intoxicating friction immediately shifted the air in the room, and without breaking the deep, consuming rhythm of the kiss, her palm began to slide down his chest, tracing the hard, hot plane of his stomach through his tshirt before moving deliberately lower until she pressed her hand flat against the fabric of his shorts, her fingers fluidly mapping the rapid, rigid heat of his erection swelling beneath her touch.
Simon let out a low, carnal rumble against her mouth, his fingers tightening instantly in her shirt as they continued to kiss with deep, breathless hunger. Even as his tongue tangled with hers, Eve’s hand kept moving over the thin fabric of his shorts, her caresses firm and deliberate, mapping every rigid inch of his erection until the friction had him grinding subtly against her palm.
Slowly, Eve broke the kiss, leaving his lips breathless and slick as she prepared to move down. Simon went entirely still, his dark eyes fixed on her through the dim amber light of the room, his breathing turning shallow and erratic. He didn't move a muscle, his massive frame pinned to the cushions by the sheer, sudden authority of her posture as she unhurriedly pulled the waistband of his shorts down just enough to free his rigid length into the warm air. She kept her green eyes locked onto his for one heavy, unblinking moment, holding his intense gaze before she finally began to descend over him before taking him fully into her mouth.
The sudden, overwhelming wave of heat made Simon’s entire system shudder violently. A fractured, breathless groan tore from deep within his chest, and his hands flew to the sides of her head, his fingers tangling fiercely into her hair. His grip was desperate, anchoring himself against the physical vertigo of the pleasure as his head fell straight back against the heavy rollers of the sofa’s backrest, his eyes closing tight as he completely surrendered to the dark, relentless rhythm of her mouth.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne fanfic
The darkness in the sub-level cell was absolute, thick with the stagnant stench of wet concrete, old blood, and sulfur. Ghost sat flat against the freezing stone, his massive frame anchored by heavy, rusted chains bound high to iron rings. He had been in the black for over twenty hours; three of his ribs were broken, his face was swollen and caked in dried crimson, and his bare chest was mapped with fresh, angry lacerations from the interrogation. Stripped of his gear, armor, and mask—left only in his dark combat trousers and mud-stained boots—his mind remained an unyielding fortress. He barely breathed, conserving every ounce of oxygen as he listened to the distant, muffled echoes of the facility above.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door groaned open. Harsh, flickering fluorescent light cut into the cell, blinding Simon for a fraction of a second as rough Arabic shouting echoed off the walls. Two heavily armed militia soldiers dragged a broken shape across the floor, her boots scraping uselessly against the gravel, before unceremoniously throwing her into the far corner. Her body hit the concrete with a sickening, hollow thud. One of the guards spat on the floor, muttered a curse, and slammed the reinforced door shut, plunging the cell back into suffocating silence.
A ragged, agonizing gasp shuddered through the dark.
"Thorne," Ghost’s voice cut through the black. It carried the heavy, rasping vibration of a sandpaper whisper—commanding and absolute.
No answer came. Eve was curled on the icy floor, her hair matted to her skull from waterboarding and her lungs burning. The skin over her left cheekbone was split wide open, and the ring and middle fingers of her left hand were broken. Every micro-movement sent a searing wave of white-hot agony straight to her core, her vision swimming in black spots as her brain screamed for the sweet numbness of unconsciousness.
"Thorne. Look at me," Ghost ordered, his chains rattling sharply as his muscles tensed against the iron bindings. "Focus on my voice. Don't close your eyes."
Through the blinding haze of pain, Morgan forced her eyelids open. Her breath was hitched and shallow, but the whimper dissolved, replaced by a raw, cold clarity as she looked into the dark toward his voice.
"Fuu-uuck..." she rasped, the word choking in her throat. Dragging in another wet breath to fight the fluid in her lungs, she pushed her hands against the concrete. The pain was so sharp she almost blacked out, but she forced her fractured body to move, shoving herself backward until she scraped against the stone wall.
Ghost watched her through the shadows, his expression invisible but his gaze laser-focused on her silhouette.
With a groan ripped from her chest, Morgan managed to shove herself upright, leaning heavily against the corner to mirror his sitting position. The movement left her panting and shaking, but she was upright. She forced her chin up, her eyes finally locking onto the massive, unmasked SAS commander chained opposite her.
"Fuckin’ amateurs…" she managed, her voice stronger now, a broken whisper that still carried the undeniable steel of an operator. She spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the concrete, her eyes locking onto his through the dim red glow. "Motherfuckers don't know… how to finish a job."
Ghost stared back at her. The ruby light caught the slight, bloody twitch of his jaw—the closest he’d ever get to a smirk.
"Good," he rasped, his chains letting out a single, dull rattle as he leaned his head back against the stone. "Means they’re stupid enough to give us a window.”
Time became elastic, measured only by the rhythmic scraping of the ventilation and the slow, agonizing drip of water somewhere in the corridor. Eve sat rooted in her corner, her back pressed hard against the freezing concrete as shock settled deep into her bones, making her shudder uncontrollably. Her broken fingers throbbed with a blinding pulse that synced with her heartbeat, and her chest felt tight under the phantom weight of the water.
She stared blankly into the dark, her green eyes fixed on nothing.
"They know I'm SRR," Morgan rasped into the black, spitting another trace of copper from her mouth. "They’re going to piece-meal me for protocols and safehouses until I'm scrap metal… they can peel my bloody skin off and they still won't get fuckin’ shit."
The quiet, heavy rattle of his chains cut through the dark as Ghost shifted his weight, his mind already working past the bruising and the broken ribs.
"They’re sloppy," Ghost growled, his sandpaper voice flat. "The door hinge leaves a blind spot right in the threshold. If you're in the far corner, they have to step completely inside to see you." He paused, his breathing shallow. "How many did you count in the corridor when they brought you down?"
"Three on rotation," Morgan replied, the dark defiance instantly vanishing, replaced by the clean, mechanical focus of an operator. "Two at the bulkhead door, one roaming the stairs. All carrying local modifications of AK-47s.”
Ghost let out a low, grim grunt into the dark, his eyes fixed on the thin line of light beneath the frame.
Two agonizing hours of silence shattered when the heavy iron bolts threw back with a deafening metallic crack; the door swung wide as four armed guards stormed inside, two keeping their rifles locked on Morgan while the others aggressively unchained Simon from the wall. Ghost didn't make it easy—he lunged with the sheer weight of his massive frame, dragging one captor down before a rifle butt slammed violently into his skull, leaving him semi-conscious as they dragged him out into the corridor and slammed the heavy door shut.
For the next sixty minutes, Morgan counted every single second. From somewhere down the subterranean corridor, muffled through layers of concrete and steel, the distant sounds of violence drifted back to her: a guttural, animalistic roar of defiance from Ghost, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of blows and the unmistakable hiss of high-pressure water hoses.
When the door finally opened an hour later, they dumped him back inside like deadweight.
Ghost’s massive body hit the floor heavily. He was soaked to the bone, freezing water dripping from his hair and pooling on the concrete. His bare chest was a ruined canvas of raw, bleeding lacerations, and his breathing was a shallow, wet rattle. The guards worked quickly, cursing in Arabic as they hoisted his heavy wrists back into the iron rings, securing the chains before retreating and locking the cell once more.
The moment the door slammed shut, Eve moved. Ignoring the agony in her mangled hand, she dragged herself across the freezing floor into the cold pool of water where Ghost lay.
"Motherfuckers..." she muttered, her voice a tight whisper of pure adrenaline as she cupped his face. He was burning with fever, his skin slick with sweat and blood. She pressed two fingers to his carotid artery, feeling his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against her touch while her eyes swept the dark cell, calculating their next move in the shadows.
"Hang on, Simon," she breathed, leaning closer as his head rolled weakly against the stone.
"Still... breathing..." he managed to rasp, his voice incredibly weak yet the heavy, dark irony in his tone completely intact. "Don't... go soft on me now."
Eve kept one hand framing his face, anchoring him to the present, while she used the back of her other wrist to gently wipe the streak of dark blood from his cheek. She looked down at him through the shadows, a faint, humorless curve touching her lips.
"Fuck me," Morgan whispered into the dark, her voice a raw, quiet vibration against his skin. "What a bloody lovely first date."
Hours bled away in the suffocating dark, allowing the raw, blinding edge of their initial agony to subside into a dull, throbbing ache. Eve remained seated right beside Ghost, her shoulder pressed against his as they waited in the freezing stillness.
Suddenly, the door dragged open and two guards stepped inside. They were sloppy this time—confident, riding the high of having broken the massive SAS commander just an hour prior. They saw Morgan slumped heavily against Simon’s wet shoulder, her head down, her body trembling in what looked like total, pathetic defeat. One guard stood near the threshold, his AK-47 slung low, negligently holding a tin cup of dirty water, while the other stepped deeper into the cell with a cruel smirk, intending to drag Simon back out for another round.
Morgan didn't wait for him to reach him.
She let out a wet, choked gasp. Cradling her left hand against her chest, she let out a sharp, high-pitched cry of agony that sounded entirely unhinged, like a woman completely snapping under the trauma of her injuries.
"Please..." she gasped in broken Arabic, her voice pitching into a desperate, pathetic sob. "Please... no more."
The guard stopped, looking down at her writhing form with utter contempt. It was the exact psychological misdirection she needed. Lowering his weapon, he stepped closer and aggressively hauled her up by her collar to shove her out of his way.
The moment her feet left the ground, Eve transformed.
Using his aggressive pull as a pivot, she whipped her legs upward, locking her thighs around his neck in a vicious, inverted triangle choke. Simultaneously, her right hand flashed to his belt, ripping the combat knife from his sheath. Before the guard at the threshold could even drop his tin cup, Eve used her trapped target as leverage, launching herself forward. She drove the blade deep into the second guard's throat with a sickening, tearing crunch. As he collapsed, Eve wrenched the knife free and violently twisted her hips, snapping the neck of the choked guard between her thighs.
The three of them crashed to the floor in a tangled, heavy heap. Both enemies were dead before they hit the concrete.
Silence slammed back into the cell, heavier than before. The entire sequence had taken less than four seconds.
Morgan sat on the bloody concrete, panting heavily, her green eyes blazing with adrenaline in the dark. She looked down at the knife in her intact right hand, then slowly turned her head to look at Ghost through the shadows. He was staring at her from the wall, his swollen face shadowed, but his chest rumbled with a low, dark, and thoroughly impressed chuckle. "Remind me never to piss you off..."
"Look alive, Riley," she muttered, her voice a lethal whisper as she began to push herself up. "We're leaving."
Dragging herself out of the tangled pile of limbs, she released her chokehold on the dead guard, letting his limp torso drop heavily onto the cold concrete. Moving with tactical efficiency, Morgan turned her attention back to the first dead soldier. Using the knife, she sliced a thick strip of cloth from the dead guard's uniform. Holding the fabric with her teeth, she used her functional right hand to wrap and bind her broken fingers tightly against her index finger, pulling the knot shut with a sharp jerk of her head. Though the pain briefly whited out her vision, her fingers were successfully locked down—functional enough to hold a weapon.
"Right," Morgan rasped, wiping a fresh smudge of blood from her split cheekbone with the back of her sleeve. She stood up, her legs steady, and gripped the combat knife tightly in her right hand.
She stepped over to the dead guard at the door, her fingers plunging straight into his tactical pockets, searching for the heavy iron ring of keys. Wasting no time, she sprinted back to Ghost and jammed the key into the heavy iron rings.
With a heavy, metallic clatter, the chains fell away.
His massive frame instantly went deadweight against the wall, his breathing a jagged, agonizing friction against his fractured chest. He could barely shift his weight, his muscles locked in a protective cramp around his broken ribs, his face tightly strained with a mask of pure pain.
Eve caught him, one hand framing his face to force his eyes to lock onto hers. Ghost barely responded, his eyelids heavy, but under her touch, he brutally forced himself to find his footing, digging deep for a reserve of raw strength.
She looked at his mangled, dislocated fingers, then met his gaze. "Give me your hand."
Ghost stared back, his breathing shallow, a grim understanding passing between them.
"This is gonna fuckin' hurt," she warned softly.
Holding his hand steady, she executed a swift, brutal twist and yank, snapping the dislocated joints back into alignment. Ghost flinched, a low, guttural snarl ripping past his clenched teeth as his body went rigid, but he didn't break.
"There," she breathed, quickly moving to strip the dead soldiers. She grabbed their weapons, extra magazines, and the tactical radio, handing an AK-47 to him.
With Eve supporting his weight, she helped him haul his massive frame up. Ghost leaned heavily against the iron doorframe, one hand clamped tightly over his ruined ribs, his face pale and slick with sweat.
Eve adjusted her grip on her rifle, looking him up and down. "Are you ok?"
Ghost's jaw twitched, his sandpaper voice cutting through the dark with a dark, defiant smirk. "Never better… Let's fuckin' go."
The quiet click of the heavy iron keys was the only warning. Stepping directly into the blind spot of the door hinge, Eve pressed herself against the stone wall, the captured combat knife gripped tightly in her functional right hand. She didn't have to wait. The third corridor guard, alerted by the prolonged silence from inside, stepped cautiously across the threshold. He never saw her.
Eve struck like a viper. Shoving herself off the wall, she drove the blade upward beneath his jaw, pinning his scream inside his throat as the steel pierced his brain. The soldier went instantly limp. She caught his weight, lowering him to the floor in absolute silence before dragging his rifle and chest rig into the cell.
She turned back to Ghost. He was suffering from severe hypothermia and acute thermal shock, his massive frame wracked with violent, involuntary tremors as his body desperately fought to protect his vital organs. With three broken ribs, his breathing was a shallow, agonizing friction that left him starved of oxygen, his body locked in a brutal physical freeze.
Eve moved to his side, hooking her arm under his shoulder to haul his deadweight frame up. "Come, Riley," she hissed against the raw ache in her throat. "Don't fuckin' die now."
They moved out of the cell and into the corridor, ascending toward the upper levels where they could get a radio signal. Eve carried the physical burden, her legs straining under their combined weight, her right hand locking the AK-47 into her shoulder.
They finally breached an upper-level corridor, the night air filtering through a shattered window facing the perimeter. Eve instantly checked the bars on the captured tactical radio and tuned it into the encrypted Task Force frequency, but the response from Headquarters was cold, heavy with suspicion. A blind transmission from a stolen militia radio in a hot zone screamed ambush. They weren't buying it.
“Fuck! They think it's a trap," Eve rasped, her hand shaking on the receiver.
Ghost leaned heavily against Eve's shoulder, his massive frame shifting his weight onto her. He reached out, his mangled hand pinning the radio closer to his face as she held it up. Dragging air into his fractured chest, he scraped his unique SAS security override into the mic. "This is Bravo 0-7... Authenticate Echo-Zulu-Nine, Strike-Core, Seven-Zero-Four. I say again... Echo-Zulu-Nine... Seven-Zero-Four."
A tense, static-filled silence choked the line before HQ responded, their tone instantly shifting to urgent compliance. “Bravo 0-7, authentication confirmed. Drone assets retargeting your grid. Time on target is four to five minutes. Secure your perimeter.”
"Four to five m-minutes," Eve whispered. Her voice cracked as the brutal adrenaline spike began to plateau, leaving her body shivering violently in the dark. The claustrophobic weight of the room suddenly felt like the water crushing down on her chest again. Her vision blurred at the edges. "We need to... we have to hold this room..."
