Falling For My Dead Husband's Ghost

A thick, white vapor billowed out from the opening pod, instantly shrouding the platform in a dense fog of cold. It smelled of ozone and ice.

Cal Hyde scrambled backward, his arrogant smirk replaced by a mask of pure, slack-jawed terror. Amelie was frozen in place, her lungs refusing to draw air, her mind refusing to process what she was seeing.

A hand emerged from the mist.

It was pale, the knuckles sharp, but it was a hand of undeniable strength. It gripped the edge of the pod, fingers digging into the metal.

Slowly, a figure sat up.

The vapor swirled and began to dissipate, revealing a man's torso, lean and muscled, dotted with the faint adhesive marks of medical sensors.

Then, his face.

It was the face from the photographs, but impossibly more. Sharper, more severe, radiating an aura of cold fury that made the air crackle. His eyes, a startlingly dark blue, were open and lethally intelligent. There was no death in them. Only rage.

Byron Hyde was alive.

The blood drained from Cal's face. He looked like he had seen a ghost, a real one this time. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the stone floor in a heap of expensive tailoring.

"Un... Uncle?" he stammered, his voice a pathetic squeak. "Are... are you... what are you?"

Byron didn't spare him a glance. His gaze, intense and piercing, locked directly onto Amelie. He took in her torn dress, the terror on her face, the way she was pressed against his tomb like a frightened animal.

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. Anger, yes, but something else too. Something that looked disturbingly like... guilt?

Amelie's brain finally rebooted, only to short-circuit again.

Alive. He's alive.

And a second, more horrifying thought struck her like a physical blow.

If he's alive... then the man who comes to my bed every night...

Her eyes shot back to him. The height. The breadth of his shoulders. The scent of whiskey and sandalwood that she now realized was clinging faintly to him even through the cold. The overwhelming sense of power.

It was him.

It had always been him.

Byron rose from the pod. His movements were slightly stiff, but fluid with contained power. He ripped the remaining sensors from his chest and let them fall. As if on cue, a hidden panel in the wall beside the pod slid open, revealing a neatly folded black silk robe. He reached for it and shrugged it on, tying the belt with a sharp tug.

He stepped off the platform and walked toward his nephew.

"You said," Byron's voice was a low, gravelly rasp, a sound that seemed to come from the very depths of the earth, "that you were going to 'take care of' my wife?"

Cal whimpered, scrambling backward on his hands and feet like a crab. "No! I... I was joking! Uncle, I swear! Forgive me!"

Byron's foot came down on Cal's outstretched hand.

A sickening crack echoed through the mausoleum.

Cal screamed, a high, piercing shriek of agony.

"Get out," Byron said, the words clipped and cold.

He lifted his foot.

"And take a message back to your father. Tell him to leash his dog. The next time, it won't be a wrist. It will be a neck."

Clutching his shattered hand, Cal scrambled to his feet and fled, stumbling out of the mausoleum as if the devil himself were at his heels. The sound of his terrified shouts faded, followed by the frantic roar of a car engine peeling away.

Silence descended once more. A heavy, suffocating silence that was now filled with a new kind of terror.

It was just the two of them.

Amelie was shaking, her entire body trembling as she stared at the man who was her husband, her tormentor, her savior. Her mind couldn't hold all the contradictions.

He turned and walked toward her.

Instinct took over. She flinched back, pressing herself harder against the cold metal of the pod. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and a burgeoning, white-hot hatred.

He stopped in front of her. For a long moment, he just looked at her, his expression unreadable.

Then, he untied his silk robe. He didn't say a word as he draped it over her shoulders, covering her torn dress, her exposed skin. The fabric was heavy, cool, and smelled of him.

He met her gaze, his own dark and deep, a chasm of secrets. He seemed about to speak, but his face paled. His body swayed, as if the strength that had animated him had suddenly been cut off.

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he collapsed, falling to the stone floor in a dead faint.