Chapter 22 – Lance
22
NEVER LET YOU GO…NOT IN A STALKER WAY THOUGH
LANCE
The buzzing on my nightstand jerked me out of my stupor. I groaned when I saw the text from my alert program that my data was done parsing.
Morgan lay sprawled naked across my chest, her breasts molding against me, steady breaths warm against my skin. I eased out from under her, watching her curl into the warm spot I’d left before grabbing running gear from my closet and tugging it on.
She stirred slightly as I leaned down, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Good luck today."
Her lips parted in a sleepy smile, eyes barely opening. "You too."
I chuckled. "Not sure I’ll need it for a morning run, but I’ll take it."
She hummed, already drifting back to sleep as I padded to the door. I grabbed my running shoes, slipping them on before heading downstairs and out into the crisp air. I double checked the security alarm before I left.
She’ll be fine.
I knew that. And to make sure, I had made a little call to a security company I’d used before. There was a man on my loft and she’d have an invisible escort on her drive.
The second I stepped outside, I felt it.
I was being followed.
I kept my pace steady, moving through the quiet SoHo streets, letting the early morning traffic mask the sound of my footsteps. Whoever was tailing me was good—calculated, controlled—but not good enough.
I cut through a side alley, leading them where I wanted. Toward Broome and Mercer. Toward the office Silas and I used.
I reached the door, keying in the code, and stepped inside. The air was still. But I wasn’t alone.
The shift was subtle, the way the shadows moved just slightly out of sync.
I didn’t have time to turn before a weight slammed into me from behind.
I hit the ground hard, rolling with the impact, using the momentum to get back on my feet. Hector was already on me, throwing a sharp elbow at my ribs. I barely blocked in time before swinging back with a brutal hook.
He grinned as he ducked. "Miss me, little brother?"
I didn't answer. I aimed lower, slamming a knee into his gut. He grunted, staggering back just a step before coming at me again.
Fast. Calculated.
His fist clipped my jaw. I barely felt it before I swung back, catching him hard across the face. Blood splattered as his nose broke, but Hector rolled with the hit, using it to his advantage. He moved in close, trapping my arm before I twisted free.
Then his hand flicked to his pocket.
The mist came fast.
Something powdery hit my face, burning my eyes.
I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the pitcher of water from the bar and dumped it over my head, flushing it out before it could take full effect.
I blinked through the sting just in time to see the glint of metal.
The knife.
We grappled, both of us fighting for control, bodies crashing into furniture. His grip was tight, but I twisted, yanking the blade just out of reach before slamming my forehead into his already broken nose.
He grunted in pain, his grip loosening just enough. I had him?—
But then he moved. Quick. Desperate.
He kicked off the wall, using the force to break away, blood dripping down his face as he scrambled toward the balcony.
"Don't let her make you weak, little brother," he spat, already gripping the rope he'd secured earlier.
I lunged?—
Too late.
He disappeared over the side, rappelling down the building like the ghost he'd always been.
I slammed my fist against the railing, fury burning through me. He shouldn’t have gotten away.
I yanked out my phone, fingers tight around it as I texted Silas.
Me: Hector came for me. I want more security on the loft.
Silas: On it. You good?
Me: For now.
I scanned the room—nothing obvious was missing. But Hector hadn’t come for a file or money. He came for me.
I locked up, double-checking the perimeter before heading back out. The sting of the fight settled in—bruised ribs, black eye, the faint burn where whatever he’d used had touched my skin.
He was playing a dangerous game.
And my monster wanted to play.
Morgan
I had survived the drive because of Lance. Without his lessons, I would've died on the way to JFK. The client had been happy, loved my marketing designs, and even connected me with his daughter and niece who were fashion designers in London. A great day all around.
I owed Lance. That's why I'd stopped at Black Stars in Queens. He'd loved their Red-Red stew when our group took Gavin there for his birthday. I'd driven thirty minutes out of my way, but the man had gotten me Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The same man who'd given me four orgasms yesterday and whose tongue I couldn't stop thinking about.
I blinked away emotions. I wanted him, and not just physically. It was the deeper intimate things pulling me in. But Lance had the power to hurt me. If he kept caring for me, showing up for me, I would fall for real. And that landing would hurt.