Ghost, still leaning heavily against her shoulder, shifted his head just enough to fix his gaze on her profile. Despite the blood on his face and the agonizing friction in his chest, his calm was absolute, imperturbable.
"Morgan. Look at me," his sandpaper voice cut through the rising panic, low and rhythmic. "Deep breaths, Lieutenant. Focus. What's the next step?"
He was managing the tempo of their survival, anchoring her to the present before the trauma could swallow her whole.
Eve forced her eyes to lock into his through the dim light, dragging a ragged, deliberate breath into her lungs. The cold steel of his gaze grounded her. The phantom weight of the water vanished, replaced by the clean, mechanical focus of a Tier 1 operator.
"Barricade," Eve rasped, her voice steadying as she shook off the tremor in her hands. "We lock down the entry point."
Moving with renewed purpose, they barricaded the heavy wooden door, but the militia was already scrambling. Shouts echoed down the hall, boots slamming against the floorboards. Suddenly, the side door of an adjoining office burst open. A massive, bearded insurgent charged through the shadows, a long combat blade catching the cold moonlight
Eve instantly raised her rifle, her finger squeezing the trigger, but the mechanism on the AK jammed—a catastrophic double-feed.
Before the blade could reach her, Ghost threw his entire frame forward. Operating on suicidal instinct, he interposed his body between the attacker and Eve. The heavy steel blade drove deep into his abdomen with a sickening, wet impact. Ghost let out a guttural roar, using his massive weight to pin the man against the desk, but the sheer physical toll collapsed his legs.
The insurgent wrenched the knife free, turning his massive frame entirely onto Eve. Before she could even drop the useless rifle to reach for her knife, his thick hands locked aggressively around her throat and shoulders, slamming her against the concrete wall.
Disregarding the blinding agony in her left hand, she planted her boots firmly against the wall, using the vertical surface to walk her body upward. Leveraging the wall, she executed a violent, spinning hip throw, using his own forward momentum to pivot his massive frame. As they spun, her right hand flashed down, ripping the knife from his grip. With a savage twist, she reversed the hold, driving the blade clean through his throat from behind.
The man choked, crashing heavily to the floor.
Eve immediately dropped to her knees beside Ghost. He was kneeling on the floor, one hand pressed hard against the side of his bleeding abdomen while the other anchored him heavily to the concrete to keep from collapsing completely.
"Fuck, Riley!" she panicked, her hands already tearing at the dead soldier’s uniform to create an emergency pressure dressing. "You had to play the hero at the last minute?!"
Ghost's jaw twitched, a bloody chuckle vibrating in his throat. "Had to... keep the date... interesting."
Outside, a distant, high-pitched whine began to tear through the sky. The drone had arrived.
Eve tied the knot tight on his wound, her teeth bared as she hauled his massive arm back over her shoulder. "That's our way out. Let's go."
The world turned inside out. The first Hellfire missile slammed into the central courtyard, followed instantly by a second strike on the motor pool. The shockwaves shattered the remaining walls, plunging the facility into a chaotic hellscape of black smoke, roaring fires, and screaming sirens.
Using the absolute confusion of the air strike, Eve pushed through the dust, carrying Ghost through the burning corridors. When two disoriented militia soldiers stumbled through the smoke ahead, Eve raised the captured AK-47 with her right hand, firing short, lethal bursts that dropped them into the rubble before they could even register her silhouette.
They breached the outer perimeter, the cool night air hitting their faces as the thudding rhythm of a British Merlin helicopter broke through the roar of the flames. The searchlights cut through the smoke, illuminating the rotors spinning on the extraction point.
Pararescue operators sprinted down the ramp, firing suppressing shots into the tree line as they reached the two battered lieutenants. The moment the medics took Ghost’s weight from her shoulders, the brutal survival drive that had kept Eve upright vanished.
Inside the rattling belly of the chopper, Ghost was instantly flooded by medics cutting away his makeshift bandages. Breaking his blank stare from the ceiling, he brutally forced his head to turn, his eyes searching for Eve through the scramble.
Right beside him, Eve met his gaze. For a long, heavy beat, they just held each other's look through the shouting and the chaos of the medics—an unyielding connection between two operators who had just dragged each other out of hell. Then, the last of her strength evaporated. Her knees buckled, crashing her to the floor before her green eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed completely as the darkness finally took her.
*******************
The heavy mechanical door of the med bay room clicked, sliding open with a muted hiss that cut through the sterile hum of the heart monitors.
Simon didn't move his head—the movement still dragged aggressively against the stitched-up musculature of his abdomen—but his eyes immediately tracked the doorway. His face was completely bare, his mask nowhere to be seen in the dim, quiet isolation of the ward, leaving his raw features exposed to the shadows.
Eve stepped inside. She looked small, almost swallowed whole by an oversized dark hoodie, paired with black leggings and her heavy combat boots. Her left arm was anchored against her chest, the hand locked rigid inside a thick, cumbersome medical splint, and the skin over her bruised cheekbone was marred by a jagged, healing line of fresh scar tissue. The faint yellow-green shadow of a deep contusion still lingered beneath her jawline.
She stopped just inside the threshold, leaning her weight against the frame as she looked at his massive, pale form hooked up to the IV lines.
"Look at you," Eve rasped, her voice still carrying that rough, post-waterboarding scrape. "They give you a private room just because you wanted to show off and intercept a knife with your spleen, Lieutenant?"
Ghost’s jaw twitched, his cracked lips barely parting as his sandpaper voice dragged out from the pillows. "You're welcome, Thorne."
A ghost of a smirk touched her lips. She shoved off the doorframe, her boots thudding softly against the linoleum as she crossed the room, stopping right beside the edge of his bed. Up close, she let her eyes sweep over him, taking in the violent bruising on his chest and the dark plastic surgical drains peeking out from beneath the white hospital sheet.
She looked down into his eyes. "How you feeling?"
"Fuckin' bored," Ghost grunted.
Eve let out a soft, breathy chuckle, the sound warm despite the clinical coldness of the room. "Ahh... I knew you'd miss me."
Simon didn't answer. He just lay there in the quiet stillness, his gaze locked entirely on her face. His dark eyes, usually cold and unyielding, tracked the line of her new scar, the slight tremor of fatigue in her legs, the stubborn tilt of her chin. There was a raw, heavy devotion in his stare—an unmasked, quiet reverence that spoke of two people who had looked into the abyss and dragged each other back by the throat.
Eve met his look, the silence stretching between them until she finally sighed, a soft, resigned sound as she shook her head.
"What a lousy date, Riley," she whispered.
Ghost’s chest rumbled, the slight vibration drawing a tight, sharp wince from his fractured ribs, but his gaze never wavered, "You still owe me a drink".
Eve stared back at him. Neither of them spoke. The steady, rhythmic beep of the monitor filled the gap between them, a heavy, unspoken understanding passing through the quiet space.
Slowly, she began to take a step backward, her boots shifting as she moved toward the exit, keeping her eyes fixed on his. A faint, knowing expression softened her bruised features.
"I may buy you one after this…" she murmured, a trace of that lethal steel returning to her tone as she retreated toward the sliding door. "Not just anyone takes a blade to the gut for me."
She reached the threshold, her back almost touching the frame. She paused, looking at the massive SAS commander one last time.
"See you in hell, Riley."
Eve gave him a slow, deliberate wink, hit the door control with her good hand, and slipped out into the corridor, leaving him alone in the quiet dark of the ward.
The heavy mechanical door of the med bay room didn’t just slide open—it practically groaned under the sudden, chaotic energy that stormed into the quiet room.
Johnny "Soap" Mactavish marched in first, carrying a ridiculous grin that did absolutely nothing to match the sterile gloom of the ward. Right behind him was Gaz, hands shoved into his pockets, shaking his head with a look of pure, amused resignation.
"Bloody hell, look at the size of this room," Soap announced, his booming Scottish accent bouncing off the white walls. He stopped at the foot of the bed, planting his hands on his hips as he looked down at the pale, hooked-up mountain that was Simon Riley. "You’ve got a view, a private nurse, and you're skipping morning drills. I knew you were a princess, Ghost, but this is a new low."
Ghost didn't even open his eyes, the black surgical mask hooked behind his ears hiding the tight, annoyed set of his jaw as he pulled it up a fraction higher over the bridge of his nose.
"Fuck off, Johnny," Ghost grunted, his voice like gravel scraping inside a tin can.
"Oh, come on, don't be like that, LT," Gaz chimed in, stepping up to the side of the bed with a smirk. "We just came by to check if you were actually dying or if you were just hiding from Price's paperwork. Looks like a bit of both."
Soap leaned over the footboard, his eyes widening with dramatic disbelief. "In all seriousness, L.T... I’ve been looking at the mission logs and the layout of that godforsaken bunker. I still can’t bloody believe it. Thorne actually hauled your massive, oversized carcass through those tunnels?"
Ghost’s eyes cracked open, a cold, warning glare fixing onto the Scot.
Soap completely ignored the threat, gesturing wildly with his hands. "I mean, look at you! You’re built like a brick outhouse! She’s a tiny thing, and she dragged your heavy, bleeding ass all the way to daylight while shooting half an army. You’ve got a guardian angel, Simon. A tiny, terrifying, red-haired guardian angel with a serious badass attitude problem."
"She’s Tier 1, Mactavish," Ghost growled, his jaw tightening as the movement pulled at his stitched abdomen. "She didn't drag me. It was a tactical retreat."
"Tactical retreat? Right, let's call it that," Gaz laughed, crossing his arms. "Though word around the base is she was basically using you as a giant human shield that she had to tow around like a broken-down truck."
"Aye! A giant, ugly, complaining human shield," Soap agreed, beaming. "Honestly, Ghost, if a woman dragged your heavy ass out of that godforsaken hellhole while she was literally bleeding out herself... I’d marry her on the spot. Or at least buy her a very expensive drink."
Ghost’s chest rumbled, a sharp wince flashing across his face as his fractured ribs reminded him who was boss. He cast a murderous look at both of them.
"Shut up, Johnny," Ghost snapped, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low register. "Both of you. Out. Before I get out of this bed and use my IV stand to break your jaws."
Soap raised his hands in mock surrender, stepping back toward the door with Gaz, though neither of them looked remotely intimidated.
"Alright, alright, we're leaving! Don't bust your stitches, Princess," Soap chuckled, hitting the door control. "Just saying... make sure you thank her. And maybe start doing some cardio so you're lighter next time!"
*****************
The bar was thick with smoke, the heavy bass of the music vibrating through the floorboards alongside the raw, post-deployment adrenaline of two different units tearing through liquor.
At one table, Eve was completely in her element, surrounded by Maggie and a loud, rough crew of operators throwing back shots. Across the room, Ghost sat with the 141—Soap and Gaz tag-teaming some ridiculous story while Price quietly nursed a glass of whisky and smoked a cigar in the corner.
There was no direct staring. But the tension between them was an anchor. Neither of them moved without the other knowing exactly where they were in the room—a heavy, invisible gravity pulling at the edges of their peripheral vision.
When Eve finally pushed back her chair and walked toward the crowded wooden bar for another round, Ghost moved. It was almost imperceptible, a shadow detaching itself from the 141 table. Before she could even catch the bartender’s eye, a massive, dark presence loomed beside her, cutting off the rest of the room as he slid onto the stool next to hers.
Eve didn't flinch. She just turned her head, her eyes tracking the dark fabric of the balaclava covering his face.
"Thought you only haunted dark corridors, Riley," she murmured, a sharp, familiar smirk touching her lips. "What's the matter? The 141 table too loud for an old ghost?"
"They're fine," Ghost replied, his low baritone cutting straight through the pub’s roar. He leaned in slightly, his massive frame trapping her against the bar, freezing the air between them. "Just prefer a change of scenery."
"And here I thought you came over to offer some tactical advice," she added with a tilt of her head.
A heavy, thick silence fell between them, stretching out dangerously as they just stared at each other, letting the heat of the room simmer. Ghost looked down at the space between them, then back up to her eyes, his gaze dark and unyielding.
"Didn't intercept a blade to the gut just for you to ignore your debts, Thorne," he finally scraped out, the reminder low and heavy. "You still owe me a drink."
Eve didn't break eye contact for a second. "Two shots of whiskey," she told the bartender, her voice dropping into a lazy, deliberate drawl while her eyes stayed locked on Simon.
Eve’s smirk widened. Without taking her eyes off his, she slid one of the freshly poured glasses across the polished wood, stopping it right against his hand. "Good thing I always pay my tabs."
The cynicism was right there, but their voices had dropped, turning thick, rough, and scraping low. The ambient noise of the shouting soldiers and clinking glasses seemed to vanish entirely, shrinking the universe down to the inches between them.
Ghost reached down, his bare fingers wrapping around the glass. Slowly, deliberately, he hooked two fingers under the bottom edge of his balaclava and pulled the black fabric up, exposing his jaw, his scarred skin, and those heavy, cracked lips. He took a slow, dark stare at her before tilting the glass back, swallowing the sharp burn of the whiskey in one smooth motion.
Eve watched the movement of his throat, her pulse ticking noticeably against her collarbone.
"Still alive then," she noted softly, lifting her own glass to her lips and taking a slow, deliberate sip of the whiskey, her eyes lingering on his mouth before moving back up.
"Hard to kill," Ghost muttered, pulling the black fabric back down over his nose, though his eyes never left hers. "Though Soap thinks you're the reason I'm breathing."
The playfulness was thinning now, bordering on something far more dangerous—a mutual hunger that had been simmering since the hospital—as Eve set her own glass down with a soft click, stood up from her stool, and stepped directly into his space, sliding right between his heavy, spread knees until her thighs brushed against the dark fabric of his trousers, pinning him to his seat by her sheer proximity while she leaned in closer, leaving one hand flat on the wooden bar to deliberately invade his personal space and cut off the remaining distance between them, her voice dropping into a dangerous, sensual purr meant for him alone.
"Word around the base is I’m your guardian angel, Lieutenant..."She held his gaze for a heavy, agonizing second, her eyes locked dead onto his before she spoke again, her tone slipping even lower. “…and you look like a man who desperately needs to be kept on a short leash"
Ghost’s chest hitched, a low, gravelly growl vibrating deep in his throat as his dark eyes locked onto hers with a lethal intensity. His jaw tightened visibly under the mask. He didn't pull back an inch; instead, his knees snapped shut, locking tightly around her hips and trapping her flush against him, crushing the space between them until she could feel the hard ridge of his thighs.
His gaze dropped slowly, deliberately, fixing entirely on her mouth. "Careful, Thorne," he rasped, his voice dropping into a dark, rough vibration that scraped right against her skin. "Put a leash on me... and I’ll make sure you're the one begging for mercy before the night is over."
She just tilted her head, her gaze burning back into his as she leaned a fraction closer, her breath brushing his mask. "Is that a promise, Simon? Or do I need to drag your heavy ass out of here?”.
Ghost didn't say a word. Their eyes locked in a silent, suffocating heat.
He stood up in one smooth, massive movement, towering over her. Eve didn't retreat a single millimeter, holding her ground right between his knees as he rose, forcing him to look down into her burning gaze. In the crowded bar the sheer, heavy weight of his proximity was dizzying.
His dark eyes dropped to her lips one last time, hooded and heavy with an unspoken promise. "Let's get the fuck out of here," he grinded out, his voice a low, gravelly command meant only for her.
They didn't look back at their teams. They didn't say goodbye. They just walked out into the cold night air together, the tension wound so tight it was a physical ache.
