Chapter 6 – Lance
6
STALKING WAS SUCH A DIRTY WORD
LANCE
The private gym at Pendragon Tower felt like a tomb. After fourteen hours of corporate politics—watching venture capital deals fall apart, mediating disputes between executives, and resisting the urge to strangle Carter for "accidentally" scheduling the Asian market briefing at 4 AM my time—I needed to hit something. Hard.
The boxing bags tempted me, but I didn't trust my control. Not tonight. Not with her on my mind. Instead, I chose the treadmill—safer, more befitting a man who was supposed to have his shit together.
City lights sparkled beyond the windows as I ran, but no matter how fast or hard I pushed, I couldn't escape her.
Morgan.
Like a ghost haunting my thoughts.
The gym was mostly empty, just some guy in the corner with his weights. Early evening in New York—past the post-work rush, before the night crowd. My favorite time.
If only my brain would shut up.
I cranked up the speed.
Faster.
Stronger.
Forget her.
But the memories clung. Her scent. Her voice. The way she looked at me—like I was both an annoyance and the only person in the room.
Dangerous.
Not because she'd pull a knife in my sleep. That would be easier.
She was dangerous because I wanted her in a way that wasn't just reckless—it was self-destructive.
The old urges crept back—the calculated coldness, the predatory focus, the instincts I'd spent years burying beneath therapy and sheer willpower. My grandfather used to call them gifts.
I knew better.
I wasn't supposed to want her.
That night had been perfect. And then?
A disaster.
I'd lost control completely. And for what? A few stolen hours of pretending? Of having her?
Then the devil knocked at my door.
If my grandfather suspected how much she meant to me, she'd become a target. He wanted to destroy anything I cared about if it kept me from returning to the fold. She'd be on every hit list from here to Geneva.
Except if I stayed away.
I slowed to a walk, chest heaving, and dropped onto a bench.
My phone buzzed.
Micah.
I answered. "Didn't think I'd hear from you."
"It's midnight here in London, and I'm still working, which means I get to ruin your evening, too."
I snorted, wiping my face. "So considerate."
"I try." His voice was dry. "The McNeal deal hit a snag. I need you to look at the contract."
I groaned. "What kind of snag?"
"The kind that makes my lawyer twitchy. I forwarded it to your email. I trust your eyes more than mine."
"Fine. I'll look at it tonight."
Silence. Then?—
"How are you?"
My jaw clenched. "I'm fine."
He chuckled softly. "Liar."
I took a swig of water, letting the silence stretch. "I said I'm fine, Micah."
"Sure you are."
"You're imagining things."
Micah sighed. "And I suppose Morgan has nothing to do with your shitty mood?"
My gut clenched. "Nope. Don't you have better things to do than gossip?"
"Gossip keeps me pretty." Then he chuckled. "You're a mess."
"Fuck off."
"You ever going to admit it?"
"There's nothing to admit," I said through clenched teeth.
He laughed. "So you're telling me that you—a man who has his shit locked down like Fort Knox—coincidentally started unraveling the second Morgan walked back into your life?"
I didn't answer.
"Thought so. Driving you crazy yet?"
My scowl deepened. "I'm hanging up now."
"Sure, sure. Just give her my love?—"
I ended the call, tossing my phone onto the bench.
Damn him.
And damn her.
Because Micah was right. She was driving me insane.
I stared at my phone, attempting to resist. But stalker tendencies died hard.
The app was open before I could stop myself.
Just checking.
For safety.
The dot blinked at Gwen and Atticus's place. My chest tightened.
Why is she there this late?
One tap. The camera feed popped up.
And suddenly—breathing became a task.
Morgan was curled up on the floor.
Not in a bed. Not on a couch.
On the floor.
Takeout containers littered around her. Half-finished drywall. Exposed beams.
The renovations.
She wasn't just checking on the penthouse.
She was staying there.
My pulse thundered. What. The. Fuck.
There was no way she should be staying in that mess. Why wasn't she home? Had something happened?
Had her father done something?
Ice filled my veins. James Becker was a control freak of the highest order. I'd seen men like him before.
The darkness inside me stirred. The thing I'd spent years trying to bury.
Not that guy anymore.
Except—
Morgan.
