Page 58 of Damian
Morgan
The house felt hollow without them.
Every tick of the clock seemed too loud, every groan of the old beams too sharp. I’d drawn the curtains tighter after Damian left, but it didn’t matter—the gray morning light still pressed in, reminding me of everything waiting out there.
Ruby paced the living room, her blanket trailing behind her, the mug of tea abandoned on the table. Her braid had come loose, hair falling across her face. “It’s too quiet,” she muttered.
“That’s the point,” I said, trying to sound calm. “Quiet is good.”
She stopped pacing, arms crossed tight. “Quiet just means we can’t hear them coming.”
The truth in that sent a chill up my spine. I stood and pulled her into a hug before she could argue. For a second, she stiffened, then she let out a shaky breath and sagged against me.
“I hate this,” she whispered. “Hate hiding. Hate waiting.”
“Me too,” I admitted.
Her voice was muffled against my shoulder. “Why him, Morgan? Out of everyone? You barely knew Damian when all this started.”
I pulled back enough to see her face, to really look at her. “Because from the second I met him, he made me feel… safe. Like I wasn’t carrying the weight alone anymore. Even when he makes me crazy, even when I don’t want to need him—I do.”
Ruby studied me, her eyes too knowing for sixteen. “You love him.”
The word sat heavy in the air, like a truth I hadn’t said out loud until now. My throat tightened, but I nodded. “Yeah. I do.”
Ruby’s lip trembled, but she smiled, just a little. “Good. Because he loves you too. You can see it.”
Before I could answer, a branch snapped outside.
Both our heads whipped toward the window. I grabbed the pistol from the coffee table, heart hammering. Ruby pressed close, her hand clutching the back of my shirt.
We held our breath, listening.
Silence.
Maybe it was a deer. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe.
But I couldn’t shake the echo of the man’s voice from last night, the way he’d said my name through the door like he owned it.
I tightened my grip on the pistol and whispered a prayer I wasn’t sure I believed anymore.
Come back to me, Damian. Hurry.
79
Damian
The convoy rolled dark and silent down a back road, dust trailing in the pale dawn. Cyclone sat up front, laptop balanced on his knees, the glow throwing hard lines across his face. Oliver drove, steady as stone. Gage rode beside me, checking his weapon with that familiar, calm intensity.
Cyclone broke the silence. “Two blocks out. Heat signatures all over. It’s live.”
My gut clenched. That meant Morgan was right—her breadcrumbs hadn’t just led us closer, they’d stirred the hornet’s nest. And if they’d found her once, they’d try again.
I shoved the thought down. I couldn’t be in two places. Right now, my job was here: crush this hub, cut Luthor’s legs out from under him, and get back to her before the walls closed in again.
We pulled into position, engines cut. The warehouse ahead was bigger than last night’s—two stories, reinforced windows, chain-link fencing curling around it like a cage. Men stood at the gates, armed, smoking like they didn’t expect a storm was about to roll through.
Oliver’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “We ghost it, or hit hard?”