The second the latch caught, the adrenaline that had been cooking in the bar exploded.
Ghost lunged forward, catching her mouth in a hungry, bruising, possessive kiss. His tongue forced its way past her lips, claiming her mouth with an aggressive, primal heat that wrecked any remaining restraint. His massive frame drove her backward until her spine hit the hard wood of the front door with a dull thud, his heavy arms wrapping around her torso to crush her tightly against his chest.
Eve let out a sharp, breathy sound against his mouth, her hands immediately clawing at his heavy leather jacket, ripping at the zipper. Simon’s bare hands aggressively bunched the fabric of her shirt, pulling her up and against him as they worked together in a frantic, desperate blur to shed their gear. He shrugged out of the leather jacket, yanked his hoodie and shirt over his head, and in the same breathless, chaotic motion, tore Eve’s jacket and shirt away. Clothes pooled onto the floor unheeded.
In the open, single-space apartment where the dark bedroom loomed just off to the side, Ghost’s mouth found hers again, brutal and demanding. Eve wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling into the hair at the base of his skull, pulling him closer as she crushed her bare breasts against his hard chest. Ghost’s hands traveled down her naked back, gripping the her ass with a heavy, possessive force, lifting her straight off the floor and pinning her hard against the door. Eve gasped as the blunt, rigid length of his erection pressed hard against her.
"I'm gonna fuckin' ruin you," Ghost growled against her lips, his voice a gravelly, lethal vibration.
With a sudden, powerful movement, he carried her away from the door, his massive thighs striding through the dark room until they hit the edge of the mattress. He fell with her onto the bed, crushing her beneath his immense weight without breaking the kiss. His tongue slithered against hers while his hands began a ruthless descent down her body. Simon moved down, his mouth burning a trail over her throat to her breasts, sucking and biting at the sensitive peaks while his heavy palms squeezed and kneaded them. Eve let out a loud, shuddering moan, arching her back off the sheets to press herself deeper into his mouth.
Simon slid further down the bed, his grip tightening as he unlaced and yanked off her boots. His large hands immediately reached for the button of her trousers, popping it open and sliding the fabric down her thighs, his rough palms kissing and caressing every inch of exposed skin until she was completely naked beneath him.
Ghost slipped off the bed, standing tall at the foot of it. His dark, hooded eyes never left her body as he stripped off his own boots and unbuckled his trousers. Eve shifted, pushing herself up onto her elbows, deliberately exposing the long, lines of her body to his predatory gaze. From her position on the mattress, she had an unobstructed, breathtaking view of his massive physique—a brutal canvas of heavily defined muscle, broad shoulders, and a chest carved from years of violence, mapped with pale, jagged scars that contrasted sharply against the dark ink of his tattoos. She flexed her knees, parting her legs slowly, sensually, a silent, burning provocation.
Looking down at her open thighs, Simon let out a low, rough, "Fuck..."
He shoved his trousers down, freeing his erection. He was massive, swollen, and thick with blood, pulsing with a dark vein that twitched against his lower abdomen. A sharp, heavy exhale rushed past Eve's teeth at the sight of him, she bit down hard into her bottom lip as pure, unadulterated lust pooled low in her belly.
Simon launched himself back onto the bed, pinning her down as she welcomed him with an open, burning kiss, their tongues tangling in a desperate clash of wet heat.
Positioning himself between her thighs, Eve hooked her knees around his hips, opening herself completely. Ghost anchored one heavy forearm next to her head, using his other hand to guide his thick head against her soaking center. With her hands gripping the muscles of his back, Ghost looked dead into her eyes and thrust forward, burying his entire length inside her in one deep, violent stroke.
Eve let out a long, loud, breathless wail, her fingers clawing into his skin. Ghost groaned, a deep, animalistic sound vibrating in his chest. He didn't give her a single second to adjust; he immediately began a brutal, punishing rhythm, driving into her with a relentless, heavy force. His hand clamped around her thigh, flexing it high and wide toward her chest to open her pelvis even deeper to his assault.
The room filled with the wet, slapping sound of their skin colliding, mixed with their ragged breathing. With every heavy, unyielding thrust, Eve lost another layer of control, her head tossing back against the pillows, her voice cracking into loud, desperate whimpers.
"Fuck, Simon... fuck," she choked out, her hips rolling up to meet him, begging for the friction.
"You feel so fuckin' good," Simon whispered raggedly against her ear, his hot breath scalding her skin as his hips continued driving with ruthless precision. "Bloody hell, Eve..."
Chasing the edge of the abyss, Eve suddenly gripped his shoulders, using her thighs and core to pivot, twisting beneath him and using his own momentum to roll him onto his back. In a seamless, feral shift of power, she slithered on top of him, straddling his hips. She began riding him with a brutal, frantic pace, sliding up and down his thick length, her wet heat gripping him tight.
Simon let out a choked grunt, his head dropping back into the pillow as his hands buried themselves deep into the flesh of her ass, his fingers denting her skin as he guided her frantic, bouncing rhythm. For a few wild seconds, the Lieutenant completely lost his control, his chest heaving, his hips snapping upward to meet her descents with a desperate, heavy hunger, growling like a beast beneath her.
But the submission didn't last. With a sudden surge of strength, Simon grabbed her waist and flipped her over onto her stomach, as he loomed over her back. He dropped his heavy weight onto her, one thick forearm coming around the front of her neck, his bicep crushing her breasts down against the mattress.
Eve’s hands frantically gripped the sheets. Ghost reached down, his large palm covering the back of her hand, intertwining his thick fingers tightly with hers, pinning her hand to the bed as he began driving into her intensely from behind.
Her moans were muffled and choked into the mattress with every heavy, resounding crack of his hips against her backside. The angle was agonizingly deep, every relentless thrust striking her G-spot with terrifying force. The movement of Simon's heavy hips was mechanical, tireless, and devastating. He reached up, his fingers gripping her chin, turning her head to the side to smash his mouth against hers, drinking her muffled screams while he continued to hammer into her, fracturing the quiet apartment with the raw, wet rhythm of their bodies.
With his face buried in the crook of her neck, his hot breath scalding her skin, the large hand that had been pinning Eve’s hand down slid away. It traveled down the length of her spine, reaching between her thighs until his rough fingers found her swollen, soaking clitoris, beginning to apply slow, heavy, incredibly sensual friction. The contrast was mind-melting—Simon was still ruthlessly pounding into her from behind with devastating force, while his fingers worked her center with a deliberate, maddening touch.
Eve was shaking violently beneath him. The dual stimulation was completely overwhelming, a chaotic rush of overstimulated nerves that made the pleasure utterly uncontrollable.
"Fuck... fuck..." she gasped out, her words breaking into breathless whimpers against the mattress. "Fuck, Simon..."
The friction of his fingers combined with the deep, bruising pace of his length finally pushed her over the edge. Eve shattered, her body seizing into a brutal, screaming orgasm. A long, agonizingly sensual wail ripped from her throat as a wave of intense, liquid heat flooded her entire body.
Simon didn’t stop. He kept his hips driving, deep and unyielding, riding out the storm inside her. Feeling the frantic, rhythmic contractions of her walls clamping down tight around his thick shaft, hearing her undone cries of pure ecstasy, and watching her body tremble helplessly under his weight dragged him straight to the edge of the abyss.
He leaned down further, pressing his lips hard against the shell of her ear as his breathing turned completely erratic. "Take it all, Eve... fuckin’ squeeze me like that," he growled rawly, his voice vibrating right into her skull.
With a low, animalistic roar buried deep into the crook of Eve's shoulder, Simon delivered three final, desperate thrusts before his own control ruptured. He came with a violent, shattering intensity, his entire massive frame locking up as he poured himself deep inside her, the raw explosion of pleasure vibrating through every muscle in his body.
As his body finally went heavy against hers, his breath coming in ragged, harsh gasps against her wet skin, he leaned in closer until his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "All fuckin' yours... every goddamn drop," he choked out, his voice nothing but a rough, undone growl.
******************
The apartment was quiet, the harsh glare of the base replaced by the soft, amber glow of a single lamp in the corner of Eve’s living room. Outside, the world was moving, but inside, the universe had shrunk down to the cushions of the sofa.
Simon was reclined against the padded armrest, his massive back stretched out. He was shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of dark gray sweatpants. The dim light caught the brutal, jagged map of his torso—the silver lines of old shrapnel, the heavy, dark purple discoloration of his healing ribs, and the neat, fresh row of surgical tracks over his abdomen where the blade had torn through him.
His right hand held a book, his thumb casually flipping the edge of a page, though he hadn't actually read a single word in the last twenty minutes.
His left hand was entirely occupied elsewhere.
Eve was tangled between his legs, her body draped over his chest, dead to the world. She was drowning in an oversized hoodie and loose sweatpants, her breathing slow, deep, and rhythmic against his bare skin. Her head was nestled perfectly right over his heart, her face turned inward, completely relaxed in a way she never was when she was awake.
Simon’s large, bare hand was buried in her hair. His fingers moved with an agonizing, uncharacteristic slowness, gently curling through the strands, his knuckles brushing lightly against the sensitive skin of her nape.
For a man like Simon Riley, a man who had spent the better part of a decade buried alive in the mud, blood, and ice of the world's worst corners, the sensation of this moment was almost terrifyingly fantastic.
He was used to weight on his chest—usually the crushing pressure of body armor, the suffocating density of mud in a ditch, or the heavy, cold dread of an incoming strike. He knew what it felt like to have his heart hammer against his ribs in pure, survival-driven adrenaline.
But this weight? This was different. It was warm. It was solid. It was the anchor of a Tier 1 operator who could kill a man with her bare hands, now completely deflated and safe, trusting his body to hold her up while she slept. Every time she exhaled, the warm puff of her breath hit his collarbone, sending a strange, quiet shockwave right through his cynical, scarred core.
Their dynamic was built on iron, sarcasm, and blood. But right here, in the quiet dark, with his fingers lost in her hair and her heartbeat matching the steady thud of his own, Simon felt a dangerous, fierce wave of protectiveness that had nothing to do with orders or military objectives.
It was just him. And it was just her.
He rested his book down against his thigh, not wanting to break the silence. His fingers paused in her hair, his palm cupping the back of her head just enough to press her a fraction closer against him. He closed his eyes, inhaling the faint scent of her soap and copper, letting himself sink into the impossible luxury of just being alive.
Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne fanfic
The air in the concrete corridor was thick with pulverized drywall and the acrid, biting stench of spent cordite. Dust swirled through the beams of tactical weapon-lights, settling over the bodies of fractured concrete.
The joint operation between the SAS and the SRR was collapsing into a meat grinder.
Ghost moved like an eclipse, his heavy combat boots silent against the debris as he braced against a collapsed doorframe, covering the rear. Ahead of him, Soap had his rifle raised, checking his corners with lethal efficiency. They were pushing deep into the structure to extract two SRR operators who had been pinned down under heavy automatic fire for the last twenty minutes.
Suddenly, the deafening thunder of gunfire abruptly ceased. The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the facility's ventilation.
Soap sliced the pie around the next intersection. The beam of his rifle light caught a sudden shadow.
From the far end of the smoke-filled corridor, a figure snapped out from cover, raising a weapon to the defensive. Soap’s reflex was instant; his optic locked squarely onto the center mass of the operator across from him.
The atmosphere grew suffocatingly tense in a microsecond. Two Tier 1 operators, fingers tightening on their triggers, ready to paint the walls.
"Are you fuckin' SAS?!" Margaret Rochester barked, her voice a gravelly, breathy snap, her weapon completely steady despite the adrenaline.
Soap didn’t lower his rifle an inch. "Aye! 22nd Regiment! Lower the weapon!"
Maggie exhaled a harsh, jagged breath, slowly tilting her barrel upward but keeping her stance locked. "Identify yourself quicker next time or I'll leave your thick skull painted on that bloody wall."
"And risk ruining my good looks, love?" Soap countered, a dangerous, cocky edge cutting through his Scottish accent. "Not a chance. We’re here to get you out."
Before Maggie could reply, the radio in her earpiece crackled violently to life, the audio bleeding out into the quiet corridor.
"Mags, I've got a fuckin' skull in the crosshairs of my rifle," Eve’s raspy voice hissed over the comms from her overwatch position. "Please tell me these fuckers are SAS."
Maggie’s eyes drifted past Soap, locking onto the towering, silent frame of Ghost standing a few paces back in the shadows, his skull mask gleaming in the dust. A smirk flashed on Maggie’s face. "Stand down. Don't pull the trigger. He’s one of ours, though someone needs to tell him Halloween was last month."
Two seconds passed.
The sound of tactical boots echoed from a side corridor. Instinctively, both Soap and Ghost snapped their weapons toward the noise.
"Stand down, she’s with me," Maggie called out immediately, raising a hand.
Eve stepped into the dim light of the main hallway. She was in full assault gear, a rifle slung tightly against her chest. As she advanced, her eyes locked straight onto Ghost. Without breaking her stride, she reached up with her gloved hands to unbuckle her heavy tactical helmet, pulling it off and letting a mass of vibrant red hair tumble free.
As she drew parallel to his massive shoulder, her green eyes locked onto his dark gaze through the slits of his mask. Keeping her steady pace toward Maggie, she held his eyes and murmured, "I nearly fookin' blew your brains out," her voice carrying a thick, unmistakable Manchester drawl—a quiet, lethal challenge meant for him alone.
Ghost didn't move a muscle, but his gaze heavily tracked her as she passed him.
Soap lowered his rifle, a charming, flirtatious grin instantly plastering across his face as he looked between the two women. "Well, damn. If I knew the SRR was hiding a pair of lethal beauties like you lot in the mud, I would’ve transferred years ago."
Eve reached Maggie’s side, completely ignoring the compliment. She slanted her eyes toward Soap, her face twisting into a look of pure, unbothered distaste. "Who's this?"
"I'm Soap," he said, chest puffing slightly, "and that's Ghost."
"Soap and Ghost?" she muttered, her thick accent dripping with sarcasm. "Right... Ok. Good to know the circus is in town."
Ghost stepped forward, his massive frame rooting itself into the center of the group, his presence instantly shifting the room's gravity.
Eve met his stare, unblinking. "I'm Eve. That's Maggie." She immediately pivoted back into tactical mode, her tone turning sharp and efficient. "We were completely trapped trying to reach the upper server rooms. The network is hard-siloed. To breach the main database, we need to hack the systems on the eastern and western wings simultaneously. We can’t do it alone."
Ghost looked at the layout of the corridor, his deep, gravelly voice vibrating through the space. "We split up. Cover more ground."
Maggie looked at Soap, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "I'll take the Scotsman. See if his shooting is as good as his mouth."
"Aye, you won't be disappointed Maggie" Soap chuckled, checking his magazine.
Eve looked up at the towering silhouette of the masked lieutenant. "That leaves you and me, Ghost."
Ghost gave a sharp, resolute nod, his dark eyes locked onto her. "Move out."
The transition into the west wing was seamless until the facility’s automated security systems woke up.
They reached the server level—a dense, claustrophobic labyrinth of narrow aisles packed with towering computer racks and blinking LED arrays—when a heavy, pneumatic hiss echoed through the deck. Massive steel blast doors slammed shut behind them with a deafening, metallic thud, sealing the exit.
Ghost instantly tapped his earpiece. "Soap, status. Blast doors just locked down on the west wing. Do you copy?"
Static. Heavy, dead white noise scraped through the comms.
