Page 14 of My Masked Savior
I give him a grateful smile, and he squeezes my hand in return.
“Well,” Mom says breezily, then clears her throat. “I need to go to town to do some last-minute grocery shopping.”
She slides a plate of pancakes and a mug of hot cocoa in front of me, making my mouth water. God, I missed my parents’ cooking.
“Why don’t you let me go?” I suggest without thinking. “I know you’ll want to get an early start on baking before church tonight.”
She clasps her hands and gives me a grateful look. “Are you sure, sweetie? I do have a lot to do here.”
“Absolutely,” I say more confidently than I feel. I haven’t braved the streets of Madison in years.
“Wonderful! Now, dig in, your pancakes are getting cold.”
My pancakes are, in fact, steaming, but that’s my mom for you. If it were up to her, my curves would have curves.
An hour later, I’m sweating under my heavy winter parka despite the cold. It snowed last night, and the streets have a magical look. It’s less flashy than New York, but a hundred times cozier. Lights twinkle, bell-ringers dot the corners, and the shops teem with harried-looking customers trying to find that perfect presentat the last moment.
I walk past a closed hardware store, the hammer in the display catching my attention, making dread slide down my back like ice. It’s the same kind of hammer Marco used to threaten me with before he used his fists instead. He must have loved feeling the impact directly. My gorge rises, and I tear my eyes away, looking at my feet and reciting my mental shopping list. Cinnamon. Lemons. Wrapping paper.
I get the grocery store out of the way first, shoving the purchase into my backpack, before heading over to my favorite cozy present store. They always had the cutest wrapping paper for every season and occasion, and I know I won’t be disappointed by the selection.
I’m humming to the classic Christmas songs playing over the speakers, rolls of wrapping paper in hand, when I spot the cutest candles on the bottom shelf. Dark red with gold gingerbread men—it’ll look perfect on the coffee table in my parents' living room. Satisfied, I grab two, then straighten from my crouch, momentarily dizzy. I really need to work out more or something.
Hands grab me as I lean to the side, and I remember my EMT steadying me just like this at the gym last week. Blushing, I look up at the person holding me.
“Thank you, I?—”
My words get stuck in my throat. Marco. Slightly older, thicker around the middle, wearing a smug grin. But definitely him this time, not my imagination.
“Morgan?” His voice makes my ears ring as my vision tunnels and my hands go cold. “Wow, it’s been forever. You look good.”
He steps closer, and I take a jerky step back, making candles clatter behind me as they tip over on their shelves. His hands hold me tighter, and panic detonates. My heart rate spikes, my lungs seize up, my eyes go unfocused as I’mhit by a deluge of memories. He still smells the same, that same brand of cologne that makes me want to throw up whenever I smell it on someone.
I can’t speak. I can’t breathe. People are starting to stare at us curiously, wondering what’s going on.
Marco’s all fake charm, flashing everyone a smile before leaning closer. “You okay? Morgan? You’re shaking.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t. I drop what I was going to buy and shove past him, knocking over a rack of scarves on my way out. As I burst into the cold December air, I start gasping, my hands clutching at my chest. I need to get away from here, but I can’t breathe. I bring my inhaler to my mouth and breathe in the medicine, but there’s no relief.
Breathe, princess. In through your nose. That’s my girl.
I moan in relief at the sound of Damien’s voice in my head, opening my airways enough for my vision to crystallize. It sounds so real, like he’s right here with me, chasing away the spiky dread. So real that I start looking around to see if I can spot him. But what would he be doing in Madison? He’s too good to exist in this space tainted by Marco.
“Miss? Are you alright?”
I blink at the vaguely familiar elderly man looking at me with a frown.
“Y—yes,” I stutter and wave with my inhaler. “Just asthma.” My go-to cover story. The man doesn’t look convinced, but nods at me anyway before carrying on down the street.
Gathering the courage to finally turn around, I look through the shop’s display. Marco’s gone. When did he leave? It doesn’t matter. I can’t go back in there. Not today. Maybe ever. Another thing he took from me.
8
DAMIEN
The barbell hits the rack with a metallic clang that echoes through the gym. Sweat drips down my temples, stinging my eyes, but I don’t wipe it away. I need the burn and the distraction.
It’s not working.
