Page 52 of Damian
Her eyes went wide. “What about you?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” I said, pushing a steadiness into my tone that I didn’t feel. “Go.”
She hesitated for a heartbeat too long, then bolted down the hall. The slam of her bedroom door made me flinch, but at least I knew she was safe.
The knock came again, this time followed by a voice—low, male, calm in a way that made my blood run cold.
“Morgan.”
He knew my name.
I backed toward the kitchen, my fingers fumbling for the drawer where Damian had left a spare pistol. My hands weren’t as sure as his, but I’d trained enough with him to know how to hold it, how to breathe.
“Morgan,” the voice repeated, closer now, right against the wood. “You’ve been busy.”
My grip tightened around the weapon, the weight both terrifying and strangely grounding.
“Say something,” I whispered to myself, desperate to sound braver than I felt. But I didn’t. I kept my lips sealed, heart pounding, praying the locks would hold until Damian came back.
Because whoever was on the other side of that door wasn’t here to knock twice.
70
Damian
The warehouse loomed ahead like a black box, its corrugated walls catching the pale wash of moonlight. It looked dead from the outside—no lights, no sound—but Cyclone’s tablet pulsed with activity, a steady heartbeat of digital chatter.
“They’re scrubbing,” he muttered. “Two minutes, maybe less, before the drives are gone.”
“Then we don’t wait.” My voice was low, clipped. Every second we stood here was a second too long.
Oliver moved first, heading straight for the loading bay with Gage at his side. They broke in quickly and efficiently—one kick, one sweep—and the door swung open into darkness. The smell hit me first: oil, dust, stale smoke. The scent of men who believed they were untouchable.
We moved like shadows, rifles raised, footsteps swallowed by the concrete. My ears tuned to every sound—the drip of a pipe overhead, the scuff of boots in the distant hall. And beneath it all, the thought I couldn’t shake: Morgan. Alone.
No, not alone. With Ruby. Sixteen and stubborn as hell,but still just a kid. My grip tightened on the weapon. I trusted Morgan to keep them safe, but trust didn’t silence the pulse hammering in my throat.
Movement—left side. Oliver signaled, and we closed in. Two men hunched over a console, one swearing in rapid bursts as he yanked cords free. The other spun, hand diving for his weapon. He didn’t get the chance. Gage dropped him with a clean shot, the crack echoing off the steel walls.
“Drives!” Cyclone snapped, lunging forward. He shoved the dead man aside, hands flying over the keyboard before the other could pull the plug. “Got it—stalling the wipe, rerouting—”
Gunfire erupted from the far end of the warehouse, shredding the quiet. Bullets sparked against metal, biting close. We dove for cover, Oliver returning fire, Gage cursing under his breath.
I pressed my back to the wall, eyes scanning the catwalks overhead. Shadows moved—more men than we’d counted. My jaw clenched. Intel had been wrong. Again.
“Cyclone, how long?” I barked.
“Thirty seconds!” His fingers blurred over the keys.
A round pinged off the concrete by my head. I swung out, fired two shots, dropped the silhouette above. My chest burned with the steady mix of adrenaline and something sharper—fear. Not for me. Not for the team.
For her.
Every instinct screamed that I needed to be two places at once—here, fighting to rip Luthor’s network apart, and there, with Morgan, where the danger felt too close, too personal.
But there was no choice.
I chambered the next round, shoved down the thought of her name whispered through a locked door, and pushed forward into the fight.