Eve tried her own channel, her Manchester accent clipped and sharp. "Mags comms are down. I repeat, comms are completely dead."
Before she could finish, the main overhead fluorescent lights died, plunging the server farm into near-total darkness. A second later, the rhythmic, pulsing glow of red emergency strobe lights kicked in, cutting through the shadows like a heartbeat. From the ceiling grates and distant utility shafts above, the metallic clatter of boots signaled the arrival of a heavy militia rapid-response team, their weapons equipped with night-vision optics.
They were entirely cut off. Surrounded.
Ghost and Eve moved forward together, diving deeper into the labyrinth, shifting instantly into a lethal, synchronized CQB rhythm.
They fought as a single, devastating organism. Moving down the narrow aisles, Ghost would fire, his heavy weapon tearing through the frontline shooters. The moment his bolt locked back and he dropped his magazine to reload, Eve surged forward without a word, stepping in front of his massive frame to block the corridor with aggressive, controlled bursts of suppression fire. When a pair of militia guards tried to flank them from an intersecting row, Ghost used his sheer physical mass to ram the first man violently into the server racks, shattering the glass before finishing the second with a brutal, reverse-grip sweep of his combat knife.
In the chaos, a flashbang detonated prematurely in the next aisle. The blinding, white-hot glare struck Eve’s night-vision goggles, instantly searing her vision with white noise.
"I'm blind!" she hissed, tearing the useless optics from her face.
Ghost’s hand clamped onto her shoulder blade with an iron grip, physically pulling her back and pinning her spine flush against his chest. He became her eyes. Guided by the heavy, authoritative pressure of his hands, he steered her through the dark. His chest vibrated against her back as his rough, gravelly voice rasped directly into her ear.
"Two meters. Left flank. Drop."
Eve didn't hesitate for a microsecond. Trusting his hands blindly, she dropped her weight, raised her rifle, and squeezed the trigger. Her rounds hit true, dropping the targets in the dark based solely on his command.
Within two minutes, the aisle was a graveyard. Over a dozen militia soldiers lay bleeding into the grated floor. The coordination between the Eve and Ghost had been cold, surgical, and terrifyingly seamless—as if they had spent a lifetime training in the exact same unit.
The echoes of the final gunshots faded, but the adrenaline running through their veins was deafening. From the main security doors, the heavy, rhythmic thud of a secondary reinforcement wave began to hammer against the steel.
Needing immediate cover, Ghost grabbed Eve by the tactical vest, pushing her backward into an ultra-narrow, rusted wiring closet at the end of the hall. He stepped in immediately behind her, his massive frame completely filling the doorway as he pulled the metal mesh grate shut, locking them in.
The closet was so suffocatingly small that any semblance of personal space vanished entirely. They were pinned together, completely crushed against each other.
Ghost slammed both of his gloved hands onto the concrete wall behind Eve, his thick forearms trapping her head on either side. His massive tactical vest was pressed hard and unyielding against her chest. Because of the sheer height difference, Eve’s forehead was buried directly under his chin, her forehead brushing against his jawline.
In the absolute silence of the closet, the only sound was the heavy, hyperventilating rasp of their breathing, their chests rising and falling in violent, uneven sync. Outside, just inches away through the metal mesh, the muffled, urgent shouts of the enemy patrol echoed down the corridor, their heavy boots clicking against the wet floor.
The red strobe light from the hallway filtered through the narrow slits of the metal grate, intermittingly painting them in blood-red hues. Eve tilted her head up, her green eyes locking fiercely onto his dark gaze through the slits of his skull mask. At this proximity, the mask lost its terror; she could see the dark edge of his eyelashes, the lethal intensity in his eyes, and the sheer focus directed entirely at her.
A slow, malicious smirk tugged at the corner of her lips despite the danger. She leaned up slightly, her lips almost grazing the fabric over his jaw as she whispered in a low, teasing drawl, "Did you plan this?"
Ghost’s gaze heavily tracked down to her mouth, his chest expanding hard against hers as his breathing hitched. The silence stretched, thick with a sudden, agonizingly sharp sexual tension that made the air feel heavy.
His deep, sandpaper voice vibrated directly into her bones. "Maybe."
Neither of them moved. Neither of them broke the suffocatingly close contact, both acutely aware that the professional line between them had just stretched to its absolute breaking point.
They stayed frozen, chests locked together, until the heavy footsteps of the enemy patrol finally faded down the opposing hallway.
Ghost let out a slow, controlled breath, his hands finally leaving the wall as he pushed the grate open. The sudden rush of cold air felt like a shock to the system. Eve stepped out first, immediately clicking her comms as the interference cleared.
"Maggie, network is clear. Moving to the western terminal now. Initialize your hack on my mark."
Ghost didn't say a word, his dark eyes tracking her movements with a heavy, unblinking intensity as they reached the primary server terminal. Eve immediately dropped to one knee, her fingers flying across the keyboard with sharp efficiency, while Ghost stood over her, rifle raised, methodically scanning the dark corridors.
"Hack complete," Eve announced, slamming the laptop shut and slinging her rifle. "Data secured. Let's move."
They moved like ghosts through the shadows, avoiding the remaining patrols and cutting through the lower maintenance levels until they finally burst out into the torrential rain of the extraction zone.
The muddy field was a chaotic mess of rotor wash and blinding searchlights. The first transport helicopter had already lifted off, disappearing into the dark sky with the primary assault element.
"Eve! Over here!" Maggie’s voice cut through the roar of the engines. She was standing at the open side door of the Task Force 141 chopper, waving them in.
Eve and Ghost sprinted across the mud, scrambling inside the vibrating metal belly of the helicopter just as the pilot cleared for immediate takeoff. The bird lifted hard, tilting into the stormy night.
Inside the loud, cramped cabin, Eve slid into the canvas seat, wiping the rain and sweat from her forehead. Directly across from her, sitting front to back in the narrow space, was Ghost.
The cabin lights flickered, casting long shadows across his skull mask. Eve didn't look away, and neither did he. Across the small gap of the chopper floor, their eyes locked in a silent, heavy continuation of the tension from the closet. The memory of his weight against her chest and his voice in her ear seemed to linger in the space between them.
Maggie, sitting right next to Eve, tapped her heavily on the shoulder to get her attention over the deafening roar of the rotors, leaning in close to ask a quick tactical question about the mission data. The sudden, professional interruption forced Eve to finally break the intense stare.
She turned her head away from Ghost, shifting her focus entirely to Maggie to respond to the debrief inquiry. Across from them, the masked lieutenant remained perfectly still, his face turning toward the open storm outside, though his dark gaze lingered heavily on her reflection in the glass.
******************
The briefing room deep within the SAS headquarters at Hereford was packed to capacity. Around the massive oak table sat the leadership of Task Force 141—Price, Gaz, Soap, and Ghost—alongside key assets from the SRR: General Smith, Sergeant Margaret Rochester, and Lieutenant Morgan Thorne. At the head of the room, standing beneath the harsh glow of the projector, were two high-ranking intelligence liaisons from the Ministry of Defence. The primary liaison, a slick burócrata in a tailored suit, tapped a tactical map on the screen with a laser pointer, while his colleague sat beside him, arms crossed, evaluating the room with cold, political detachment.
They were doing the post-mission debrief, and the primary liaison was controlling the narrative.
"...and due to the unexpected structural lockdown in the western wing," the liaison announced smoothly, his tone dripping with political self-preservation, "the ground teams experienced a critical delay. The delay forced a premature compromise of the network, which ultimately allowed the high-value target to escape the perimeter before the inner cordon could be established."
Eve’s jaw clenched so hard the muscle ticked. It was a blatant lie. The lockdown didn't cause a delay; they had secured the data, and the target had been tipped off by a leak from the top hours before they even landed.
Beside her, Maggie stiffened. Across the table, Soap’s grin vanished, his eyes narrowing, while Ghost remained perfectly still, his dark eyes locked on the speaker. They all knew the truth. But Eve’s blood boiled first. The sheer audacity of framing their flawless, life-threatening extraction as a failure to cover up a leak from Whitehall was too much.
"That's not true," Eve interrupted, her voice a low, dangerous vibration that cut right through the liaison's speech.
General Smith shifted in his seat, his tone warning. "Thorne."
The primary liaison paused, adjusting his tie with an obnoxious, dismissive sigh. "Lieutenant, the strategic telemetry clearly indicates that field variables became unmanageable. It is an objective institutional assessment to protect the integrity of future operations, not a reflection on your... enthusiasm."
Eve stood up, her chair scraping violently against the concrete floor. "He's lying."
"Morgan, please," Smith reprimanded, his voice tighter this time, trying to maintain SRR protocol in front of the 141 and the Ministry.
The liaison stopped talking entirely. He slowly turned his head toward Eve, his expression hardening into a look of absolute disdain—a silent, aristocratic glare that practically ordered her to sit down, shut her mouth, and know her place.
But Eve was past the point of diplomacy. She glared straight back at the liaison, her thick accent slashing through the room like a blade. "You fuckin' piece of shit."
Smith snapped, slamming his hand on the table as he rose to his feet. "LIEUTENANT!"
The room plunged into a suffocating, hostile silence. Eve remained standing, breathing heavily, her green eyes drilling holes into the pale liaison.
Before Smith could order her out, a deep, gravelly voice vibrated from the shadows at the far end of the table.
"She's right."
Ghost leaned forward, his towering frame casting a massive shadow under the briefing room lights. His skull mask drew every eye in the room. "The west wing was cleared in under four minutes. The network wasn't compromised from the inside. The target left the grid twenty minutes before the blast doors even dropped." Ghost’s dark gaze locked onto the main speaker, his voice turning deadly cold. "You're lying to cover a leak, and your report is a piece of fiction."
"Aye," Soap chimed in immediately, leaning back and crossing his arms, his Scottish brogue sharp. "Me and Rochester watched the northern perimeter. Nobody slipped through. The bird had flown before we even breached."
Maggie nodded coldly, her arms crossed. "The timeline on that report is fabricated, sir. Someone gave them a heads-up."
The primary liaison’s face turned a mottled red, completely caught off guard by the unified front of the operators. He looked at General Smith, then at Ghost, his composure cracking. "Lieutenant Riley, you are out of line. This is a highly classified intelligence assessment, not a playground for field operators to question command."
"Careful how you speak to my men," Captain Price finally spoke up, his voice low, calm, but carrying the immense weight of a man who could end careers with a single phone call. He took a slow pull from his cigar, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
"Price, control your man!" the second MoD liaison demanded, standing up and pointing an accusatory finger toward Ghost. "And General Smith, I expect immediate disciplinary action regarding Lieutenant Thorne's unbefitting and insubordinate conduct."
Price didn't even look at the bureaucrat. Instead, his sharp eyes traveled between Eve, who was still standing like a statue of pure fury, and Ghost, whose gloved hand was resting remarkably close to his tactical knife. The tension between the two operators and the brass was a powder keg ready to blow the roof off Hereford.
Price lowered his cigar and pointed it toward the exit.
"Riley. Thorne," Price commanded, his voice unyielding but surprisingly calm. "Both of you. Outside. Now."
Eve didn't say a word. She held the primary liaison's terrified gaze for one last, brutal second, then grabbed her beret from the table. She turned on her heel and marched toward the heavy steel door of the briefing room.
Ghost rose from his chair in one fluid, imposing motion. He didn't look at the Ministry officials, nor at Smith. He simply followed her out, his massive combat boots echoing in the sudden silence of the room as the heavy door clicked shut behind them, leaving the brass to face Price's wrath alone.
The heavy steel door of the briefing room clicked shut, instantly cutting off the suffocating silence inside and replacing it with the low hum of Hereford’s security sector.
Eve marched down the sterile, whitewashed corridor, her beret crunched tightly in her fist, her breath coming in sharp, shallow snatches. The utter fury radiating from her was almost palpable, a contained storm of adrenaline and professional disgust.
The heavy, rhythmic thud of combat boots echoed behind her. She knew who it was without turning, his sheer presence filling the narrow space even at a distance. Ghost didn't rush, yet he closed the gap between them in seconds, his towering, shadow-like silhouette drawing parallel to her.
Suddenly, Eve cut her momentum, stopping dead in the middle of the corridor.
Ghost clamped his boot down, planting his massive frame right beside her without missing a beat. He stood like a monolith, his proximity—usually an intimidating, cold pressure—feeling surprisingly grounding. It was a silent acknowledgement of the line they had both just stepped over, together.
Eve pivoted slightly toward him, her green eyes blazing. "You shouldn't have backed me up in there. I didn't need the 141 taking the fall for my lack of diplomacy."
Ghost’s head turned slowly toward her, the dark slits of his skull mask locking onto her face. His gravelly voice resonated from deep within his chest, vibrating through the quiet corridor. "I didn't back you up to be chivalrous, Thorne. I did it because I don't sit through fairy tales told by men who have never seen blood in the mud."
He leaned slightly into her space, his massive bulk almost obscuring the view of the hallway behind him. "Price knows Whitehall is leaking. That's why he's still in there, and we're not. Let him handle the politicians."
He paused, holding her gaze for a beat longer than necessary.
"And besides," he added, his voice dropping to a low, rough sandpaper whisper that seemed meant for her alone. "Don't sell yourself short. 'You fuckin' piece of shit' was elegant. Efficient. Just like your trigger work."
Eve stared at him. The sheer absurdity of the compliment, delivered with absolute, lethal seriousness by the most terrifying man in the base, almost made her choke on a laugh. The tension that had been strangling her chest since the meeting began suddenly broke.
A faint, sharp smirk pulled at the corner of her mouth, her green eyes flashing with a mix of defiance and begrudging respect. She held his stare, unblinking, the memory of the close confines of the wiring closet from hours ago filtering back in.
"You love pushing your luck, don't you, Riley?" she murmured, a dangerous, low challenge in her voice as she rolled her beret up and shoved it into her tactical pocket.
Ghost slowly crossed his massive arms over his chest, his dark eyes fixed entirely on her. "And you’re a bloody nightmare to manage, Thorne. But at least you’re not boring."
Eve took a deliberate step closer into his space, her eyes holding his for one more lingering second until the professional distance between them stretched dangerously thin. A sharp, mocking smirk pulled at her lips.
"Good," she whispered, her voice dropping to a gravelly, teasing purr. "Because I'd hate to make your job easy, Lieutenant."
Before he could answer, she brushed her shoulder heavily against his chest as she bypassed him, intentionally breaking his stance. Her steady pace resumed, the heels of her combat boots clicking sharply against the concrete as she marched toward the far end of the hall, leaving Ghost to trail behind her as they walked out of the command sector together.
**********************************
The rain lashed violently against the reinforced windows of the small urban apartment, a low, oppressive thunder rumbling through the dimly lit European safehouse. Inside, the air was static, thick with heat and a raw, volatile anger that had been building since they left the field.
Ghost stood in the center of the room, completely unmasked. His hair was damp and messy, and he was dressed only in a dark tactical shirt, his combat trousers, and heavy boots. He looked massive, cold, and unyielding, watching her with a heavy, dangerous intensity.
Eve was pacing like a caged animal. She was still dressed in her undercover gear—a tight, dark silk blouse and a charcoal pencil skirt that hugged every curve of her hips. Her chest rose and fell in violent, ragged gasps as she suddenly snapped, pivoting to face him.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?!" she screamed, her voice raspy and sharp as a blade. She stormed into his personal space, her green eyes blazing with pure fury. "I don't need your fuckin' protection! I had it all under control!"
