Page 48 of My Masked Savior
“I was ten. He came home drunk—drunker than usual. Started in on her about dinner being cold or some bullshit. I heard the first few hits from my room, heard her crying, begging him to stop. Then it went quiet.”
My chest constricts. Even after all these years, the memory’s sharp enough to sting.
“When I came out, she was on the kitchen floor. Not moving. Blood everywhere. He was standing over her, staring at his hands like he couldn’t figure out what they’d done.” I swallow hard. “Then he looked at me. Just looked at me. Walked to the bedroom, grabbed his pistol, came back, and put it in his mouth.”
Morgan’s breath catches.
“Pulled the trigger right in front of me. His brains splattered across the wall behind him, some of it on me. I stood there between their bodies until the neighbors heard me screaming. The neighbors called 911. I ended up in fostercare.” I stare at the ceiling, seeing those years play out in fragments. “Bounced around until I was eighteen. Some homes were okay. Most weren’t. One guy thought I’d make a good punching bag since I didn’t have anyone to complain to. Another one’s wife liked to burn us with cigarettes when we didn’t finish our chores fast enough.”
Morgan’s fingers curl against my skin, her nails pressing in just enough that I feel it.
“I joined the Navy the day I turned eighteen. Got myself through Corpsman training, told myself I’d spend my life saving people. Making up for what I couldn’t do for my mom.”
“But it wasn’t enough,” Morgan says quietly.
“No,” I admit. “I became an EMT after I got out. Thought saving civilian lives would be more fulfilling, you know? Just help people, go home, repeat. Simple.”
I shift onto my side so I can see her properly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“First year on the job, we got a call about a domestic disturbance. A woman in her thirties, her husband had beaten her unconscious with a baseball bat. She woke up in the ambulance, blood everywhere, and the first thing she said was, ‘Please don’t tell the police.’ She was terrified he’d kill her if we reported it.”
Morgan’s eyes darken.
“I saw my mom in that woman. Saw what would’ve happened if someone had intervened earlier, if someone had stopped my old man before it went too far.” My hand cups her face. “The cops showed up, and she refused to press charges. The system couldn’t do anything. Two weeks later, we got another call at the same address. This time she was dead.”
“What did you do?”
“I looked up her husband. Found out where he drank, what routes he walked home. Followed him one night.” The memory’s crisp, clear. No guilt attached to it. “Broke his neck in an alley behind the bar. Made it look like he fell down the stairs drunk.”
Morgan’s breathing quickens, but there’s no fear in her expression. Just understanding.
“That’s when I reached out to Ethan—a brother in arms. He’s got skills with computers, access to databases that don’t officially exist. Started helping me identify targets. Men who beat women or abuse kids, the ones the system fails to stop.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper. “No kid should ever have to go through that.”
The sympathy in her eyes makes my throat tight, but I shake my head.
“Don’t be. It made me who I am today.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “I wouldn’t change it.”
“No?”
“No. If I’d had a different childhood, I wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have found my purpose.” I lean in closer, my forehead nearly touching hers. “Wouldn’t have found you.”
Morgan’s breath hitches. Her fingers slide up to curl around the back of my neck.
“You’re perfect,” she whispers.
A grin tugs at my mouth despite the heaviness of the conversation. “Careful, princess. Keep praising me like that, and I might develop a complex.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Says the man who loves to hear me beg. I think you already have a complex”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you’re the one with the praise kink.” I captureher wrist, bringing her hand to my lips. “You melt every time I tell you you’re a good girl.”
“I do not?—”
