Page 6 of My Masked Savior
The way she walks—her shoulders slightly hunched, her eyes constantly scanning—tells me everything. She’s afraid. Always. Even in this safe neighborhood. The wounds she carries are written in the way she moves—too alert, too careful. I don’t know who did it, but I already want to hurt them.
My eyes are locked on the hypnotic sway of her hips. Those leggings leave absolutely nothing to the imagination, clinging to the curve of her ass like they were painted on. Each step she takes sends a ripple effect through her body, causing my mouth to go dry.
Fuck.
I can’t tear my eyes away. The way her ponytail bounces against her neck, how her waist narrows before flaring into those hips. I imagine my hands gripping them, pulling her back against me.
My cock stirs, growing uncomfortably hard against my jeans. I adjust myself discreetly, grateful for the cover of early evening shadows.
She’s in my blood. Every night, she takes over—face, voice, body—and I give in like a man with no control. I haven’t jerked off this much since I was a teenager. Three times yesterday alone. Once in the station bathroom between calls.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m thirty-two, a professional with a mission—and yet here I am, following a woman I barely know, hard just from watching her walk.
She pauses at a corner, checking her phone. The streetlight catches her profile—full lips, the delicate curve of her neck, the rise and fall of her chest. My fingers twitch with the memory of how her skin felt. How it wouldfeel to trace those same fingers down her throat, between her breasts, lower...
I clench my jaw and force myself to focus. This isn’t about sex. I’m here to determine if she needs my protection.
She veers right at the next intersection, heading toward a commercial strip. I hang back, cutting through a parallel alleyway before emerging half a block behind her. The fitness center’s neon sign glows against the darkening sky. Elite Training Center. It appears to be a mid-range gym with tinted windows and a sleek frontage.
Morgan stops outside the entrance. She checks her watch, shifts her weight nervously. Waiting for someone.
I duck into a recessed doorway of the closed vintage clothing shop next door, sliding behind a decorative pillar. From here, I can see her without being spotted. She looks... nervous. Fingers twisting the strap of her gym bag, eyes darting to each person who walks past.
Five minutes pass. Ten. She’s still waiting, still anxious.
Then a tall woman with long golden hair approaches her. I recognize her from the party—the one who gave me Morgan’s insurance card.
Morgan’s posture relaxes instantly. “Basia!” she calls out. “I was starting to think you weren’t coming.”
Basia pulls Morgan into a quick hug. “Sorry I’m late. Got caught in that mess on Fifth Street.” She steps back. “You ready for self-defense class? Apparently, we’ll be focusing on escapes from holds today.”
My jaw clenches so hard I feel a muscle twitch in my cheek. Of course.
The pieces fall into place with nauseating clarity. The way she startles at sudden movements. She constantly scans her surroundings. The panic attack at the work Christmas party.
Someone hurt her. And whoever it was left scars deeper than any I could see when I was treating her.
My hands curl into fists. I know her type of damage. I’ve seen it so many times before. And the scumbag who caused it is exactly the kind of man I like to target.
I pull out my phone and call Ethan. He picks up on the third ring.
“What’s up?” His voice is muffled, probably has an energy drink pressed to his face.
“I’ve got a target. Need you to look into it.” I keep my voice low, though I’m far enough away that Morgan and her friend can’t hear me. “You home?”
Ethan snorts. “When am I not home? The sun burns my delicate programmer skin.”
“Your pasty ass could use some vitamin D.”
“That’s what supplements are for. Besides, I went outside yesterday to get the mail.”
“Congratulations. Want a medal?” I start walking back toward Morgan’s apartment building, where I left my car. “I need everything you can find on someone. Moved here about five years ago from two states away.”
“Running from something?”
“Someone,” I correct him. “That’s what I need you to find out.”
Keyboard clicks punctuate the silence. Ethan’s already at it. “Name?”