Simon didn't flinch, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. His silence only infuriated her more.
With a guttural growl of frustration, Eve brought her hand up and slammed her fist hard against his chest. The impact echoed in the quiet room, but Simon barely moved an inch. As she pulled her arm back to strike him a second time, Simon lost his patience entirely. His reflexes cut through the air, and his massive hands snapped around her wrists in an iron grip.
"Let go of me!" she hissed, violently twisting her arms, trying to wrench herself free. It was entirely impossible. His strength was absolute.
In her frantic movement to break away, her arms were forced wide, leaving her body completely exposed and pressed flush against his hard chest. She kept struggling, panting heavily, her heels clicking against the floor. Completely out of patience with her stubborn resistance, Simon stepped in closer, shutting down the space entirely. He bent his knees slightly, diving low, and slammed his large hands directly onto her hips, gripping her flesh through the tight fabric of her skirt.
With a single, effortless surge of power, he lifted her clean off the floor.
"Get off me! Get your fuckin' hands off me!" Eve yelled, kicking her legs as she desperately tried to break his hold.
Simon ignored her frantic protests, his face a mask of grim determination. He marched her two steps back and slammed her thighs down onto the edge of the heavy wooden dining table. The sudden impact rattled the furniture. Before she could slide away, Simon wedged his massive, heavy frame right between her knees, locking her in place.
Eve planted her left hand flat on the table behind her to stabilize herself, while her right hand flew forward, bunching her fingers into the fabric of his tactical shirt, trying to push him back. Simultaneously, Simon’s right hand shot up, his large, rough fingers wrapping forcefully around her jawline. His grip was firm, unyielding, tilting her face upward as he leaned his massive weight over her.
Eve strained against him, her neck rigid, her eyes drilling into his. "Don't you dare—"
Simon didn't let her finish. He leaned down and violently collided his lips with hers.
Eve let out a muffled gasp against his mouth, immediately trying to pull her head back, twisting her neck to break the contact. But Simon used both hands to clamp down, his fingers gripping her face like a vice. He tightened his hold, his thumb pressing hard into her cheekbone, refusing to give her an inch of space. He drove his mouth harder into hers, a starved, predatory groan vibrating deep in his throat as he began to consume her. He bit her lower lip, his tongue forcing its way past her teeth, tasting the iron and heat of her mouth with a fierce, ravenous hunger.
For a few desperate seconds, Eve kept fighting, her hand tearing at his shoulder, her body trembling with tension. But as his tongue stroked deep into her mouth, a sharp, electric jolt of raw desire shattered her anger. The fury dissolved instantly into unadulterated, intoxicating lust.
A soft, defeated whimper escaped her throat, and she completely surrendered to his immense force.
Her rigid body went entirely soft beneath him. She opened her mouth wide, greedily accepting the bruising pressure of his lips, her tongue tangling with his in a frantic, wild rhythm. She unclasped her hand from the table and threw both arms around his thick neck, her fingers burying into his damp hair, pulling him down harder into the kiss. Her thighs parted completely, opening up for him, and Simon instantly slid his heavy, muscular hips deeper between her legs, his torso pressing hard against the soft silk of her blouse.
Without breaking the filthy, breathless kiss, Simon used both hands to pull her skirt up in an aggressive, frantic movement. He hooked his fingers under the hem of her tight pencil skirt and bunched the fabric upward, dragging it rough and heavy up her thighs, sending a wave of goosebumps rushing over her body. He pulled the skirt up past her hips, bunching it around her waist, completely exposing her lace underwear.
"Simon..." she gasped against his mouth as he briefly tore his lips away to trail wet, biting kisses down her jawline to the sensitive skin of her neck. Her head fell back, her breath hitching as his teeth grazed her pulse point. "Fuck..."
Simon’s breathing was a ragged, hyperventilating roar in her ear. "You're mine, Eve... Every fuckin' inch of you," he growled, his voice thick with a dark, primal need.
He reached down, his fingers hooking into the waistband of her lace panties, and violently ripped them down her legs, tossing them onto the floor. He didn't waste a single second. His hand moved back up, his fingers sliding between her wet, swollen thighs, finding her core.
Eve let out a loud, high-pitched moan, her back arching as his fingers brushed against her dripping center. She was slick, burning hot, and completely ready for him. Simon stroked two fingers deep inside her, testing her wetness, a low growl escaping his chest as he felt how soaked she was for him. He pumped his fingers inside her hard, his thumb heavily working her clit, driving her to near madness. While he did this, Eve held him tightly by the neck, their foreheads touching in the dark, while Simon anchored himself by planting his other hand flat on the table.
"Fuckin’ hell..." she cried out, her hips jerking uncontrollably against his hand, her fingernails digging deep into the muscles of his back, leaving red tracks on his skin.
He pulled his hand away and quickly unbuckled his tactical belt and freed his thick, fully erect length. It was pulsing, heavy, and slick. He grabbed her by the back of her thighs, pulling her to the very edge of the table until her dripping center was resting directly against his tip.
"Look at me,"​ Simon rasped, his eyes dark, blown-out with lust. "Ask me... ask me to fuck you..."
They stared at each other, their chests heaving, their eyes locked in a silent, suffocating moment of raw anticipation.
Eve’s vision blurry, her lips parted and wet. "Fuck me... Just fuck me, Simon."
With a brutal, heavy thrust of his hips, Simon buried his entire length deep inside her in one single, unyielding motion.
Eve’s mouth opened in a silent, breathless scream, her head slamming back as her body stretched to accommodate his massive size. The sheer fullness of him filled her completely, hitting her and sending a wave of intense, overwhelming pleasure straight to her core. She clamped her legs tightly around his waist, trapping him deep within her.
Simon let out a guttural, animalistic roar, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second as the tight, burning walls squeezed him like a vice. He stayed buried inside her for a heartbeat, panting heavily against her mouth, letting her body adjust to his depth.
Then, he began to move.
He pulled back until he was almost entirely out, then slammed back in with a deafening, wet thud. The wet friction of their bodies colliding echoed through the safehouse, drowning out the sound of the rain outside. Simon was ruthless, his thrusts deep, fast, and heavy, pounding into her with the same terrifying efficiency he used on the battlefield.
Eve was completely coherent with pleasure, her voice a continuous, desperate string of moans and whimpers. "Fuck... right there... god..."
Simon caught her mouth again, drinking her whimpers, suffocating her cries with his tongue as his pace turned frantic. He held her hips down against the table with an iron grip, his fingers bruising her flesh. Every time he hit her deepest point, Eve’s internal muscles pulsed and contracted around him, driving him closer and closer to the edge.
The heat in the room was blinding. The scent of sex, sweat, and rain filled the air.
Suddenly, Simon pushed her completely flat onto the table, changing the angle entirely while remaining deeply buried inside her. He lifted both of her legs together, locking his powerful arm around her thighs to pin them securely against his shoulder, while anchoring his other hand flat on the wooden surface to brace his weight. With her body held completely open and helpless beneath him, he began to drive into her with short, brutal, rapid strokes, targeting her G-spot with every single hit.
Eve’s mind went entirely blank. The pleasure was too sharp, too intense. Her body began to tremble violently as the first waves of a massive, shattering orgasm began to ripple through her core. Her walls gripped his cock with an agonizing, rhythmic suction.
"Simon, fuuuck!" she screamed, her back arching violently off the table as she reached back, gripping the far edge of the wood with her hands to anchor herself.
Responding to her cry, Simon pulled her legs off his shoulder, spreading her thighs wide once more as he collapsed his weight down over her. He leaned over her body, reaching forward to grip the exact same far edge of the table, pinning his large hands directly over hers.
Hearing her moans and grunts, feeling her walls crush his length in the throes of her orgasm, stripped Simon of the last of his control. A deep, guttural roar ripped from his throat. He delivered three last, exceptionally deep, punishing thrusts, burying himself as far inside her as physically possible, and came.
He pulsed violently inside her. His entire body went rigid, his muscles locking up as he poured himself into her, his head burying into her neck as he panted heavily, his chest vibrating against hers.
Eve held him tight, her legs still locked around his waist, her body twitching as the last aftershocks of her orgasm faded away.
For several minutes, the only sound in the room was the ragged, hyperventilating sync of their breathing and the dripping of rainwater outside. Simon remained buried deep inside her, his forehead resting against her neck. Neither of them spoke, the thick, heavy silence between them filled with the undeniable, dangerous realization that they were now entirely bound to each other.
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Simon "Ghost" Riley x OC Morgan "Eve" Thorne fanfic
The rhythmic, heavy thud of leather meeting leather echoed through the base gym. Inside the ring, Ghost and Soap were locked in a grueling sparring session, their movements calculated, heavy, and dripping with sweat.
Suddenly, the gym’s double doors banged open, hitting the concrete walls with a violent, echoing crash.
Both men instantly froze, their eyes darting to the entrance. Eve Thorne stormed into the room. She was still in her tactical gear, her chest heaving, covered in the grime of a fresh deployment.
Ghost’s dark eyes locked onto her. He tracked the lethal, unyielding stride that had drawn his attention since they first crossed paths ten months ago on that bloody deployment in the middle of nowhere. He had been quietly observing her ever since, analyzing the fierce, dangerous edge that set her apart from every other operative. And right now, that edge was sharp enough to kill.
Her furious gaze locked instantly onto Lieutenant Michael Donovan of the SRR, who was leaning against a weight rack, chatting with a lower-ranking operative.
She marched across the gym floor, a force of pure, unadulterated fury.
"You fuckin’ piece of shit!" she roared.
Before Donovan could even process her voice, Eve lunged. She tackled him with brutal precision, her momentum driving his massive frame hard into the floorboards. The impact cracked through the room.
"Bloody hell!" Soap blurted out, dropping his guard in sheer shock.
On the floor, Eve was entirely unhinged, fueled by absolute rage. She mounted Donovan, her fists raining down with lethal efficiency and devastating technique. Left, right, shattering blows that gave him no room to breathe. The junior operative who had been talking to him backed away, his face pale with terror. Donovan couldn't even counter; all he could do was cross his forearms over his face, desperately trying to shield himself from the onslaught.
Ghost was already moving. He vaulted over the ropes, Soap right on his heels.
In a split second, Ghost reached the fray. He didn't waste time trying to reason with her. He dug his massive hands under her arms, wrapping his thick forearms around her waist, and violently wrenched her off Donovan's bleeding form. Soap immediately stepped in, grabbing a groaning, disoriented Donovan by the shirt to haul him to his feet.
"Let me go! Get off me!" Eve screamed, thrashing violently against Ghost's iron grip. Her boots kicked at the air, her face flushed and twisted with rage as she glared at Donovan. "Because of you, she's unconscious!! You son of a bitch!! Narcissistic motherfucker!"
Ghost only tightened his hold, binding her arms to her sides. She was strong, fighting with the feral desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose, but against his sheer bulk, she couldn't break free. Recognizing the crowd gathering around them, Ghost didn't say a word. He dragged her out of the gym, kicking the doors open and hauling her down the corridor into a nearby empty briefing office, shutting out the staring eyes of the base.
"Let me go! You fuckin’ asshole!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with raw emotion.
Ghost practically dropped her onto her feet and slammed the heavy metal door shut. He immediately stepped into her path, placing his massive frame squarely between her and the exit.
Eve lunged forward, trying to push past him to get back to the door, her hands slamming against his chest. "This is none of your fuckin’ business, Riley!"
Ghost didn't move an inch. He stood like a monolith, watching her through the dark slits of his balaclava. Eve was hyperventilating, her shoulders heaving, her green eyes wide and wild, swimming with a dangerous cocktail of fury, grief, and unexpressed trauma.
Before she could strike him again, Ghost reached out. His large hands clamped around her wrists, locking them tight. His thumbs brushed against the backs of her hands, catching the raw, split skin where her knuckles were already bruising and weeping blood from the devastating blows she had rained down on Donovan. He didn't squeeze to hurt, but to anchor her. He forced her to look at him, holding her steady, his gaze demanding that she come back to reality.
For a long, agonizing second, Eve fought the restraint. But as her eyes locked into his, something inside her finally snapped. The fury drained out of her all at once, leaving only a hollow, crushing despair. She stopped struggling. Her hands went limp in his grip for a fraction of a second before she suddenly, violently wrenched them free from his hold, stumbling backward as she blindly sought distance.
Her back hit the cold, solid wall of the office, and the impact seemed to shatter the last of her remaining strength. Her knees buckled. She slid heavily down the wall onto the floor, pulling her knees against her chest as she buried her face in her bloodied hands, her shoulders shaking violently as a deep, desperate sobs tore from her throat.
Ghost stood over her, motionless. Inside his chest, something shifted—a cold, rusted lock turning for the first time in years. He hadn't felt an ache like this in a lifetime. It was that same unyielding, magnetic pull that had quietly reeled him toward her since the very day he met her—a persistent, inescapable gravity he had spent months trying to ignore. Eve’s raw intensity, her fierce loyalty, and the sheer magnitude of her grief broke through his walls, awakening a profound sense of admiration and empathy he thought he had buried forever.
Incapable of leaving her alone in the dark, Ghost slowly dropped to his knees. He slid his back down the wall, sitting right beside her on the floor.
Without lifting her head, her fingers still clutching her face and tangled in her hair, Eve choked out the words through her tears. "She's... she's fuckin’ comatose..."
She pressed her palms into her eyes, breaking down completely.
Ghost looked at her. Then, in a silent gesture that betrayed everything about his cold, detached persona, he reached out. He slung his heavy, solid arm over her trembling shoulders and pulled her firmly against his side, offering his massive frame as a shield against the rest of the world.
******************
The fallout was swift, clinical, and utterly unyielding. By 0600 the following morning, Morgan Eve Thorne had been officially handed a mandatory two-week suspension, cited for severe emotional instability and conduct unbecoming of an operative. Her access badges were temporarily deactivated, and she was ordered off the active rotation. The base felt noticeably emptier without her sharp, lethal presence, but inside the briefing rooms, the tension she left behind was still thick enough to cut with a knife.
Ghost stood in the shadow of the hangar corridor, his arms crossed over his chest, his gaze fixed on the double doors of the medical wing. He knew why she had snapped; he had read the mission files. But knowing the reason didn't change the simmering, dark venom pooling in his own chest every time he pictured her breaking down on that office floor.
The heavy doors groaned open, and Michael Donovan walked out.
The SRR Lieutenant looked like hell. His left eye was swollen shut, a nasty, deep purple bruise mapped across his cheekbone, and his split lip was held together by neat black stitches—all courtesy of Eve’s precision.
Ghost didn't make a sound as he pushed off the wall. He simply adjusted his stride, cutting across the corridor like a predator closing a trap, effortlessly intercepting Donovan before the man could reach the main courtyard.
Donovan stopped dead in his tracks, his one good eye widening slightly as the towering, masked silhouette of the Task Force 141 commander blocked his path. The air between them instantly turned freezing cold.
"Riley," Donovan muttered, his voice raspy, trying to maintain his usual arrogant posture despite the visible limp. He let out a bitter, dry chuckle, adjusting the ice pack against his side. "I didn't get a chance to thank you yesterday. Cheers for pulling that fucking psycho off me. Out of her mind, that one. Command finally put the bitch on ice for two weeks. Frankly, she’s lucky she isn't facing a court-martial."
Ghost stepped closer, crowding Donovan’s space until his massive frame forced the man back against the concrete wall. The sheer, suffocating weight of Ghost's presence made the junior operatives at the end of the hall turn around and walk the other way. Nobody wanted to be a witness to whatever was about to happen.