Curled up. Small. Alone.
Something inside me cracked.
An hour later I sat in my car outside her father's townhouse, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white.
I had two choices.
Stay the civilized man I'd fought to be.
Or let the monster back in.
Just this once.
For her.
I stepped out, keeping to the shadows as I approached the house. The cool night air pressed against my skin, a reminder of how wrong this was, yet I felt an eerie calm settling over me. The kind that had always preceded violence in my old life.
I reached for my lock-picking tools, the metal cold in my hands.
I hadn't touched them in years.
But if James Becker had hurt her?—
She'll hate you if she finds out, a voice warned.
She'll be safe, another countered. That's all that matters.
The lock clicked under pressure. Not as fast as it used to, but the mechanism gave way. Each movement felt like betraying years of progress, of becoming someone better. But for Morgan? I'd risk it all.
The smell of leather and old wood hit me—rich, expensive. I made my way to James Becker's study, knowing any clues to Morgan's situation would be buried there.
The place was neat, no signs of struggle. I was about to search the drawers when footsteps echoed down the hall. I leaned against his desk and waited, letting that ruthless part of me rise.
When James entered, I kept my tone calm. "I need to know what's going on with Morgan. What did you do to her?"
A sneer curved his mouth. "Morgan isn't your concern."
"Like hell she isn't." The shadows rose in me, familiar and hungry. "You threw her out, didn't you?"
"She made her choice. I simply enforced it," he said. "Focus on something worthwhile—something that isn't that ridiculous fashion dream—or leave. She chose to leave."
My blood ran cold. "What did you do to her?" The image of her curled on the floor seared into my mind.
That sneer deepened. "I destroyed her designs. Set them on fire. It was the only way to make her see reason. I froze her trust fund too. When she comes to see reason she can have access again."
The monster broke free.
Before I could stop myself—before I could remember all the reasons I'd sworn never to be this person again—I reached into my pocket, drawing out the small syringe filled with paralytic I'd prepared. I surged forward, jabbed it into his neck and pressed the plunger.
His eyes widened, but it was too late. The drug took hold, and he went slack, terror replacing his smug expression.
"What... did... you..." His voice trailed off, his limbs locked up.
I leaned close. "You destroyed everything she worked for? Her dream? All because you couldn't control her?"
I dragged James toward the center of the room, my pulse thundering with each heartbeat, and shoved him into a chair.
"You wanted control, James?" The words came out in a growl. "Let's see how you like being completely helpless."
I retrieved the fire blanket, then crossed to the crystal decanter of scotch. The amber liquid caught the light as I poured a perfect circle around his chair. His eyes widened as understanding dawned.
"You're insane," he whispered.
I struck the match. The circle ignited with a whoosh, flames dancing around him. The heat pushed against us as James jerked against his restraints.
I extinguished the flames with practiced efficiency, the fire blanket smothering them into wisps of smoke. But I wasn't done. I poured a second circle, wider than the first, and set it ablaze. James's composure cracked further, a whimper escaping as sweat beaded on his forehead.
Again, I extinguished it. The third time, I made the circle closer, the flames nearly licking at his shoes. His facade of power had completely crumbled.
When I finally smothered the last ring of fire, the acrid smell of smoke hung heavy. Scorch marks marred the pristine floor in three concentric circles.
I leaned in close. "Remember this feeling, James. Remember what it's like to be trapped, helpless, watching everything burn around you. Because if you ever come near what's mine again, next time I won't be so careful with where I place the flames."
I turned and walked away, leaving him shaking in the center of the charred circles. His broken composure and the smell of smoke would linger long after I was gone—exactly as I intended.
As I walked away, bile rose in my throat. I'd done it. Crossed the line I'd sworn I never would again. The worst part wasn't the guilt—it was how natural it had felt, how easily I'd slipped back into being my grandfather's weapon.
But when I thought of Morgan, of her dreams floating away like smoke in her father's spite, I couldn't regret it. For her, I'd let the monster out of its cage. Just this once.
I only hoped I could lock it away again when this was over.
There had been a time when she would have called me for help. Sure, we had that love-hate thing, but she would have called.
I couldn't bear the thought of Morgan curled in a ball on the floor, her heart shattered. I had to get to her.
And God help her.