Sorry, I fear, you're too late to stop it.
Focus on the present. Today, I hadn't died or killed anyone. Reason to celebrate. I grabbed the food and took the elevator up, excited to see him.
That happy, buzzy feeling—that was hope. The little traitor was thinking this could work. That if he shared pieces of himself, I could open up more. That this could become something real.
"Sir Lancelot! Guess who's back?" I called, keeping my tone chipper. The usual bickering didn't feel right anymore. I grabbed plates and preheated the oven. "Hey, are you here? I saw the other car."
I heard water running in the bathroom. "Hey, I'm back!"
The door opened, and I saw his face. "Oh my God! What happened to you?"
Lance frowned. "What?"
"You've got a bruise on your jaw."
He waved me off. "It's nothing."
"Did somebody hit you?" I forgot any awkwardness as I examined him. If we needed to kick ass, I had a taser and brass knuckles somewhere.
Lance stared down as my fingertips traced his jaw. He smelled fresh, his hair damp from the shower.
"Lance?"
He shook his head. "Sorry, got distracted by your touch. Had a Muay Thai class. Took a rogue hit."
His eyes were clear, but something seemed off about his tone. Stop looking for reasons to run.
"Gwen mentioned you'd studied martial arts, but I didn't know bruises were involved."
"It's perfectly safe. Just caught a rogue one today." He angled away from my hands. "Ouch."
"Sorry. Need first aid? I took a class once."
He chuckled and wrapped his arms around my waist. "I'm happy to let you play doctor. But all I need is ice."
"Why does that sound dirty?"
"Because that's exactly how I meant it," he said, pitching his tone low and nuzzling my neck.
"Oh my God," I laughed. "Come on, I brought food."
His nose twitched. "Wait, you went to Black Stars!"
I grinned at his excitement. "Yes. It was out of my way, and driving still terrified me, but you've been taking care of me. I wanted to say thank you."
His hands slid over my ass as he pulled me close. "You don't need to say thank you."
"Oh yeah? Then why is your dick trying to climb out of your trousers?"
"Don't mind him. He's always like that around you. But seriously—no thanks needed."
"Well, I wanted to. Come eat while I tell you about my driving prowess."
He followed me to the kitchen, something slightly melancholic about him. I got him seated and shared my day's adventures while plating the food.
"So, all in all, great day. You had Muay Thai, showered—anything else?"
He shifted slightly. "Yeah, some work. Sent files to Atticus, checked on Gwen. She's fine."
"I texted her this morning about driving. She was impressed."
His lip tipped into a soft smile. "I admire your relationship with your sister."
"She's the only one I've got, and she's pretty cool."
"I wish I had that."
I realized I didn't know much about Lance's family. "You know, I only know you in the context of Gwen."
He cocked his head. "What are you talking about? You know me. You've known me half your life."
"Sort of. But I sometimes still see you through angsty teen goggles. Now it's different."
A slow smile spread. "Spent years not showing who I was," he said quietly.
"Why not?"
"Trying to be someone different. Someone I liked. Not who my family made me. Now I'm not sure how much of the old me remains."
An ache pierced my chest. "Was the old you so horrible?"
He nodded slowly. "Yes. I haven't talked to my family for years. Like leaving a cult—they don't encourage contact with those who leave."
"That sucks. I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "Yeah, me too."
"Mind if I ask why you left?"
He hesitated. "Calling them toxic doesn't cover it. Took lots of therapy to understand their bullshit wasn't my fault and that I could build my own life."
"If you ever want to talk more, I'd like to listen."
He took my hand gently. "We're having real conversations here, Morgan."
I smiled up at him. "Yes, we are."
"Does that mean you're not running?"
A part of me wanted to—it seemed safer for my heart. But not this time. If he could try, so could I. "I'm not running."
"Good. I'd only drag you back. I can't let you go now," he murmured and kissed my forehead.
Waking up with Lance wrapped around me felt more real than anything else in my life. Like I was exactly where I belonged.
He’d also opened up to me more than he ever had before. More importantly, I felt like he saw me and I was finally starting to see him.
Those four orgasms didn’t hurt either.
And I was giddy. I hadn’t been able to stop smiling since waking up.
All you have to do is not fuck it up.