"I didn't pull her off to save you" Ghost said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly vibration that rattled right through the metal fixtures of the corridor. "I did it so she wouldn't have to waste her career on a piece of shit like you."
Donovan’s jaw clenched, his pride flaring up despite the fear bleeding into his expression. "She attacked a fellow SRR officer over a mission casualty. Safehouses get compromised, Riley. It’s part of the job. She’s too compromised to see straight."
"She saw perfectly straight," Ghost growled, leaning in until the cold fabric of his skull mask was inches from his bruised face. He reached out, his heavy hand flat against the wall right next to Donovan's head, pinning him in place. "You left her asset behind to cover your own tracks. You ran to the extraction point because you couldn't handle the heat, and now one of your own is rotting in a medical bed with wires keeping her heart beating”.
"You can't prove—"
"I don't need to prove a goddamn thing," Ghost cut him off, his voice dead, flat, and absolute. "Command might look at logistics, but I look at the dirt. You’re a narcissistic piece of shit who cares more about his record than the bodies he steps on to keep it clean."
Ghost lowered his hand, his fingers curling into a tight, heavy fist against his thigh. The urge to finish what Eve had started was a physical ache in his knuckles, but he kept his composure locked behind a wall of pure iron.
"She has two weeks off base," Ghost whispered, the threat hanging in the air like a loaded weapon. "Two weeks where she’s not allowed to touch you. But I’m still on active duty, Lieutenant. If I see you in the gym, if I see you in the mess hall, or if I hear your voice anywhere near her file again... I won't be the one pulling anyone apart. Do we understand each other?"
Donovan swallowed hard, his skin turning a sickly shade of pale beneath his bruises. He nodded once, a rigid, terrified jerk of his chin.
Ghost stared at him for one more agonizing second, letting the silence break whatever was left of the man's bravado. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode down the corridor, his heavy boots echoing off the concrete.
****************************
The local off-base pub was loud, thick with the smell of stale ale, cigarette smoke, and the rowdy chatter of off-duty soldiers. Task Force 141 filed in, moving automatically toward their usual large booth in the back. Price, Soap, and Gaz were already ordering a round, laughing about some misfire during the afternoon drills, but Ghost wasn't listening. His eyes were already scanning the room, cutting through the dim, amber haze of the pub.
He found her instantly.
Eve was shoved into a dark booth at the absolute far corner of the bar, completely isolated from the noise. She looked like a ghost inhabiting a living room. Her face was hollow, pale, with dark, bruised circles carved beneath her eyes—the unmistakable look of someone who hadn't slept in forty-eight hours. On her table sat a single glass and a bottle of Jameson. The bottle was already half empty.
Fifteen minutes passed. Ghost sat with his team in silent, not touching his drink. While Soap told another loud story, Ghost slid out of the booth without a word. He walked across the floorboards, his heavy frame cutting through the crowd until he reached the edge of her shadow.
He didn't ask for permission. He simply pulled out the wooden chair opposite her and sat down.
Eve didn't flinch. Her green eyes remained fixed on the scratched wood of the table, lost in some dark, distant memory. Then, she inhaled deeply, a long, shaky breath as if violently forcing herself back into reality, and finally looked up to lock eyes with him.
After a few seconds, she lowered her gaze, her trembling but practiced fingers wrapping around the glass to take a burning gulp of the whiskey.
"You shouldn't hide behind that mask, Riley," she muttered, her voice raspy, dry, and devoid of life.
Ghost stared back through the dark slits of his balaclava, his posture rigid. "You shouldn't be hiding in whiskey, Thorne."
Eve let out a harsh, bitter, humorless laugh that died instantly in her throat. She leaned forward, the raw, self-destructive edge in her eyes flashing dangerously. "I've nearly died so many fuckin’ times that I don't give a shit what happens to me now."
Ghost felt a sudden, sharp tightening in his chest. It was a cold, familiar pang—the echo of a man who had walked that exact same ledge, who knew the terrifying freedom of having absolutely nothing left to lose. He didn't speak, letting the weight of his silence acknowledge her pain.
Eve looked down at her glass, her thumb tracing the rim as her voice cracked slightly. "The medics said Maggie's stable... for now. They think she might start waking up from the coma in two weeks… But looking at her through that glass, with all those fuckin’ tubes..."
Ghost leaned in, his voice dropping into a low, commanding rumble. "What you did to Donovan... you crossed a line, Morgan. An assault on a fellow officer can ruin you. Command will destroy your career before—"
"Are you fuckin’ justifying him?!" Eve interrupted sharply. Her head snapped up, her green eyes burning with a sudden, venomous rage as she glared at him with pure, unadulterated disdain. She leaned across the sticky table, her face inches from his mask, her whisper lethal. "He left her behind to rot. He left my asset, my friend, to bleed out in the dirt just to save his own pathetic skin. Don't you dare preach to me about protocol, Riley."
Ghost didn't blink. He didn't move back an inch from her fury, matching her intensity with a cold, unyielding stare that locked her in place.
"I know that, Morgan" Ghost said, his voice dropping into a deep, gravelly whisper that carried the terrifying weight of absolute truth. "I know exactly what he did. And the only reason I didn't let you kill him... was because I want to keep seeing your face on that base."
The honesty of Ghost’s words struck Eve like a physical blow. The venom in her eyes flickered, dying out completely as she stared straight into his, caught entirely off guard. For a long, suffocating beat, neither of them broke eye contact, locking their gazes in a silent, unyielding clash. The raw, heavy silence between them hung thick in the air, completely overriding the chaotic noise of the pub.
Finally breaking eye contact, Eve abruptly looked down and grabbed her glass, throwing the remaining whiskey back to drain it in one sharp, burning gulp. She slammed the empty glass onto the wood, pushed her chair back, and stood up to leave.
But the alcohol hit her fast. The moment she stood, the room tilted, and she stumbled, her boots dragging as her drunken state became instantly obvious.
Ghost leaned back in his chair, his eyes tracking her every movement with sharp precision. "You can't drive like that, Thorne."
Eve stopped. She planted one hand flat on the sticky table for leverage and shoved the other against her hip, glaring down at him through a hazy, defiant fog. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."
Ghost let out a low, gravelly snort, shaking his head. He stood up, his massive, towering frame instantly eclipsing her and throwing her into his shadow. He leaned in slightly, his gaze dark and intense. Eve didn't back down, tilting her chin up to return the stare with stubborn pride.
"Let's go," Ghost grumbled.
Before she could protest, his heavy, hand clamped firmly around her upper arm. He didn't pull her brutally, but his grip was absolute iron, guiding her through the crowded pub and out into the cold night air.
He practically poured her into the passenger seat of his SUV. The drive to her off-base apartment was dead silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the quiet rhythm of her breathing. When he killed the ignition, he walked around to her side, opened the door, and hauled her out.
Eve immediately slumped against him, her shoulder buried in his massive chest as they walked into the building. The sheer contrast of her weight against his—the soft, warm reality of her leaning entirely on his strength—sent a quiet, unfamiliar ache rippling through Ghost's chest.
"You know..." Eve mumbled, her voice thick, her head rolling slightly against his shoulder as they walked down the hallway. "Everyone back at the base is absolutely terrified of you." She let out a soft, lazy chuckle, looking up at his masked face with blurry eyes. "If they only knew what a fuckin’ sweetheart the Ghost is..."
Ghost didn't say a word. But beneath his mask a rare, quiet warmth spread deep in his veins. He just silently relished the heavy, unfiltered weight of her body against his, memorizing the scent of whiskey and rain on her skin.
He unlocked her apartment door and guided her inside. Seeing her stagger, he slid one massive arm behind her knees and the other behind her back, effortlessly lifting her into his arms.
Eve gasped softly at the sudden loss of gravity, her hands instinctively clutching his jacket for balance. As he carried her down the short hallway toward her bedroom, she looked up at him, a sleepy, mischievous smirk playing on her lips. "You should at least buy me a drink before you take me to bed, Riley."
Ghost’s chest rumbled with a silent, heavy breath, but he kept his composure locked down. He walked into her dim bedroom and carefully lowered her onto the mattress. The moment her back hit the sheets, Eve let out a soft sigh, immediately curling onto her side and closing her eyes as the exhaustion of the last forty-eight hours finally claimed her.
Ghost knelt at the edge of the bed, his large hands moving deliberately as he unlaced her heavy combat boots, slipping them off one by one and setting them neatly on the floor.
Feeling the movement, Eve cracked her green eyes open, staring at him through the shadows. Her voice dropped into a soft, vulnerable whisper. "When am I going to see your fuckin’ face, Riley?"
Ghost paused, a boot still in his hand. He slowly leaned over her, his massive silhouette hovering close, his dark eyes locking onto hers in the quiet room.
"When you're not fuckin’ drunk, Thorne," he whispered back, his voice thick and rough.
Eve’s lips curled into a genuine, sleepy smile. "Fuck you, Simon..." she murmured, her eyelids fluttering shut as she drifted completely into sleep.
Ghost slowly straightened up. He stood by the bed, a silent monolith in the dark room, his eyes fixed on the gentle rise and fall of her chest. The fierce, terrifying urge to protect her, to crawl into the space beside her just to feel her warmth, gripped him so tightly it made his knuckles ache. For the first time in years, the ghost felt entirely alive, rooted to the spot by the desperate, quiet necessity of simply being near her.
****************
Exactly fifteen days had passed since the night in the pub.
Ghost pulled his Land Cruiser into the gravel lot of Hereford, the engine cutting out with a heavy, mechanical thud. He stepped out of the vehicle with a surge of brutal, kinetic energy, his shoulders set and his presence instantly dominating the space around him. He didn’t hurry, but his stride was heavy with purpose.
He was just about to gear up and head toward the main entrance when, a few meters away, the rhythmic, high-pitched scream of a high-performance engine cut through the morning stillness. A sleek, black Ducati Panigale carved into the lot with surgical precision, the back tire kicking up loose gravel as it slid into a parking spot just a short distance from him.
Ghost didn't need to look at the plates to know exactly who it was. The moment the bike idled down, a strange, unfamiliar tightness coiled deep inside his chest. It was her. Her two-week suspension was officially over.
Eve killed the ignition, the sudden silence of the lot stretching between them. With deliberate, practiced movements, she began tugging off her riding gloves, one by one, before reaching up to unlatch her helmet. She pulled it off, her vibrant red hair tumbling loose as she took a deep breath of the crisp morning air.
As she dismounted the bike, she efficiently stowed her gear away and pulled a pair of dark aviator sunglasses from her pocket, slipping them over her eyes. Ghost stood completely motionless by his truck, watching her every single move, his gaze locked onto her through the dark slits of his mask.
Eve turned as if to head straight toward the base, but she paused. Slowly, deliberately, she turned her head back toward him.
For a few long, breathless seconds, their gazes locked across the gravel lot. Even behind the dark tint of her aviators, the connection was instant, heavy with the unsaid memories of the apartment and the name she had whispered before falling asleep.
Then, a tiny, subtle smirk played at the corner of her lips.
Before he could even react, she turned back around and continued her steady march toward the base entrance, her boots clicking sharply against the ground.
Ghost remained rooted to the spot, a motionless figure in the empty lot, completely still as he forced himself to process the sudden, distinct acceleration of his own heartbeat.
*************
The quiet hum of the heart monitor was the only sound slicing through the sterile air of the medical wing. Morgan pushed the heavy door open, her boots clicking softly against the linoleum.
Margaret Rochester was propped up against the pillows, her face pale, the dark circles under her eyes stark against her skin. Her gaze was drifted toward the window, hollow and lost, but the exact moment Morgan’s vibrant red hair caught the harsh fluorescent lights, Maggie’s eyes flickered. A frail spark of recognition returned to them.
Morgan didn't hesitate. She crossed the room and sank into the plastic chair by the bedside. She reached out, her hands—bearing the faint, fresh pink scars of the knuckles she had split fifteen days ago—gently taking Maggie’s weak, trembling hand, which was weighed down by thick tape and IV lines.
"Hey," Morgan whispered, her voice uncharacteristically soft.
Maggie’s throat clicked as she swallowed hard. Her breathing was shallow, her voice a fragile, raspy shadow of its former self, breaking with exhaustion. "Eve..." She blinked slowly, tears welling in her eyes as she tried to tighten her frail grip. "The safehouse… I’m sorry. I couldn't..."
A violent, suffocating wave of pure fury surged in Morgan’s chest at the reminder of what happened. She could feel the venom burning in her veins, but looking at her best friend's broken frame, she forced every ounce of it down, burying the rage deep below a mask of absolute reassurance.
"Don't," Morgan cut her off gently, leaning in. "Quiet, you're safe. I took care of it."
Maggie let out a weak, breathy huff—a pathetic attempt at a laugh that cracked painfully in her throat. She paused, drawing in a shaky breath, her words coming out haltingly as she tilted her head slightly toward the door. "When I first woke up..." She swallowed, her voice dropping to a strained whisper. "...thought I was in hell... huge fuckin' skull... hovering over me."
Morgan’s lips twitched into a bittersweet smile, squeezing her hand. "Don't worry about him. Just rest."
Through the thick glass window of the room, completely unnoticed, Ghost stood motionless in the dim corridor. His massive arms were crossed over his chest, his dark eyes locked onto Morgan through his mask. He watched her intently, analyzing her every movement, witnessing how the fiercely lethal Lieutenant Thorne handled the crushing weight of reality.
Morgan stayed for a few more minutes until Maggie’s heavy eyelids drifted shut again. Stepping away, Morgan walked out of the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind her.
The moment she was out, the professional armor cracked. She slumped slightly, a shuddering breath escaping her lips, her green eyes swimming with a raw cocktail of grief and exhaustion. But she forced herself to stand tall, refusing to break. She looked across the narrow hallway.
Ghost was leaning against the opposite wall, a towering, stationary shadow.
Morgan marched straight toward him, stopping just inches away. Her voice was steady, but carried a dangerous undercurrent. "Were you here when she woke up?"
He simply gave her a slow, absolute nod of his head.
Morgan quickly diverted her gaze down the long corridor, her jaw clenching as she fought back the threat of tears, unwilling to let him see her shatter.
Suddenly, the heavy door of an office down the hall clicked open. Michael Donovan walked out, holding a clipboard. The moment his eyes landed on Eve and Ghost standing together, his entire posture stiffened. Pure, unadulterated panic flashed across his bruised face, his skin turning a sickly shade of white.
Morgan’s head snapped toward him. The sorrow vanished, replaced instantly by a lethal, venomous rage. Her muscles coiled, and she took a sharp, aggressive step forward.
But Ghost was already moving. With terrifyingly fast, fluid kinetic energy, he stepped directly into her personal space, completely blocking her path and clamping his heavy, iron hand firmly around her upper arm, anchoring her to the floor.
"Stand down, Lieutenant. You're smarter than this.” Ghost muttered, his gravelly baritone vibrating through the narrow hall.
Her green eyes remained locked on Donovan like a predator tracking prey through a cage. Down the hall, Donovan didn't waste a single second; he practically scrambled backward, turning on his heel and retreating through the courtyard doors to get as far away from them as possible.
Morgan stood rigid for a long beat, her chest heaving. Only when the doors slammed shut behind Donovan did the violent tension drain from her frame. She relaxed her arm, and Ghost slowly released his grip—but he didn't back away.
