Page 47 of My Masked Savior
I pad naked into the bathroom, scrubbing my hands and arms with antibacterial soap until my skin stings.
The shower runs scalding hot. I stand under the spray until the tension in my shoulders loosens, until I’m certain every trace of tonight has circled down the drain.
Morgan’s asleep in my bed where I left her hours ago, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. The sheet’s tangled around her waist, her bare back rising and falling with each breath. Christ, she’s beautiful, even with smudged mascara and her hair a mess.
I slide into bed behind her, careful not to jostle her too much. The mattress dips. She stirs immediately, making a soft sound in the back of her throat.
“Damien?”
“Yeah, princess. Go back to sleep.”
Instead of listening, she rolls over to face me, blinking those dark eyes open. Her hand finds my chest, fingers tracing the tattoo there.
“What time is it?”
“Just after seven.”
“Did you…?” She trails off, but her gaze is steady. Direct. There’s not a hint of judgment or fear.
“Yeah. It’s done. All of it.”
Morgan nods, her thumb brushing over one of my nipples. The touch sends heat straight to my cock, but I’m too exhausted to act on it.
“Good,” she whispers.
That single word hits me harder than expected. Good. Not ‘oh god, what have we done?’ or ‘I can’t believe this happened.’ Just… good.
I pull her closer until her head rests on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her waist.
“You’re not freaked out?”
“No.” Her breath warms my skin. “Should I be?”
“Most people would be.”
“I’m not most people.” She tilts her head back to look at me. “You saved me, Damien. Twice now. And you gave me something I didn’t know I needed.”
“What’s that?”
“Closure.”
I kiss her, slow and thorough, tasting the mint toothpaste still lingering on her breath. When I pull back, silence settles between us. Heavy. Expectant.
Morgan’s studying my face like she’s trying to read something written beneath my skin. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, but there’s hesitation in the touchnow.
“What is it?”
She bites her lip, and I recognize that tell by now. She wants to ask something she’s not sure she should.
“What made you start doing this? The… the killing.”
The question lands like a punch to the sternum. I’ve never told anyone this story. Not Ethan, not Killian. They know pieces, fragments, but never the whole ugly truth.
My jaw tightens. I could deflect, change the subject, distract her with sex. But Morgan watched me butcher her ex without flinching. She chose to stay, to participate. If anyone deserves to know, it’s her.
“My old man beat my mom.” The words scrape out of my throat. “For as long as I can remember. He’d hit me, too, but never as bad as her. She took the worst of it.”
Morgan’s hand stills on my chest, but she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt.
