Chapter 1 – Morgan #2
I tried to focus, but my gaze kept flickering just past Sam’s shoulder. If he moved just a little to the left, I’d be able to ignore Lance appropriately.
“What do you think, Morgan?”
Shit. Whatever the hell he’d been talking about, I’d missed it. I studied him again. He couldn't have been much older than I was. And I noticed that he was slowly pulling us toward the floor-to-ceiling windows with each question. “Hmmm, think about what?”
“The best art gallery in the city?”
"I don’t know. Guess it depends on what exhibit you want to see. Art is so personal."
While he prattled on, I caught a glance of Lance approaching from the kitchen, making my pulse spike, my traitorous body betraying me again.
His eyes locked on Sam's proximity to me, his expression darkening in a way I recognized all too well.
Sam said something not particularly funny, but I laughed loudly, throwing my head back and touching his arm.
I felt, rather than saw Lance slow his approach, his energy shifting from casual to something tense and predatory.
"If you would love to see the snail exhibit at the Marine Center, I could…"
The sound of Sam’s voice drifted over me as the weight of Lance’s stare burned into my skin like a brand.
When I finally risked a direct look, the raw possession in his eyes hit me with such force that my triumph instantly curdled into something else entirely.A rush of adrenaline spiked my blood at knowing he could not keep his eyes off me.
I'd wanted to make him jealous. I wanted to punish him. I just hadn't counted on how much it would affect me too.
Lance
A little blood never hurt anybody right?
You will not kill him. Afterall, you’re the one who fucked up.
It had been my fault. If I’d just been upfront with her, she’d be with me right now instead of scowling at her and that douchebag who was ogling her.
If you had told her, she might have accepted you. Accepted all of you.
It was probably rude to murder someone at a welcome home party. I could do it after. That asshole was touching what was mine.
Are you sure she’d agree with that?
Morgan laughed at whatever the jackass said, and something dark and primal uncoiled inside me. That emerald dress hugged every curve I'd mapped with my tongue, the gold shimmer on her skin making me remember how she tasted—honey and heat and mine .
My cock hardened at the memory of those thighs wrapped around my waist, the sounds she made when I found that spot that drove her wild.
Her fingers touched his arm, lingering just a second too long. Deliberate. A performance meant for an audience of one.
Me.
My hand tightened around my glass until I heard the crystal creak in protest. Every muscle in my body had gone rigid, my jaw clenched so hard my teeth ached. The urge to cross the room and remove his hand—painfully—from her arm was almost overwhelming.
She'd been ignoring me since her arrival. Moving through the party in that come and claim me, look your fill sexy as hell dress. It dipped low in the back, exposing the delicate line of her spine—the same spine I'd traced with my tongue more times than I could count.
And now she was looking up at this stranger with those big golden-brown eyes, giving him a smile that didn't reach them.
I knew all her smiles. Had cataloged every variation. This one was fake. Practiced. Defensive.
But he wouldn't know that.
He didn't know that she tapped her index finger when she was uncomfortable. Didn't know she used humor to deflect when she felt cornered. Didn't know that her real laugh started deep in her throat before bursting out like music.
I knew all of it. Every expression, every habit, every defense mechanism.
That was the problem. I knew her—all of her—in a way this corporate drone with his practiced smile never would.
And I'd lost her anyway.
C’mon, It would be easy, one little shard of glass across his carotid.
No. Fuck. I needed air. Space. Distance from the sight of her with someone else.
I drained my scotch and slipped through the crowd, past the kitchen and out onto the balcony. The night air hit me like a slap, cold and clarifying. Below, Manhattan stretched out in a glittering grid, the city oblivious to my personal hell.
I braced my hands against the railing, letting the chill of the metal ground me. This was exactly why she'd left. Because I tried to control everything around her, thinking I was protecting her.
"You alright?"
I glanced back to find Atticus watching me from the doorway, his expression carefully neutral.
"Fine," I lied.
"Bullshit." He moved further onto the balcony. "You look like you're about to put your fist through my Italian marble."
I exhaled slowly. "Just needed a minute."
"Because Morgan's talking to Sam?"
I didn't answer, which was answer enough.
Atticus sighed. "You know, for a couple who claims to be done, you're doing a piss-poor job of acting like it. The two of you are eye fucking each other from across the room."
I straightened, my shoulders tense. "We’re not done," I growled. “And how the fuck do you know?”
"Who the hell do you think talked her into giving you another chance when you fucked up the first time? You guys aren’t slick.
You should probably know Pendragron is wired with cameras everywhere.
Including the stairwells. Not the point.
The point is, I'm not getting in the middle of whatever happened between you two.
But I will say this—you're both miserable.
And it's making everyone around you miserable too. "
"She doesn't look miserable to me," I muttered, thinking of her laughing with Sam.
Atticus gave me a look that suggested I was being particularly dense. "She's twenty, Lance. She's hurt and trying like hell not to show it."
The words landed like a blow. If she was in pain, then why did she walk away?
Because you hurt her asshole.
I'd been so wrapped up in my own pain, I hadn't let myself focus too long on hers. Or maybe I had, and that made it worse—knowing I was the cause.
I ran a hand through my hair. "I fucked up."
"So fix it," he said shrugging.
My gut tightened. "It's not that simple."
"It never is." Atticus clapped me on the shoulder. "But standing here brooding while some pencil dicked asshole hits on her isn't helping anyone."
He had a point. I took a breath, straightened my tie, and headed back inside with fresh resolve. I wouldn't cause a scene. I wouldn't intimidate the guy. I'd just... be present. Let Morgan know I was there if she wanted to talk.
But what would I do when she was right in front of me, close enough to touch? What could I possibly say to bridge the gulf between us?
I only knew one thing for certain—I wasn't letting her go without a fight. One month without her was torture. I didn’t feel I could last another day without her smile, that laugh, and her kisses.
How the hell had she done it? My chest felt cold and hollow at the thought that Morgan might have shut me out forever.
I belonged to her and she belonged to me. I just needed to remind her.