He stayed right there, invading her space. They were standing so close that their chests subtly brushed against each other with every breath they took. The heat between them was staggering.
Eve tilted her chin up, looking straight into the dark slits of his mask, her eyes burning with a stubborn, fierce intensity.
"One day, you won't be able to hold me back, Riley," she whispered, the threat lethal and deeply intimate.
Without waiting for a response, she took a slow step backward, her gaze never breaking from his. Then, she smoothly turned on her heel and began her steady march down the opposite end of the corridor.
Ghost remained rooted to the spot, his arms falling back to his sides. He watched her go, completely spellbound—utterly captivated and lost in thought by the sheer magnitude of her words.
*******************
The fluorescent lights of the main briefing room hummed with a clinical, uncomfortable buzz. General Smith sat at the head of the long oak table, flanked by Captain Price. The atmosphere was thick, charged with the lingering political fallout of the compromised safehouse. Lieutenant Donovan was absent, buried somewhere in a pile of disciplinary inquiries, but Morgan Thorne sat rigid in her chair, the perfect picture of an SRR specialist.
Directly across from her sat Ghost.
Morgan was the one delivering the after-action review. Her presentation was flawless, delivered with an unyielding, icy professionalism that left no room for debate. She mapped out the coordinates, the tactical failures of the SRR extraction team, and the timeline of Margaret Rochester’s abandonment with surgical precision. She didn’t falter. She didn’t let her voice shake. She proved to everyone in that room exactly why she wore her stripes.
Throughout the entire briefing, Ghost didn’t utter a single syllable. He sat back, an imposing shadow, his eyes locked onto her from behind his mask. He didn’t look at the tactical maps. He didn't look at General Smith. His gaze never left her face.
General Smith cleared his throat, leaning forward. "Given the breakdown in internal SRR logistics and the ongoing investigation into Donovan's conduct, we cannot risk asset stagnation. Effective immediately, Lieutenant Thorne, you are being reassigned as an SRR specialist to Task Force 141 under Captain Price."
Morgan simply nodded once. "Understood, General."
"Dismissed," Smith ordered.
The room cleared quickly. Price and the General walked out discussing logistics, their voices fading down the hall. Morgan didn't move. She remained seated, her elbows resting on the table, her chin propped in her hands. She openly stared at Ghost as he slowly gathered his tactical folders. He moved deliberately, matching her stare, his dark eyes holding hers for one long, silent beat before he turned and strode out the door.
********************
The rain came down in relentless, freezing sheets, hammering against the reinforced roof of the military utility vehicle. A minor security anomaly had triggered a routine perimeter patrol through the dense, muddy woodlands surrounding Hereford. By a strange twist of administrative fate—or perhaps because a certain SAS Lieutenant had quietly rewritten the duty roster—Lieutenants Riley and Thorne found themselves assigned to the same vehicle, tasked with clearing the isolated northern sector.
The engine idled with a low, mechanical hum as they parked on a ridge overlooking the tree line. The windshield wipers swept back and forth in a monotonous rhythm. Inside the cabin, the pressure of the base corridors and the watchful eyes of the security cameras were entirely gone.
Morgan leaned her head back against the headrest, staring out into the dark, rain-slicked woods. She was bored, restless, and the quiet was driving her mad. She shifted in her seat, slanting a defiant, mocking gaze toward the driver’s side.
"You know, Riley," she murmured, her voice carrying a sharp, prodding edge. "For a guy who goes by 'Ghost', you take up a hell of a lot of space. Are you ever going to tell me why you hide behind that piece of cloth, or do I have to guess?"
Ghost kept his hands on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the dark perimeter. For a long moment, she thought he was going to ignore her completely. Then, he slowly turned his head to look at her. The shadows inside the cabin made the slits of his mask look like bottomless voids.
"The mask doesn't hide me, Thorne," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly whisper that felt entirely too close in the cramped space. "It keeps the world out. When you've seen the dirt I've crawled through... when you've had your own grave dug for you... you realize the man you were before didn't survive the trip. The mask is all that's left."
The raw, unexpected honesty of his words hit her like a physical force. It wasn't a tactical deflection; it was a fragment of his buried past, a quiet acknowledgment of the exact same self-destructive ledge she had been walking since Maggie’s deployment went south. He was showing her his scars.
Morgan stared at him, her green eyes wide, her chest tightening as a sudden, distinct acceleration of her own pulse rattled through her veins. The intensity in his gaze was suffocating. Unable to handle the sheer weight of the intimacy, she had to look away. She abruptly averted her eyes, turning her head back toward the rain-lashed side window, forcing her breathing to slow down.
Ghost noted the sharp shift in her posture, tracking the frantic beat of the pulse in her throat, but he didn't say a single word. He simply turned back to the steering wheel, his silent presence enveloping her in the dark as the rain continued to fall.
The silence stretched, heavy and unresolved, until Morgan’s green eyes suddenly locked onto a shadow cutting through the tree line.
"There's someone there..." she whispered, her hand already dropping to the grip of her sidearm.
Before Ghost could even shift the vehicle into gear, Morgan unlatched her door and slipped out into the freezing downpour. Ghost moved a split second later, his massive frame exiting the driver's side as they immediately split up to cover opposite flanks, their boots treading silently through the slick, heavy mud.
Through her night-vision optics, Morgan spotted them. It wasn't a military force, but a heavily armed syndicate—smugglers exploiting the storm and Hereford’s blind, forested boundaries to move contraband across the rural county lines, foolishly assuming the base security only monitored the interior perimeter. They were compromised, cornered, and instantly desperate enough to kill to protect their cargo.
A man peeled off from the main group, raising a shotgun. Morgan didn’t give him the chance. She lunged forward with terrifying speed, sweeping his legs out from under him, slamming him into the mud, and neutralizing him with a swift, brutal strike to the throat.
“Two targets moving west on your flank, Ghost” Morgan’s voice cracked over the comms, cold and perfectly steady.
“Copy. Visual on three more,” Ghost’s gravelly baritone replied as the dark woods erupted into a sudden, lethal firefight. A heavy, suppressed crack echoed from his side as Ghost dropped his target with a clean, surgical shot.
Morgan pushed deeper into the trees, completely in her element. She bypassed a thick pine, coming face-to-face with two smugglers raising their rifles. With fluid kinetic energy, she raised her weapon, firing two precise rounds into the chest of the first man, dropping him instantly, before pivoting to put a third bullet directly through the visor of the second.
From fifty meters out, a hidden syndicate scout raised a rifle, aiming dead at Morgan's blind spot.
Crack.
Ghost’s high-caliber sniper rifle barked through the storm from a distant ridge. The round tore through the scout before he could pull the trigger, saving her life in a fraction of a second.
“Watch your six, Eve,” Ghost grumbled over the radio, his breathing heavy.
“Thanks for the cover,” she fired back, already sprinting toward the remaining shouting voices. She rounded a muddy embankment, instantly dropping two more smugglers who were scrambling to secure a crate of contraband.
But down the ridge, the chaos had taken a dangerous turn.
A massive, towering smuggler—easily matching Ghost’s size—had taken advantage of the blind spot in the heavy rain, flanking Ghost’s position. A sudden, stray rifle shot tore through the brush, grazing Ghost’s thigh. The white-hot impact made his leg give way, his boot skidding on the slick mud.
The giant smuggler seized the weakness, lunging forward and tackling Ghost to the ground. The two massive men crashed into the mud in a brutal, hand-to-hand struggle. The smuggler drew a heavy combat knife, using his entire body weight to drive the blade down. Ghost’s muscles strained, his heavy forearms locking out, using every ounce of his raw, formidable strength to hold the blade inches away from his own throat.
Morgan heard the scuffle over the open comms. Her eyes snapped to the ridge. She saw the flash of the rifleman who had grazed Ghost and fired a single, lethal shot that took the shooter down. Then, she sprinted through the mud, her eyes locked on the giant pinning Ghost.
She didn't hesitate. She brought her weapon up and fired a clean round directly into the side of the giant's torso. The impact shocked the man, his grip breaking as he rolled off Ghost, crashing into the wet dirt. Morgan closed the distance instantly, her boots splashing in the mud as she stood over the fallen smuggler, pumping two more cold, merciless rounds into his chest to finish him and secure the perimeter.
The silence returned to the woods, broken only by the heavy downpour.
Morgan lowered her weapon, her chest heaving as she wiped the rain and mud from her face. She looked down at Ghost, who was still on his back, his breathing ragged.
"Area clear," she said, her voice dropping into a quiet, calm register.
Slowly, deliberately, she extended her hand down to him. Ghost stared at her hand through the rain, then reached up, his massive, muddy grip locking around hers. Morgan planted her boots and pulled, helping him heave his massive frame back onto his feet.
Morgan raised a hand to her earpiece, keying her comms back to base command. "Hereford Control, this is Lieutenant Thorne. Perimeter breach neutralized at Sector North. Organized syndicate smuggling operation. Send a cleanup crew and medical for transport. Out."
She dropped her hand, her green eyes shifting down to look at Ghost’s thigh, where blood was beginning to mix with the mud and rain. She looked up, locking eyes with his mask.
"Are you ok?" she asked, her tone a mix of genuine concern and her usual sharp edge.
Ghost shifted his weight, wincing almost invisibly as he tested his leg, a low, gravelly huff escaping his chest.
"Fuckin' fantastic," he growled.
*******************************
Five months of blood, sweat, and blackout ops with Task Force 141 had done something dangerous to the space between Eve and Ghost. Their dynamic had locked into place like a well-oiled weapon—seamless, lethal, and devastatingly synchronized. Yet, neither of them had dared to touch the volatile, magnetic current pulling them together, leaving it to burn quietly beneath the surface of every shared glance and tactical report.
But today, the focus was entirely elsewhere.
The heavy thud of flesh hitting leather and the squeak of combat sneakers echoed through the base gym. Sergeant Margaret "Maggie" Rochester was officially back on the canvas.
The sparring match was brutal, fast-paced, but thick with the effortless camaraderie only years in the SRR could forge. Eve was dominating the ring, moving with a fluid, terrifying grace. She was wearing loose training shorts and a cropped top layered over a tight sports bra, her skin glistening with sweat and her vibrant red hair pulled into a messy knot. Maggie, sporting a sports top and athletic leggings, was fighting like hell to keep up, her face flushed but grinning through her mouthguard.
Eve ducked under a sharp left hook from Maggie, slipping into her blind spot and landing a stinging combination to Maggie’s ribs.
"Come on, Rochester!" Eve teased, a sharp, competitive smirk flashing on her lips as she danced back. "Five months in the clinic and you’ve gone soft? My grandmother moves faster than you."
Maggie gasped for air, resetting her stance, her eyes gleaming with mischief. "Eat shit, Thorne."
They traded a rapid flurry of blows, gloves clashing loudly. Maggie leaned in close during a clinch, her voice dropping into a breathless, teasing whisper right against Eve's ear. "Besides... I hear you’ve been busy. Word on the base is you're finally taming the Ghost."
Eve’s eyes narrowed instantly. She threw a hard, heavy right cross that cracked squarely against Maggie's padded guard, forcing her back.
"Shut up, you asshole!" Eve countered, a dangerous but amused heat in her voice.
Right at that exact second, the heavy double doors of the gym swung open. Ghost and Soap walked in, their deep voices echoing into the space before they froze, tracking the action in the ring.
With Ghost watching, Eve closed the distance with terrifying speed. She executed a flawless, sweeping takedown, wrapping her limbs around Maggie in a tight submission hold. With a heavy thud, they hit the canvas, and Eve smoothly transitioned, ending up sitting triumphantly over Maggie’s torso, pinning her down.
Sitting right there, Eve instinctively snapped her head toward the entrance. Her green eyes immediately collided with Ghost’s dark gaze. For one single, fatal second, the absolute gravity of his presence shattered her focus.
Maggie didn't waste the slip-up. Seizing the momentary distraction, she bucked her hips with explosive strength and wrapped her powerful legs around Eve’s upper torso in a vice-like body triangle. With a sudden, vicious twist of her core, Maggie used the leverage to launch them backward, executing a brutal sacrifice throw. The momentum forced Eve to collapse hard toward the canvas, her spine slamming into the padding with a heavy, breathless thud that rattled her ribs.
Maggie scrambled to her feet, planting her hands flat on her hips as she looked down at her friend, laughing breathlessly. "Rule number one, Lieutenant. Never look away from the target."
Eve remained flat on her back, staring at the ceiling, her chest heaving violently as she fought to claw air back into her lungs, completely spent.
"Good to have you back, Rochester," Soap’s cheerful, Scottish baritone cut through the gym as he sauntered over to the edge of the ring. He leaned against the ropes, a charming, flirtatious grin plastered across his face. "Looking sharp out there. Barely recognized you without the hospital gown."
Maggie wiped the sweat from her forehead, completely forgetting about Eve as she walked over to the ropes, leaning over them to look down at Soap with an amused smile. "Missed me, MacTavish?"
Soap chuckled, his eyes darting briefly to the crumpled form of Eve on the floor. "Aye, always. Though I think you might have actually killed Thorne this time."
Without moving an inch from the floor, Eve raised a tired middle finger toward the ropes. "Shut the fuck up, Johnny."
Ghost stood a few paces behind Soap, completely motionless. He didn't join in on the banter. His massive frame was rooted to the spot, his eyes locked onto Eve through the slits of his balaclava, tracking the rapid rise and fall of her exposed midriff, absorbing the raw, exhausted sight of her.
Eve rolled onto her side, groaning softly as she dragged herself off the canvas. Instead of using the stairs, she effortlessly slid under the bottom rope, dropping to the gym floor. She grabbed her metal water bottle from the bench, slinging a towel over her shoulder, and began her steady march toward the exit.
Her path took her directly past Ghost. She didn't slow down, but as she drew parallel to his massive shoulder, she slanted her eyes up to meet his.
"Riley," she murmured, her raspy voice a quiet challenge.
"Thorne," Ghost responded, his deep, gravelly rumble vibrating between them like a physical touch.
As she kept walking, Maggie’s teasing voice boomed from the ring, laced with pure mischief. "Hey! Don't run away now, Thorne! I’m not done with you! Next time, try keeping your eyes on the target instead of checking out the skull!"
Soap's loud laughter immediately cut through the gym.
Without breaking her stride and without looking back, Eve threw her hand up, flashing a blind middle finger over her shoulder toward the ring.
"Fuck you, Margaret!" Eve called back loudly.
Behind her, Maggie's bright, unbothered laughter echoed through the gym as she turned right back to flirting with Soap, while Ghost remained entirely still, his silent gaze heavily tracking the red-haired lieutenant until she disappeared down the corridor.
************************
The skeletal remains of the industrial shipyards in Durrës, Albania, loomed like rusted giants against the stormy Adriatic Sea. Rain fell in thick, greasy sheets, washing over the concrete labyrinths controlled by a heavily funded Balkan militia.
To blend into the nighttime shift of the forced labor crews, Morgan was dressed in a heavy, grease-stained canvas boiler suit, her vibrant red hair tightly braided and tucked beneath a dirty worker’s cap. She was completely unarmed—carrying a hidden weapon through the biometric scanners of the main server room would have compromised the entire SRR insertion.
She had executed her part with flawless, clinical precision. Slipping into the communication hub, she planted the military-grade tracker deep within the militia’s localized server frames, securing Task Force 141 an uncompromised window into the syndicate's network.
But the extraction route through the eastern docks went south in a heartbeat.
