Page 64 of The Last Morgan
Strong arms caught her.
Held her.
Rocked her gently.
"Shh... I've got you," Byron whispered. Lucy sobbed uncontrollably, clawing at him, shaking so hard her teeth clattered.
Byron held her tighter, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other pressed firmly to her trembling back. He didn’t speak again —
just held her, anchoring her to the here and now.
It felt like forever before the screams died in her throat.
Before her body sagged against him, exhausted and spent. "Run the shower," she croaked, voice broken.
Byron nodded immediately, shifting her carefully and heading into the bathroom. The water roared to life.
Lucy stripped off her sweat-soaked clothes with shaking fingers.
She stepped under the stream, collapsing to her knees.
The water battered her skin, hot and relentless, washing away the filth she couldn’t see.
Her tears mingled with the spray.
Outside the bathroom door, Byron stood stiffly, fists clenched at his sides.
Corey leaned against the opposite wall, arms crossed.
"I need to know," Byron said, voice deadly quiet.
"I need to know what happened to her."
Corey nodded grimly.
And told him everything.
The murders. The hidden cupboard. The days alone, soaked in terror, waiting to be found.
By the end, Byron’s face was unreadable.
But his knuckles were bone white.
Inside the bathroom Lucy wrapped fresh bandages around her side.
She stood in the mirror for a long moment, staring at herself.
Her face looked pale. Hollow-eyed. She used to have that nightmare repeatedly as a child, but as an adult regardless ofwhether they were few and far between, the effect would always be the same.
She walked back into her room and marched to her wardrobe.
Pulled on her black tactical outfit — her second skin.
She yanked open the door — and found herself face-to-face with Corey, Byron, and Damian.
The Three Musketeers, her brain supplied dryly.
"I need food," Lucy said coldly.
