Page 120 of The Last Morgan
Carter said nothing, only tightened his arms around her. Some things didn't need words.
For a long moment, they stood there, Lucy's silent tears soaking into his jacket, the weight of years of grief lifting — just slightly — from her shoulders. This side of her story was closing. A gaping wound beginning, finally, to scar over.
Lucy eventually pulled back, wiping her face with the sleeve of her sweater.
"I still have a lot to figure out," she said quietly, her voice steadier now. "Like who I really am. I’ll explain everything properly another day. Maybe after you book my uncle."
Carter gave a small, understanding nod. "Whenever you're ready."
Without another word, he turned to where Richard — Lucy's uncle — was being held. Two of Carter’s men were already waiting to take him into custody. As Carter approached, Richard straightened slightly, defiance flickering in his cold eyes.
"This isn’t done, Lucy!" Richard shouted as they began to haul him away. "I know — they know — there’s still a sample out there! We will find it!"
Lucy lifted her head and stared at him, her gaze sharp and burning.
And for the briefest moment — so quick that no one else seemed to notice — a faint purple shimmer flashed through her irises.
Richard saw it. He froze, his face draining of all color.
Muttering under his breath, he stumbled over his words. "It can’t be..."
Carter's men shoved him toward the car, and soon he was gone, the front door swinging closed behind them with a hollow thud.
Lucy stood still for a moment longer, then turned to Corey.
"Keep me updated on Barnaby’s progress with the machine," she said. "I want to be ready... when it’s time."
Corey nodded firmly. "You got it."
Satisfied, Lucy turned away. Her eyes swept the room until they found Byron — sitting stubbornly on a chair near the fireplace, clearly too weak to be there but too proud to admit it.
She crossed the room quickly.
"You need to be in bed," she scolded gently, placing a hand on his shoulder. "There’s no reason for you to be hanging around down here."
Byron smiled up at her, exhaustion and affection written plainly on his face. Without argument, he let her help him up, leaning heavily against her as she guided him back toward his bedroom.
Once he was tucked into the bed, Lucy disappeared into the kitchen. The house felt strangely alive with small sounds — the hum of the fridge, the low creak of the old floorboards — a quiet that felt sacred after the storm of confrontation.
She rummaged through the kitchen and found what she needed: Cooking food was always comforting. Thick slices of buttered toast, scrambled eggs cooked to soft perfection, grilled sausages glistening with juices, and a small bowl of fresh strawberries.
Balancing the tray carefully, she returned to Byron’s room.
"Room service," she said with a playful smile, setting the tray down on the bedside table.
Byron chuckled weakly as she perched beside him, tearing the toast into pieces and offering them to him one by one, making exaggerated "airplane" noises like he was a stubborn child refusing to eat.
"Open up," she teased, nudging a piece of toast toward his mouth.
Byron laughed, a sound that filled the room with unexpected warmth. He let her feed him bits of food, savoring each bite, not because he was hungry — but because it was her.
Once they finished eating, Lucy slipped under the covers beside him, curling up carefully against his chest. Byron wrapped an arm around her, drawing her closer.
She let out a long, shuddering sigh.
"Will you still want me," she whispered, "after I find out who… or what… I really am?"
Byron tightened his hold on her without hesitation.