Four heavily armed militia guards stepped out from a corrugated warehouse, completely cutting off her exit into a narrow, mud-slicked alleyway.
"Hey! Stop right there," the leader barked in broken English, blinding her with a heavy flashlight beam. "Show me your transit papers."
Morgan stopped, keeping her head low and her hands raised submissively. "Just finished my shift, sir. My papers are in the locker room."
The guards closed in, boots splashing in the puddles. The leader sneered, his eyes scanning the silhouette of her boiler suit. "Locker room is closed. Turn around. Hands against the wall. Full body sweep."
One of them reached out, his thick, dirty fingers gripping her shoulder to spin her around, trying to push her harder against the brick wall than necessary.
The moment his hand tightened, Eve’s submissive posture vanished. With explosive speed, she grabbed the guard's wrist, snapping the bone over the roar of the rain. Before he could scream, she drove her elbow upward into his jaw and snatched the sidearm from his holster. In one fluid motion, she spun and fired a clean round under the chin of the second guard, dropping him into the mud.
Before the remaining two could unholster their weapons, a massive shadow detached itself from the rusted roof above. Ghost descended like a demon.
His combat knife flashed through the gloom. In a fraction of a second, the blade ripped through the throat of the third guard, choking out his alarm. Without pausing, Ghost shifted his weight, locking his massive forearm around the neck of the last man and driving his knife straight up through the base of the skull.
The alley went dead silent, save for the patter of the rain. Ghost pulled his blade free, wiping the blood on his trousers, his dark eyes locking onto Morgan through his mask.
"Took you long enough," she breathed, her chest heaving.
"You had it covered," Ghost growled over the comms. "Move. Now."
The moment they hit the open pier, the base-wide alarms began to wail, a deafening klaxon tearing through the storm. Searchlights swept across the dark water, and the shipyard erupted into absolute chaos.
"Compromised! Compromised!" Soap’s voice crackled frantically through their earpieces over heavy static. “Ghost, Thorne, we’ve got hostile anti-air batteries cycling up across the entire coastline! We’re losing the airspace! Extraction chopper is forced to abort. You have to find a hole and dig in for twenty-four hours! Do you copy? Twenty-four—”
The radio went dead, swallowed by a wave of heavy electronic jamming.
"Shit," Morgan hissed.
A hail of automatic gunfire chewed through the wooden crates behind them. They sprinted down the slippery metal dock toward a docked, high-powered rib boat. Ghost was covering their rear, his rifle barking into the darkness, dropping militia reinforcements as they flooded the pier.
Suddenly, a hidden rifleman on a crane tower fired a burst.
Thud.
A heavy 7.62 round slammed squarely into the center of Ghost’s ballistic chest plate. The sheer kinetic force of the impact sounded like a sledgehammer hitting metal. The breath was violently driven from his lungs, his knees buckling as his boot skidded on the wet wood, sending him crashing heavily onto the dock.
Morgan reversed her stride, lunging through the gunfire to grab the heavy straps of his tactical vest. Fueled by raw adrenaline, she dragged his massive frame backward along the wet planks, hauling him behind the steel hull of a harbor crane.
Slamming her back against the metal, she leaned out with Ghost’s dropped rifle and fired three precise bursts into the advancing line, dropping the frontline hostiles and forcing the rest to dive for cover.
"Get up, Riley!" she snapped, grabbing his collar, her face inches from his mask. "Do not fuckin’ die now!"
Ghost gasped, a ragged, painful wheeze escaping his throat as his lungs finally unlocked. He forced himself up, his hand clutching his bruised chest. He gave her a sharp, resolute nod.
Together, they made a final break for the RIB. Ghost fired from the hip while Morgan unhooked the lines, roaring the twin engines to life. They tore away from the pier, bouncing violently across the black, choppy waves of the Adriatic as the storm swallowed them. The blinding rain and punishing three-meter swells made pursuit impossible, acting as a fortress that cut off any thermal signatures.
They pushed the vessel hard for three miles against the brutal swells, cutting north until the lights of the port faded into the downpour. Ghost guided the boat into a shallow marshland—a graveyard of rusted shipping containers on the outskirts of Durrës. After jamming the craft beneath a tangle of half-sunken debris to hide it from coastal patrols, they moved inland on foot.
Seeking immediate cover, they navigated the shadows of a deserted industrial district toward a derelict, Eastern Bloc apartment block. Ghost sheared through the rusted padlock of a rear maintenance door with his pry tool, and they slipped inside, moving silently up the dark stairwell to the third floor to establish their defensive position.
The room they claimed was bleak, suffocatingly damp, and smelled heavily of cold cement, mold, and old rain. Outside, the storm raged on, entirely isolating them from the rest of the world.
Morgan stepped away from the cracked, grime-streaked window, ensuring the perimeter was dark. The adrenaline was finally fading, leaving her bones aching and cold. Her canvas boiler suit was completely soaked through, heavy with mud and freezing sea water.
Acting with pure, unbothered professionalism, she unzipped the heavy suit, peeled it off her shoulders, and stepped out of the muddy legs. She dragged an old metal pipe from the debris, rigging it across a corner to hang the wet canvas, letting the seawater drip rhythmically onto the cement.
For a moment, she stood in the shadow-drenched room wearing only her thin cotton tank top and underwear, her pale skin instantly raising goosebumps against the freezing draft. Her vibrant red hair clung to her neck, water droplets tracing down her collarbone.
Ghost tracked her movements silently from the center of the room. Despite his intense physical pain, his dark eyes tracked her movements through the slits of his mask. He watched the curve of her waist, the unyielding strength in her posture, and the way the pale fabric of her tank top clung to her skin.
Reaching down with a strained grunt, he unbuckled the side straps of his assault pack. He reached inside, pulling out a rolled, tightly packed military-issue black hoodie—completely dry and heavy. He tossed it across the small space.
"Put it on," he growled softly. "Hypothermia will kill you faster than the militia."
Morgan caught it, the dry fabric a blessed relief against her shivering skin. She slid the heavy black hoodie over her head. It was massive on her frame, the hem easily swallowing her shorts, leaving her thighs bare.
With one heavy hand clamped firmly over his bruised ribs, Simon moved stiffly toward a battered, stained sofa in the corner of the room. As he walked, his fingers tore at the quick-release buckles of his heavy tactical vest, letting the iron plates clatter loudly against the concrete floor. He ripped off his damp combat gloves, letting them drop into the shadows, before collapsing heavily into the worn cushions, a raw grimace of pain tightly locking his jaw.
Morgan didn't take her eyes off him for a single second.
He sat there, hunched over, his breathing ragged. Yet, despite the agonizing flare in his side, his dark eyes remained fixed on her through the slits of his mask. He tracked the way his massive hoodie hung off her shoulders, the bare expanse of her legs, and the unyielding, fierce strength in her posture.
The professional distance they had maintained for five months was suddenly fraying at the edges.
Morgan walked over, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. Before sitting down, she looked at him, her voice dropping into a quiet, unyielding register that left no room for argument.
"Shirt off. Let me see the damage."
She commanded and sat directly beside him on the narrow sofa. Her proximity was overwhelming.
Ghost grunted, but he didn't fight her. With slow, strained movements, he pulled his black combat shirt over his head, discarding it into the dark.
He sat before her completely bare-chested, a towering expanse of thick muscle, heavy ink, and a map of violent, jagged scars earned in dark corners of the earth. His chest was already blooming with a massive, terrifying purple and black bruise directly over his ribs where the round had hit. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in heavy, ragged intervals.
Morgan’s breath hitched in her throat. For a fraction of a second, her professional armor cracked. She openly stared at the raw, imposing sight of him, her green eyes tracing the hard lines of his abdomen, the width of his shoulders, and the heat radiating off his skin. She forced herself to swallow the lump in her throat, resetting her focus.
"Hold still," she whispered.
She reached out, her fingers warm against his freezing, damp skin. She gently pressed her hand against his ribs, palpating the edges of the dark bruise to check for fractures. Feeling his chest expand against her palm, hearing the sharp, caught hiss of his breath as her fingers traced his skin, created a sudden, suffocating electricity in the dark room.
Without looking up at his face, her focus remaining intensely on his bruised skin. "I'm not drunk this time, Simon," she whispered, her voice tight, raw, and completely devoid of fear.
Ghost, who had been watching her the entire time, tracking every micro-expression on her face, didn't answer with words. Slowly, deliberately, he raised his hand. He reached for the hem of his mask and pulled it upward, stripping it completely from his head and tossing it onto the floor.
In that exact moment, Eve looked up. Her eyes were intense, perplexed, and utterly fascinated by the man beneath the myth. He was handsome in a rugged, dangerous way, his pale skin marred by a heavy scar at the corner of his lip, his light hair damp with sweat. Her gaze instinctively dropped to his lips, heavy and parted, before her hand slowly traveled up his chest, her fingers wrapping firmly around his strong, tense jawline.
Simon didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
With a sudden, predatory movement, his massive hand shot up, his fingers tangling deeply into her wet, red hair at the back of her head. He lunged forward, tilting her face up and slamming his mouth against hers in a brutal, burning kiss.
It was an absolute explosion of every ounce of sexual tension they had buried under blood, orders, and discipline for months. Simon pulled her body flush against his bare chest, his lips parting hers with an aggressive, possessive hunger, tasting the rain and the fire on her tongue, erasing the distance between them until there was nothing left but the heat of their skin in the dark.
The heat of his mouth against hers was suffocating, a violent release of months of forced restraint. Simon’s massive hands slid down from her hair, clamping around her waist with bruising force as he lifted her effortlessly, shifting her body until she was straddling his lap on the battered sofa. Her knees digging into the cushions on either side of his thighs, her fingers immediately tearing at the heavy tactical belt and tactical trousers at his waist, desperate to rid them of the remaining barrier.
Simon growled low in his throat, a primal, jagged sound that vibrated straight against her lips. He gripped the hem of the heavy black hoodie he had loaned her, dragging it up and over her head in one swift, rough motion, tossing it into the shadows. He didn't stop there; his large hands caught the bottom of her thin white tank top, pulling it off right behind the hoodie, before his fingers hooked into the waistband of her underwear. With a desperate, animalistic tug, the fabric tore completely, exposing her to the damp, cold air of the room.
Neither of them could feel the cold anymore. Eve was completely naked against his chest, skin against skin, the friction intoxicating. Simon's large hands roamed wildly over her body, gripping her thighs and pressing his palms into the small of her back, squeezing her tightly against him. Eve let out a series of low, breathless whimpers straight into his mouth, shifting her hips as she felt the hard, unyielding pressure of his erection grinding directly against her wet center.
With a sudden, powerful surge of his upper body, completely oblivious to the white-hot flare of agony in his bruised ribs, Simon flipped her. He pinned her flat against the back of the couch, his massive, bare chest crushing down against her breasts, his heavy weight anchoring her beneath him.
He didn't wait. He guided himself against her soaking wet heat and drove into her in one deep, unyielding thrust that buried him completely inside her.
Eve gasped, her head slamming back against the cushions with a long, raw, deeply sensual moan. Her hands instantly flew to his broad shoulders, her fingernails digging deep into his skin as her body stretched to accommodate him. The sheer, raw size of him filled her entirely, a hard, relentless pressure that made her mind go completely blank.
Simon didn't give her time to breathe. He began to move, his hips slamming against hers with a brutal, heavy rhythm. Every impact was hard and unhurried, his thighs grinding against hers as he drove inside her over and over again, his breath coming in ragged, harsh pants right against her ear.
"Simon—fuck," Eve choked out, her voice breaking as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, squeezing her thighs hard against his flanks, pulling him deeper with desperate, frantic strength.
The encounter was messy, raw, and completely unpolished. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the rain still damp on her skin. The old leather of the sofa groaned beneath their combined, violent movements, the sound swallowed by the heavy downpour outside. Simon’s hands pinned her wrists to the couch on either side of her head, his fingers locking between hers, asserting complete, dominant control as he continued to punish her body with deep, heavy strokes.
He let out a low, guttural grunt with every thrust, his jaw clenched so hard the muscles in his neck strained to the bursting point. Eve was completely undone beneath him, the friction between them staggering, building a white-hot, agonizing pleasure that threatened to shatter her.
"Look at me," Simon growled, his gravelly baritone rough, completely stripped of the soldier. "Eve. Look at me."
She looked up at him, her green eyes heavy-lidded and hooded with pure, unadulterated pleasure. She locked her gaze onto his face, panting heavily as he delivered devastating, deep thrusts that hit her core. Seeing the absolute, possessive focus in his eyes as he claimed her body destroyed the last remnants of her control. Her inner muscles clamped down hard around him, pulsing violently as a shattering, overwhelming climax tore through her frame.
Simon felt the sudden, crushing squeeze of her release and lost his own grip completely. With a final, guttural roar that tore from his chest, he drove into her one last time, pinning her hips hard against the cushions as he came inside her, his entire massive frame shuddering violently as he poured himself into her.
He collapsed forward, burying his face in the crook of her wet, tangled red hair, his chest heaving as their ragged, broken breathing filled the dark, quiet safehouse.
*****************
The golden morning sun cut sharply through the thin curtains of Eve’s apartment, casting a warm, amber glow across the room and illuminating the smooth, pale expanse of her bare back. The frantic, muddy desperation of Albania was gone, replaced by the quiet, heavy heat of her bedroom.
Eve was straddling Simon, completely naked, her knees dug into the mattress on either side of his massive thighs. She was moving with an agonizingly slow, calculated sensuality, lifting her hips and slumping back down, sliding her wet center deliberately against the thick, stretching length of him. Simon lay flat on his back, his large, scarred hands clamped firmly around the flare of her hips, anchoring her, guiding the agonizingly slow rhythm. His head was tilted slightly forward off the pillow, his jaw tense, his dark eyes hooded and his mouth parted in a tight, breathless grimace as he watched her claim him.
The heavy, dragging friction was pure torture, driving Simon to the absolute brink of collapse. With every slow, rolling arch of her pelvis, the heavy bounce of Eve’s full breasts caught the morning light—a staggering, breathless sight that held Simon entirely captive. He watched the taut peak of her nipples harden in the cool air, contrasted against the burning heat where their bodies locked together.
Unable to take the agonizing restraint any longer, Simon’s grip on her hips tightened until his knuckles turned white. He surged upward, sitting straight up in the bed. The sudden change in trajectory forced him deeper inside her, his broad, scarred chest colliding heavily with her bare breasts, skin sticking to skin in a rush of sweltering heat.
Eve gasped, her spine arching as she instinctively braced herself against Simon’s flexed, bent knees that framed her body. The tangled white sheets were twisted around them, only partially covering the curve of her thighs and his hips, leaving the raw, visceral point of their connection completely exposed to the sunlight.
Simon reached up, his large fingers wrapping firmly around her jawline. He tilted her head down, forcing her face closer to his. Simon looked up through his lashes, his sharp, possessive gaze locking onto her wild green eyes as he delivered a sudden, hard upward thrust that hit her core.
Eve’s breath hitched, her inner muscles clamping down around him in a crushing wave of friction that made Simon let out a series of muffled, guttural groans straight into her mouth. He pulled her lips down against his, swallowing her long, trembling moans as his hips began to work beneath her with a deeper, heavy intensity—savoring every inch, ruthless and explicit in the bright morning light. After months of suffocating, buried tension, there were no more barriers, no more uniforms, and no more regulations between them; they were finally claiming each other entirely, raw and without restriction.
