Page 62 of Damian
Oliver dropped to one knee, firing controlled bursts. Gage covered our flank. Cyclone kept his head down, his voice tight in my ear: “The data’s clean, Damian. It’s everything we need—contacts, accounts, safe routes. If we can get this to command, Luthor’s network burns.”
Good. Because I was ready to burn it all.
We sprinted down the hall, pushing through gunfire. A bullet grazed my ribs, hot and sharp, but I barely flinched. The only thing that mattered was getting out. Getting back.
Morgan’s face flashed in my mind—her eyes fierce even when she was afraid, her voice whispering my name like it meant something more than survival.
I pushed harder. Faster.
The stairwell to the loading bay yawned open ahead. “Go!” I barked. Oliver and Gage cleared the corners, dropping the last two guards standing between us and daylight.
We hit the bay doors just as our SUV engines roared outside. Backup was right where I’d told them to be.
Oliver shoved the doors wide, and we spilled into the morning air, lungs burning, bodies slick with sweat and smoke. The SUV doors slammed, engines revved, and then we were rolling, the warehouse shrinking in the mirrors, flames licking the sky behind us.
Cyclone cradled the laptop in his lap, his face grim but satisfied. “We’ve got them, Damian. This is the thread that unravels everything.”
I leaned back, rifle across my knees, my breath coming hard. My body ached, blood damp on my side, blood poured from my shoulder, but none of it mattered.
Because the only thing in my head was Morgan.
And the promise I’d made her.
I’ll come back to you.
84
Morgan
The knock came like a promise.
Three soft, measured raps I knew as well as my own name. Ruby was sleeping; my heart leapt. I dropped the pistol from my lap and moved to the door.
“Damian?” My voice was a breath.
“Open up.” Rough, low, smoke-scraped—but alive.
I cracked the door, and there he was—blood on his shirt, exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, but those eyes burned steady into mine. Relief crashed through me, fierce and overwhelming.
“You open doors for anyone else?” he asked, lips twitching into that crooked smile that wrecked me.
“Only you.” I tugged him inside.
“I need a shower,” he said, pulling me with him.
The bathroom was small, steam fogging the mirror before the water even heated. He braced against the wall, jaw clenched as I helped him peel the ruined shirt away. Dried blood flaked across his shoulder and ribs, washed pink as the spray hit.
“Damian—” I started, but the words died when his gaze locked on me. “You should rest.”
“I’ll rest when you’re under me,” he rasped.
Heat flared through me, banishing every shred of fear. I stepped in with him, clothes clinging before they were gone, pooled at our feet. Water pounded over us, rinsing away blood, smoke, and the night. His mouth crashed down on mine, fierce and unyielding, until my back hit the slick tile.
He kissed me like a man starved, his hands everywhere—possessive, reverent, desperate. My own slid down his chest, lower, wrapping around the steel of him, and his growl vibrated against my lips.
“I’m hanging on by a thread,” he ground out, forehead pressed to mine.
“Then don’t,” I whispered. “Take me.”
