A Collection of Short Stories | Simon Riley "Ghost" x Reader

kingdom of cards: chapter 2

Ghost's hand is a vice around the grip of his rifle, the weapon a cold extension of his own turbulent emotions.

The static hum of the surveillance equipment fills the silence around him as he stares at the screens, the pixels painting a picture that tells him that you are walking a tightrope without a net.

"Price," he starts, the name a demand for action, "she's off the grid. She's good, but this guy's a wildcard." His voice is taut, like a wire pulled too tight, ready to snap.

Captain Price, ever the anchor in the storm, meets Ghost's gaze with a steadiness that's seen more wars than most.

"We trust her, Ghost. Y/N's got this," Price replies, his tone leaving no room for debate.
But trust isn't a bulletproof vest, and Ghost's mind races with every scenario that could play out in the darkness of the gardens.

"She shouldn't be alone," he insists, a rare crack in the armor of his disciplined exterior.

Price shakes his head, a silent order. "No. Any interference now could compromise her. We do this her way."

Frustration coils in Ghost's chest, a serpent that he can't quell.

He turns away from Price, a silent snarl behind the skull mask.

A moment of hesitation, then a decision. He switches the channel on his comm, the buzz signaling a line to Soap.

"Johnny, this is Ghost. Y/N's out of visual, headed towards the gardens with the HVT. I need you on her six. Make sure she comes out of this in one piece," he instructs, each word laced with the barely restrained urgency of a man walking the knife's edge between orders and instinct.

Soap's response is immediate, a low murmur of agreement that's both professional and personal.

"She won't be alone. I'm on it."

Ghost's stance softens just a fraction, the assurance that Soap is on the move bringing a grim sort of comfort.

He can't shake the unease, the protective fury that comes with being sidelined when you were in the lion's den.

He's left with nothing but to watch, wait, and hope that the trust they all place your capabilities is enough to see you safely through the night's dark turn.

The waiting is a silent agony, the not knowing a ghost's whisper that he fights to ignore.

The man that remains your target guides you back towards the mansion, his hand resting possessively, perilously low on the small of your back.

The touch is meant to be proprietary, a silent claim that you tolerate only for the sake of the mission.

His fingers are a whisper against the fabric of your dress, a whisper that speaks of dark promises and darker intentions.

"You handle yourself well in such esteemed company," he murmurs, his voice a velvet rumble that doesn't match the steel in his eyes.

"A woman of your grace is a rare find in these lavish yet insipid parties."

You offer a smile, demure and alluring, designed to draw him further into the web you weave.

"One could say I've learned to navigate these waters with a certain... finesse," you reply, the words dripping with a subtext that you know he can't resist.

He chuckles, a sound that ripples through the thickening air between you. "Finesse," he repeats, savoring the word as if it were a delicacy.

"I'm quite adept at recognizing it, and it appears you have it in spades."