I wasn’t going to do that to myself. I could let myself enjoy this. Everything was looking up.
So even though I was late to meet Miriam, thanks to Lance refusing to let me out of bed, I wasn’t going to let anxiety take over. There were mere weeks left until the showcase, and I still had so much work to do.
I had my portfolio tucked under my arm, the edges digging into my side as I jogged toward the co-op. The weight of it wasn’t much, but it felt heavier than it should’ve.
Maybe that was just my nerves talking, or maybe it was the pressure I’d put on myself to get this right. These sketches—they had to be perfect. The designs had to be more than perfect.
I had less than a week to prove that I could stand on my own two feet, that I didn’t need anyone to succeed, especially not my father .
The early afternoon sun was filtering through the gaps between the buildings, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. The city was alive with noise—honking horns, snippets of conversation, the hum of life moving on as it always did. It should’ve been comforting, but instead, it just made me feel small, like a blip in the chaos of it all.
I was close now, just a few blocks away from the co-op. My heart pounded in time with my steps, and I forced myself to breathe. I had to focus. I had to?—
“Morgan.”
That voice. I froze, my feet coming to an abrupt stop as if my body knew before my mind did who was speaking. Slowly, I turned, and there he was.
My father.
He was leaning casually against a building, arms crossed, his suit impeccable as always. He looked like he’d been waiting there for hours, just lying in wait for the perfect moment to strike. The smirk on his face was enough to make me sick.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended, but I couldn’t help it. The sight of him always brought out something raw in me—something I hated.
He pushed off the wall and took a step toward me, his eyes narrowing. “What, I can’t check in on my daughter? See how she’s getting on in the big bad world without her family?”
I clenched my teeth. “We both know you’re not here to check in on me.”
He laughed, the sound cold and hollow, cutting through the noise of the street. “You’re right. I’m here to remind you that the offer still stands. You don’t have to keep playing at this little design thing. You could come back and work for me. Do something real.”
My grip tightened on the portfolio. “I don’t need your job, Dad. I don’t need you.”
His eyes flickered to the portfolio under my arm, and the smirk widened. “Because you have Lakewood? Took you under his wing and helped you along, did he? How sweet.” His voice dripped with sarcasm, and then, without warning, his tone turned cruel. “Tell me, Morgan, did you whore yourself out to him just to spite me? Did your new boyfriend tell you what he did to me?”
The breath caught in my throat, and for a second, I couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. His words hit me like a slap across the face, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt.
“No,” I said quietly, my voice steady despite the rage boiling beneath the surface. “But I know that someone who actually shows love and caring is threatening to you.”
His eyes darkened, the smirk disappearing. “ Love ? Lance is a psychopath, Morgan. You think you’re safe with him? You think you’re better off now? Did he tell you he tried to kill me?”
“ What ?” My heart rate kicked up into panic territory. I stared at him, unable to lift my jaw up off the ground.
He gave a smug smirk. “It’s true. I’d wondered if he told you.”
I folded my arms, forcing myself to stand my ground, even as my legs trembled. “I don’t believe you. You just thought you’d come and see if you could scare me back home,” I shot back. “First of all, Lance would never do that. Second of all, you are the only psychopath I know.”
A flicker of something—maybe anger, maybe fear—passed over his face, but he quickly covered it with that cold, practiced smile. “You’re just like your sister, you know that? Whoring yourself out to the highest bidder, thinking it makes you independent.”
I couldn’t help it; I laughed, the sound bitter and sharp. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but weren’t you the one who tried to whore out my sister? Didn’t you sell her off to the highest bidder to save yourself?”
His face tightened, a flush creeping up his neck, but before he could respond, I turned on my heel, ready to leave him standing there. I wasn’t going to let him ruin this for me. Not today.
“You couldn’t at least get one on your own?” he called after me, his voice laced with venom. “How does it feel to settle for your sister’s castoff?”
I stopped, my entire body stiffening. I could feel the heat rising in my face, my heart pounding in my chest. Every fiber of my being wanted to turn around, to scream, to tear him apart with words. But I didn’t. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I kept walking, each step away from him a victory in itself. Despite him, I was a survivor.
He didn’t own me. Not anymore. And no lies he told me about Lance could change that.