Page 15 of My Masked Savior
Morgan’s face flashes in my mind again—the terror when Marco touched her. The way she stumbled back like a cornered animal. How she dropped everything and ran.
I move to the pull-up bar, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles go white. Fifteen reps. Twenty. My shoulders scream, but I keep going.
Marco Delacruz.
Watching him put his hands on her through that shop window made me want to break through the glass and snap every one of his fingers. But I couldn’t. Not in broad daylight with witnesses everywhere.
I drop from the bar and grab the battle ropes, slamming them against the floor in violent waves. The rhythm matches my pulse—hard, fast, relentless.
Marco needs to come to New York. I need him in my territory, where I can control the variables.
The question is how.
I could create a reason. An emergency with one of his relatives—no, too easy to verify. A job opportunity? Possible, but risky. Something personal would work better. Something that would make him think he has the upper hand.
My jaw clenches as I drop the ropes. Marco’s the kind of pathetic excuse of a man who gets off on power and control. He’s kept tabs on Morgan online, remembering the one who got away. That’s his weakness.
He wants her back just to break her properly.
I could use that. Make him think he has a chance. Lead him straight into a trap.
The idea crystallizes in my mind. This isn’t just about Morgan anymore. Marco fits the profile perfectly—multiple victims, escalating violence, a woman dead because of him. He’s already on my list. Morgan just moved him to the top.
I’m toweling off when movement catches my eye.
Morgan.
She’s walking through the entrance, gym bag over her shoulder, looking around like she’s searching for someone. Her dark eyes sweep the weight section, and when they land on me, she freezes.
I grab my water bottle and lean against the squat rack, watching her without making it obvious. She’s wound tight—shoulders rigid, fingers clutching the strap of her bag like it might fly away. Her gaze darts toward the entrance twice in the span of thirty seconds.
Hypervigilant. Classic trauma response.
She’s doing that thing people do when they’re trying to look casual but failing—touching her hair, adjusting hershirt, shifting her weight from foot to foot. The encounter with Marco on Christmas Eve rattled her. She shouldn’t be here. She should be home, processing, and recovering.
But she came anyway.
And she’s looking for me.
The realization sends heat through my chest. I should maintain distance. I’ve already crossed enough lines—following my princess to Madison, watching her through her bedroom window, planning to eliminate her ex. Getting closer will complicate everything.
Except she’s moving toward the treadmills now, and if I don’t intercept her, I’ll lose the opportunity.
I time it perfectly. She’s setting her bag down when I cross to the water fountain, close enough that she’ll notice, but not so close that it seems intentional. I fill my bottle slowly, counting the seconds.
“Morgan.”
She spins around, and I catch the flash of relief before she masks it with surprise.
“Damien. Hi.” Her voice wavers slightly.
I cap my bottle. “You okay?”
The question lands heavier than I intend. Her expression shifts—vulnerable, then guarded.
“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because I saw you run from that store like the devil was chasing you. Because I know Marco touched you and you nearly collapsed.
