Simon "Ghost" Riley oneshots

Bodyguard

The heavy iron gates of the Holmby Hills estate slid open without a sound, revealing the vast sprawl of the billionaire heiress's modern palace bathed in golden twilight. Polished stone gleamed under the last slivers of sun, and palm trees cast long shadows across the marble driveway.

The black Range Rover came to a stop, the door opening with a soft click. Out stepped Simon "Ghost" Riley, head-to-toe in black. Polished boots, dark jeans fitted just enough to hint at power beneath, a leather jacket hugging broad shoulders, and gloves still on like he hadn't bothered to shed his wariness. His silver Beretta glinted against his chest holster, and his face, mostly concealed under the signature skull mask and balaclava, was unreadable, save for those sharp, calculating eyes.

The mansion loomed before him, glass, steel, and beauty. Expensive. Cold. Guarded by security that was likely ornamental now that he was here.

A maid opened the massive oak double doors. "She's waiting for you," she said softly, eyes flicking to his masked face, a shiver betraying her fascination. Ghost gave a small nod and stepped inside.

Cool air kissed his neck as he entered, fragrant with something floral and expensive. The marble floors mirrored the dim chandelier light above, and in the distance, soft jazz played, sultry, lazy, almost like a tease.

And then he saw you.

You were descending the grand staircase barefoot, in a silk robe that clung to your curves, the fabric the color of champagne and just as decadent. Your hair tumbled in waves around your shoulders, and your lips curled into the faintest, unreadable smile as your eyes met his.

"So... you're the one they sent to protect me?" you asked, voice smooth as velvet.

Ghost didn't move, didn't blink. "I'm not here to impress you," he said, tone low and graveled, the London accent darkening every syllable. "I'm here to keep you alive."

You stepped off the last stair and crossed the room toward him, every movement slow and deliberate, provocative without trying. "You don't look like a bodyguard."

He tilted his head, watching you like a wolf watches the breeze before the pounce. "Good. I'm not here to play nice either."

There was a beat of silence. Tension thickened in the space between you, dangerous, electric.

You stopped just a foot away, close enough to smell the leather and steel on him. Your gaze dipped to the Beretta on his chest, then up to his mask. "You planning to keep that on the whole time?"

His eyes locked on hers, expression unreadable beneath the skull. "Only until I know you're not a threat."

Your smile deepened. "What makes you think I'm not?"

Ghost didn't answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched, barely there, but it was something. You'd gotten under his skin already.

And he was staying.

The silence between them lingered a moment longer before you finally turned on your heel, her robe swishing softly against her thighs.

"Come," you said over your shoulder. "Let's talk somewhere more... civilized."

Ghost followed you through the mansion's vast open-plan halls, boots making no sound on the polished floors. The walls were lined with abstract art, soft lighting casting shadows that danced as they passed. You led him into a luxurious drawing room, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the glowing sprawl of Los Angeles below. Plush cream couches were arranged around a glass coffee table, a sleek black piano resting in one corner of the room.

"Take a seat," you said, already moving toward the adjacent kitchenette. "Coffee?"

"Black," he answered, standing still, watching her every move. You moved like you knew you were being watched, and enjoyed it.