Chapter 84 Morgan
Morgan
The knock came like a promise.
Three soft, measured raps I knew as well as my own name. Ruby was sleeping; my heart leapt. I dropped the pistol from my lap and moved to the door.
“Damian?” My voice was a breath.
“Open up.” Rough, low, smoke-scraped—but alive.
I cracked the door, and there he was—blood on his shirt, exhaustion in the set of his shoulders, but those eyes burned steady into mine. Relief crashed through me, fierce and overwhelming.
“You open doors for anyone else?” he asked, lips twitching into that crooked smile that wrecked me.
“Only you.” I tugged him inside.
“I need a shower,” he said, pulling me with him.
The bathroom was small, steam fogging the mirror before the water even heated. He braced against the wall, jaw clenched as I helped him peel the ruined shirt away. Dried blood flaked across his shoulder and ribs, washed pink as the spray hit.
“Damian—” I started, but the words died when his gaze locked on me. “You should rest.”
“I’ll rest when you’re under me,” he rasped.
Heat flared through me, banishing every shred of fear. I stepped in with him, clothes clinging before they were gone, pooled at our feet. Water pounded over us, rinsing away blood, smoke, and the night. His mouth crashed down on mine, fierce and unyielding, until my back hit the slick tile.
He kissed me like a man starved, his hands everywhere—possessive, reverent, desperate. My own slid down his chest, lower, wrapping around the steel of him, and his growl vibrated against my lips.
“I’m hanging on by a thread,” he ground out, forehead pressed to mine.
“Then don’t,” I whispered. “Take me.”
He lifted me in one brutal, fluid motion, my back pressed harder against the wall, my legs locking around his waist. His body thrust into mine with a groan so guttural it shook me. The sting gave way to a molten rush, the water rushing over us as he filled me, deep and relentless.
I clung to him, nails biting into his back, muffling my cry against his shoulder. He moved like a man starved, each thrust harder, deeper, as though trying to erase the distance of every mission, every gunshot, every second I’d spent wondering if he’d come back.
“Mine,” he bit out against my throat. His teeth grazed, then soothed with a kiss. “No matter what, you’re mine.”
“Yes,” I gasped, rolling my hips to meet him, needing more, needing everything. “Always yours.”
Water sluiced between us, the sound of skin against skin lost in the roar of the shower and the ragged symphony of our breathing.
His hand slid down, between us, fingers finding me where I was already slick and aching for him.
The touch sent me spiraling, my body clenching around him, and his curse cracked sharp in my ear.
He drove harder, faster, until the coil in my belly snapped, heat flooding me as I cried out his name.
My release dragged him with me, his rhythm faltering, his body slamming once, twice more before he buried himself deep and shuddered.
He groaned into my neck, my name spilling from his lips like a vow.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Water washed over us, cooling the fire we’d lit, rinsing the blood and sweat and the weight of what we’d survived. He held me pinned to the wall, his chest pressed to mine, his heart pounding wild against my ribs.
Finally, he lowered me to my feet, steadying me with a hand at my waist when my knees threatened to give out. His forehead pressed to mine, his breath ragged.
“I came back,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I’ll always come back.”
When the water finally cooled, he twisted the knob off, both of us trembling, breathless.
I caught a towel and wrapped it around him before tending his wounds, gentle now, pressing fresh bandages over angry cuts.
He had stitches in his shoulder from a gunshot wound.
He let me, eyes softer than I’d ever seen them.
“You’re going to scar,” I murmured, brushing my thumb along his ribs.
“As long as I make it back to you, I don’t care how many, scars I have.” His hand covered mine.
I kissed the new bandage, then his throat, then his mouth—slow, lingering. “You kept your promise,” I whispered.
He pulled me onto his lap at the edge of the bed, ignoring the pull of his side, wrapping me tight. “Every shot I fired, every step I took—I only thought about getting back to you.”
Tears spilled, and he caught one with his thumb. “And you did,” I said, pressing my forehead to his.
We stretched out together, his arm a heavy, unbreakable band around me. Outside, the world still burned with danger, but here—in the circle of his arms, his breath warm against my hair—I finally let myself believe I was safe.
“Sleep,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”
And with his heartbeat steady against my back, I did.