Page 21 of Damian
I wasn’t just protecting an asset anymore.
I was protecting Morgan Tate.
And I’d kill anyone who thought to use her to bleed me.
22
Morgan
The farmhouse felt emptier without them.
I told myself I liked the quiet — I was an introvert, after all — but tonight the silence pressed too close. Every creak of the rafters, every whisper of wind against the windows made me tense. I tried to bury myself in the files, scribbling notes and whispering lines into my recorder, but my mind kept straying back to Damian.
The way his voice filled a room even when he spoke low. The way his eyes locked on me, sharp and unyielding, like I was something worth holding steady.
And the way my heart had stuttered when he crouched in front of me earlier, telling me I wasn’t failing Ruby. No one had ever looked at me like that before — like they believed I could hold the world together with nothing but sheer stubbornness.
I pressed the recorder to my lips, whispering, “He doesn’t see me. Not really. He sees a liability he has to keep alive. That’s all.”
But my cheeks burned, betraying me. Because some part of me wondered if that was true.
I’d noticed the way his shoulders filled a doorway, the steady strength in his hands when he cut me free in that warehouse, the faint scar along his jaw that made him look carved out of grit and storm. Things I had no business noticing with Ruby still missing, with danger pressing in.
I shook my head, setting the recorder down. “Focus, Mo,” I muttered. “This isn’t a romance novel.”
But the warmth blooming low in my chest didn’t listen. It curled there, quiet but insistent, waiting.
I pulled the blanket tighter around me, staring at the door. I wasn’t ready to name whatever this was — attraction, safety, something deeper — but I knew one thing for certain.
When Damian came back, I’d breathe easier.
And maybe that said more than I wanted it to.
23
Damian
The taillights ahead glowed faint red through the fog, steady as a heartbeat. Hemsley’s truck rumbled along the highway, heavy with whatever Caldwell was smuggling through Bright Shores.
River leaned forward in the passenger seat, eyes narrowed. “He’s not just heading south. He’s weaving. Testing the mirror.”
“He knows we’re out here,” I muttered. “Question is whether he wants us to follow or lose him.”
Cyclone’s voice was calm, clinical. “Tracker’s holding. We can peel back, wait to see where he roosts.”
I tightened my grip on the wheel. Patience had never been my strength when a bastard like Hemsley dangled bait in front of me. But Morgan’s face flickered in my mind — her wide eyes, the recorder clutched in her hands, her whispered words: 'I feel like I’m failing Ruby.'
She wasn’t failing. I was. Every minute wasted on games was another Ruby spent in shadows.
“We hold distance,” I said, forcing my tone even. “We can’t spook him, not yet.”
River shot me a sideways look. “Since when do you play cautious?”
“Since I’ve got more than my own neck on the line,” I snapped before I could bite it back.
Silence settled, heavy. I didn’t have to explain. They’d seen it — the way Morgan lingered in my focus, the way I carried her words like shrapnel in my chest.
The truck veered off the main road, tires crunching gravel. Cyclone’s screen pulsed green, steady as ever.
