Taming the Beast: 11. The Ghost's Truth

The standoff stretched, thick with gun smoke and silence.

Ciaran didn’t move, his weapon fixed on the intruder. The scars across his jaw were taut, his body poised to kill. But the name he’d spat—Rourke—hung in the air like a curse, sharp enough to cut through even his control.

Rourke stepped casually over the bodies littering the floor, not so much as glancing at the men Ciaran had slaughtered. His shoes crunched over glass. His smile was almost polite.

“Always efficient,” Rourke drawled. “That’s why I chose you back then. Why the others followed you. You could do what they couldn’t.”

“Don’t,” Ciaran snapped. His voice was lower now, darker.

But Rourke only arched a brow. His gaze slid to Elodie, who was pressed against the wall, pulse hammering as she tried to piece together the scene. Ciaran—the Beast—knew this man. And not just as an enemy.

“Oh,” Rourke murmured, his smile curving sharper. “You haven’t told her.”

Elodie’s stomach clenche