“You’re safe,” Spratt murmured.
Later, at the station, wrapped in a blanket and drinking a cup of coffee—an inappropriate beverage for a child, but all the station had—Ghost explained the conflict. Krayev wanted to add him to his stable, Ghost had demurred, and the situation had escalated from there.
He’d arrested Vasily Krayev for assaulting not only Ghost—who’d refused to press charges—but Spratt as well, who had pressed charges. Thugs like Krayev didn’t belong on the streets. Spratt had not been dismayed to find that the meth dealer and occasional pimp had been murdered eight months ago.
Spratt had made promises to Ghost that day, about his safety and his future, promises that he’d since failed to keep, a situation that had, at times, haunted him. He didn’t like failing his citizens, particularly those who were exposed to the vagaries of the world and their own flawed conditioning.
Getting the boy into residential treatment hadn’t been difficult, as he’d apparently been there many times before, but keeping him on the straight and narrow when he wasn’t in custody was trickier.
The streets had their hooks in his boy.
“How was it?” he asked now, as Ghost put down his fork.
“Delicious. Thank you.”
Spratt nodded and began clearing the plates. He was on the verge of guiding the boy back into the closet when he said, “Please may I come upstairs?”
Spratt frowned. “Ghost...”
“I’ll be good,” the boy said hurriedly. “I’m so sorry I hurt you. I know I’ve damaged your trust in me, and it’s—it’s unforgivable, what with everything you’ve done for me, I wasn’t trying to hurt you, I swear, but I forget, sometimes, that I can trust you, and I do stupid things and try to leave. Not because I want to...it’s just...familiar.”
“I will always come back for you,” Spratt said.
“I know that now. I should’ve had faith.”
Spratt considered him. “The closet is the safer place for you. You can’t get into trouble there.”
Ghost leaned away from the closet, a movement so slight that a less observant man would’ve missed it altogether. “Please. Let me stay with you. For a few minutes more at least. Please? I’ll be good.”
“You won’t try to leave?”
“I don’t want to leave you. Just the closet...it’s claustrophobic in there.”
“I imagine it is.” Spratt pursed his lips. The boy was incredibly slippery. He’d run from foster homes countless times, and reverted to the bad habits he’d picked up on the streets when given the opportunity. He might try to flee if Spratt allowed him out of the room. At the same time, though, Spratt didn’t care for leaving the boy in there indefinitely. It was far too much like captivity, and that wasn’t what this was about.
“All right,” Spratt agreed. “You’ve earned a bit of a break. You’ve been very well-behaved of late. Wait in your closet. I’ll lock the door and get you some clothes, and then you can come upstairs with me for a bit.”
“All right.”
After Ghost was secured, he took the tray upstairs and obtained some clothes for the boy, as well as his spare set of handcuffs. It would be easier to restrain Ghost within the closet against his will later this way, if necessary.
When Ghost was dressed and cuffed with his hands in front of him, he had Ghost lead the way upstairs. He encouraged the boy to sit on a stool at the island, then turned his attention to the dishes in the sink. The salmon had left a tough film on the skillet.
“Will you tell me a story?” Ghost asked. “About your day? Please?”
He was lonely. Of course he was. So Spratt talked about work for nearly an hour, telling the few stories he had which were child-appropriate.
By the time the clock read eleven and he was thinking of bed, Ghost was asking many questions, drawing the minutes out, his words rushing together as the seconds ticked by.
“It’s time,” Spratt said apologetically.
“No, please. Five more minutes. You don’t have to talk. We could just sit here.”
“I’m afraid I’m rather tired.”
“There’s bound to be—”
“Ghost.” The boy jerked, and Spratt softened his tone. “Don’t. I need my rest in order to be satisfactory at my job.”
“May I sleep with you?” Ghost asked. “I could. There are things I could do. For you.” He tipped his head to one side coquettishly, biting his lip and glancing up at Spratt through his eyelashes. In the hands of a common whore it would’ve been obvious and tacky. Ghost was neither. He appeared nothing more than an innocent tempted by a force larger than himself. A stupider man—or one desperate to believe the lie—would’ve found it convincing.
Spratt sighed inwardly. Every time he thought they’d gotten past this behavior, it reared up once more. Would there ever come a time when Ghost would trust him? When Ghost’s first response to fear wasn’t to sacrifice his body to the lusts of other men? They’d been doing so well.
Spratt crossed to Ghost and cupped that sweet face in his palms. Ghost tensed, but reached his cuffed hands up to work at the top button of the too-large oxford Spratt had given him to wear. Spratt shook his head, brushing those questing fingers gently aside. “Haven’t I told you that I will never touch you that way?”
Ghost’s gaze darted away. “Yes.”
“Even if I didn’t prefer women, even if I were the sort of man who was attracted to the sorts of vile things you’ve experienced in the past, I could never harm you, Ghost. If you would only talk to me, I could help you in so many ways.”
Ghost shifted his weight from foot to foot, still staring at the wall. “I can’t,” he muttered finally. “I would, but I—I can’t.”
Spratt ignored the twinge of anger and disappointment he felt whenever Ghost refused to discuss the Krayev matriarch.
“Why do you hold to this fiction?” Spratt leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to Ghost’s forehead. “We both know she sent you here. We both
