Page 3 of Damian
My pulse hammered. Fear and fury tangled until my voice came out sharper than I intended. “They have my sister. You think I’m just going to sit back and let you handle it?”
A muscle ticked in his jaw. For the first time, something flickered in his eyes—frustration, maybe even respect.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “This is going to be trouble.”
2
Damian
Bloody reckless.
The woman sat opposite me in the back of the van, hair mussed, wrists red from the ties, her eyes blazing with more fire than sense. She should have been shaking. Most people did after a near miss like that. Instead, she looked like she was already planning her next move.
And that was the problem.
I’d seen her type before—civilians with more heart than training, the kind who thought courage could outrun bullets. They didn’t last long. But there was something in the way she held my stare, chin high even though her hands trembled in her lap, that told me Morgan Tate was no ordinary civilian.
“Stop glaring at me,” she snapped, voice raw but steady. “It’s not my fault they took her.”
Her. Ruby. The name had been in the file, a sixteen-year-old girl snatched off the street. The reason Morgan had walked into the trap instead of calling for help.
I leaned forward, bracing my forearms on my knees, my voice low and sharp. “You walked straight into their hands without backup. That’s not brave, love. That’s suicide.”
Her eyes narrowed, gray-blue flashing like storm light. “And what was I supposed to do? Sit around while they hurt my sister? Wait for some man with a gun to swoop in?”
My mouth tightened.That’s exactly what you did. And lucky for you, I showed up.
But I didn’t say it. Instead, I let out a slow breath, forcing my temper back under control. Anger wouldn’t get her sister back. And Ruby was leverage now, bait on a hook Luthor would keep dangling.
The name burned in my head like a brand: Luthor.
I hadn’t expected to hear it tonight, not this soon. But the moment I’d seen the man in the suit scuttle back, muttering about his employer, I’d known. The bastard’s reach stretched farther than I’d thought. And now this woman—this bloody stubborn writer—had stumbled straight into his line of fire.
She shifted on the bench, rubbing her wrists, her chin still tilted like she refused to let me see her cracks. “You don’t know me. Don’t act like you do.”
I almost smiled at that. Sharp tongue. Fire under the fear. Most people begged when I dragged them out of a cell. She challenged.
I sat back, crossing my arms over my chest. “You’re right. I don’t know you. But I do know Luthor. And if he’s marked you, love, you’re not just in over your head—you’re swimming in bloody shark water.”
For the first time, her bravado flickered. A crease formed between her brows, quick but real. Then she straightened, meeting my stare with stubborn defiance. “Then teach me to swim.”
Hell.
I scrubbed a hand down my jaw, biting back the curse that rose in my throat. She had no idea what she was asking. No idea what it cost. But as her words hung between us, something shifted in my chest—a flicker I hadn’t felt in years.
It wasn’t just reckless courage. It was loyalty. Fierce, blinding, unbreakable.
And God help me, I was already in trouble.
The van rattledover broken pavement. Cyclone drove, River watched the mirrors, both silent but tuned in.
I kept my focus on Morgan. She rubbed her wrists, wincing. The bruises would darken by morning.
“Start talking,” I ordered. “What exactly did you write that got Luthor’s attention?”
She bristled. “I don’t know. I dug into articles, interviews, and public records. I pieced things together for my book. I found stuff on the internet.”
I leaned closer, voice flat. “You pieced too well. Luthor doesn’t like sunlight. You put a bloody target on your back.”
