Page 8 of Damian
It wasn’t loud — more like a startled sound she hadn’t meant to let out — but it loosened the room in a way I hadn’t expected. Cyclone smirked into his mug, River leaned in with that damned easy grin of his, and for the first time since I’d dragged her out of a death trap, Morgan didn’t look like a woman balanced on the edge of breaking.
She looked like she belonged.
And that should have unsettled me more than it did.
“Ruby would like you,” she’d said, soft as a prayer. Her words lingered like smoke. I’d seen that before — civilians clawing for hope, for any thread that tethered them to the people they loved. But there was steel underneath Morgan Tate I hadn’t pegged at first glance. It was in the way she sat straighter now, the way her eyes met theirs without flinching. Fear hadn’t left her. She’d just decided it wouldn’t have her.
I slid the bolt back into place and checked the chamber. “You three done with your tea party?”
River snorted. “Coffee, mate. The stuff you Brits call tea wouldn’t keep a sparrow awake.”
I gave him a flat look, then shifted my gaze to Morgan. She dropped her eyes quick, color high on her cheeks. Caught. She knew I’d been watching.
Good. Let her know. Maybe it would make her careful.
Still, I couldn’t shake the image of her bent over the paperwork earlier, whispering fragments of narrative like she was half in another world. Most people processed trauma in silence. She processed it out loud, stitching order into chaos with words. That habit would get her noticed in the field, maybe even killed. But it also meant her mind was always turning, pulling threads others missed.
And that… that I could use.
I leaned back, folding my arms. “Get some rest, Morgan. We move at first light.”
Her brows knit. “Where?”
“Warehouse you flagged. Might be nothing. Might be where they’re funneling girls like Ruby. Either way, it’s our start.”
Fear flickered across her face — quick, raw — but then she nodded. “Then I’m going too.”
“Like hell you are.” The words came out sharp enough to cut. “You’re not trained. You step into that site, you’ll be a liability.”
She stiffened, chin tilting up. “Ruby’s my sister. If there’s even a chance she’s there—”
River muttered, “Here we go again.”
Cyclone just sipped his coffee, silent.
I closed the distance between us, lowering my voice until it was just for her. “You want Ruby back? Then you listen. You stay here. You do the work you’re good at. You keepdigging through records, patterns, anything that narrows our scope. That’s how you help her, love. Not by getting yourself shot before we reach the bloody door.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. For a moment, I thought she’d argue again. But then she let out a shaky breath and nodded once, clipped. “Fine. I’ll dig.”
I gave a short nod in return. Not victory. Just survival.
But as I walked away, I knew the truth: Morgan Tate wasn’t going to stay sidelined for long. Women like her didn’t wait on the bench. They wrote their way into the fight.
And God help me, I wasn’t sure I wanted to stop her.
8
Morgan
Sleep didn’t come.
I curled on the narrow safehouse couch with a scratchy blanket, staring at the ceiling while the farmhouse creaked around me. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Ruby’s phone glowing on the pavement, her name flashing on my screen. And then nothing.
So I did what I always did when the dark was too heavy. I pulled out my little recorder.
It was half instinct, half therapy. The cool plastic fit against my palm like an old friend, the red light winking in the shadows. I slipped in my earbuds, pressing one deep so I could pretend the words were only for me.
“Girl taken. White van. A sister chasing ghosts,” I whispered into it. “Three shipments, one warehouse. Numbers don’t lie, but men do. Which means the truth is buried in paper.”
