The Ghost She Can't Outrun

Damien Vale

He had watched her laugh.

Not through a screen. Not from a report.

But from across the street. Hidden behind tinted glass and silence.

Elena. Smiling. Glowing with something he hadn't seen on her in months.

Freedom.

He'd let her run.

He told himself it was a test. That she would crawl back to him eventually. That the memory of what they shared—what he gave her—would eat her alive. But she hadn't crawled.

She had bloomed.

In another man's shadow.

Damien's jaw clenched as he remembered the moment Christopher touched her stomach.

The understanding hit him in a violent, wordless wave.

She didn't even know.

But he did.

His men had followed her appointments. A private clinic. An early sonogram. A prescription for prenatal vitamins tucked discreetly in her bag.

Damien knew her cycle better than she did.

Of course the child was his.

And she hadn't told him.

His hands flexed on the leather armrest of the chair as he watched her through the scope again. She was alone now, sipping tea. Lost in thought. Wearing his absence like a second skin she didn't know still belonged to him.

But it wasn't her peace that tore him open.

It was the kiss.

Christopher had leaned in. Said something Damien couldn't hear but didn't need to. And then her mouth met his—slow, tender. Trusting.

That broke him.

That shattered the fragile self-control he had clawed into place all these months.

She wasn't supposed to let another man touch her. Not his woman. Not the mother of his child.

And now, she thought she was safe. Thought he'd let her go.

Damien stood from his chair in the shadows and slid the gloves onto his hands with quiet precision.

Let her have her illusion of safety.

Tonight, he'd remind her:

You don't run from the storm when it made you its home.

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