Chapter 33 Damian
Damian
The radio chatter still hissed faint in my ear, but the farmhouse had gone quiet again—too quiet for my head to match. My pulse hadn’t come down from the op, every muscle still tight like I was waiting for a door to kick open.
River had parked the van by the barn, Cyclone already inside cataloging the intel haul, his fingers flying over keys. The kids we pulled out were tucked in blankets near the fire, Morgan hovering like a guardian angel with her recorder forgotten on the table.
I leaned against the doorframe, rifle slung low, and told myself I was here to guard the perimeter. Truth was, I couldn’t stop watching her.
Her hair was damp, sticking to her temples. Her voice was low, steady, whispering some melody I didn’t recognize as she coaxed a child to drink water. Every move was patient, deliberate, like she’d done this before—held people together with nothing but tone and stubbornness.
Bloody hell. My chest ached.
River caught my eye as he handed off a thermal blanket. His brow lifted in that way that said he knew exactly where my head had gone. I ignored him. Habit. I’d been ignoring his smirks since Bagram. But this time it wasn’t just camaraderie he was smirking at—it was weakness.
I pushed off the wall, scanning the windows, reminding myself of the threat list. Hemsley. Caldwell. Luthor. The Holloway Trust. Every name was a reason to keep distance, every reason carved deeper than instinct.
Still, when Morgan looked up—just a flicker of her eyes toward me—it pinned me to the spot harder than any firefight. There was no fear in her gaze anymore, not tonight. Only something else. Trust, maybe. Or worse.
I’d seen what trust does. It frays. It cuts. It bleeds out on some dirt road and leaves you with nothing but ghosts.
And yet… part of me wanted to hold onto it anyway. Wanted her to keep looking at me like that.
I dragged my gaze away, tightening the strap across my chest, forcing breath steady. I wasn’t here to be wanted. I was here to finish a war I’d been fighting too damn long.
But for the first time in years, the battlefield felt like it was shifting under my boots. And it had Morgan Tate’s face written all over it.