Chapter 11 – Lance
Chapter Eleven
Don't Say You Love Me…
Lance
I'd rather shoot myself in the foot than stand here watching Morgan pack and thinking about her one condition.
“As long as you don’t say things that aren’t true, like I love you.”
Yeah, like that’s going to happen.
I’d agreed of course. And logically, I meant it. I just knew us. With her under my roof again, it would be a battle of wills until the damn finally broke.
Each item she folded and tucked neatly into her suitcase felt like another slice to my soul. That emerald dress from Atticus and Gwen's welcome home party. Her favorite oversized sweater. The worn copy of Pride and Prejudice she kept beside her bed.
My chest physically ached at the deliberate, methodical way she moved around the guest room, avoiding my gaze, pretending I wasn't leaning against the doorframe watching her dismantle her life.
Look at you, stalking the doorway like some creepy-ass bodyguard. Great job, asshole. Really making her feel comfortable.
Every cell in my body screamed to grab her, to pull her against me, to claim her with my hands, my mouth, my teeth.
Mine .
She was mine. Had been since the moment touched her. The beast inside me—the one I'd spent years chaining and muzzling—thrashed against its restraints, desperate to break free.
Yeah, because manhandling her is exactly what this situation needs. Fan-fucking-tastic plan. Add kidnapping to your resume of shit decisions.
I could have her in the car before she even realized what was happening. Could spirit her away to one of my properties where no one would find us. Could wrap her in the protection of my arms, my name, my legacy.
And then what, genius? Lock her in a tower? Put a tracking chip in her like a lost puppy? Christ, I'm turning into my grandfather.
Not to mention it would only be a matter of time. You got ten years because you were careful. How long would Morgan have?
Instead, I forced myself to remain still, to appear calm when everything inside me was chaos. When every instinct demanded I claim what was mine.
Because of me. Because of what I am.
"You don't have to hover," she said, her voice flat, emotionless. "I know how to pack."
I should leave. Give her space. But my feet refused to move. I couldn't shake the feeling that if I took my eyes off her, even for a second, she'd disappear. And I'd lose my fucking mind if she vanished again.
Pathetic. You're practically panting after her like a lovesick teenager. Get a grip.
"I know," I said quietly, my voice betraying none of the possessive desperation clawing at my insides.
Her hands stilled over a stack of sketchbooks—the ones she kept private, filled with her most personal designs.
For a moment, vulnerability flickered across her face before the mask slid back into place.
I memorized that flash of the real Morgan beneath her defenses, hoarded it like a miser with gold.
"When do we leave?" she asked, still not looking at me.
"As soon as you're done," I said, watching her fold another shirt with mechanical precision. "I'll have the car brought around."
Her head snapped up at that, eyes finally meeting mine. She nodded once, sharp and precise. "Fine."
The silence stretched between us, heavy with all the things I wanted to say but couldn't find the words for. I'm sorry. I never wanted this for you. I would tear out my own heart if it meant keeping you safe .
Instead, I watched her methodically pack away her life to save it.
"Is there anything specific I should bring?" she asked, her voice so controlled it hurt to hear. "For eventually meeting your family? For playing the part?"
The part . Like this was all just some elaborate performance. I supposed it was. The loving wife. The devoted husband. Lies piled on top of lies.
Except for how I felt. That was the cruelest joke of all—the one true thing between us was the one thing I couldn't say.
"Anything you need I’ll buy you. Just bring yourself," I said.
She laughed, the sound sharp and brittle like breaking glass. "Myself. Right. The version your grandfather won't want to kill on sight."
I pushed off the doorframe, taking a careful step into the room. "Morgan?—"
"What exactly am I expected to do?" she interrupted, finally turning to face me. Her eyes were dry but hard as diamonds. "As your wife ?"
The question hung between us, loaded with meaning.
"Whatever keeps you safe," I answered.
Her jaw tightened. "That's not what I'm asking, and you know it. Outside of my conditions, "
Of course I knew. I'd spent enough sleepless nights thinking about the implications of what I was asking her to do. The sacrifice. The pretense.
"What are you asking, then?" I needed to hear her say it. Needed the clarity of her words to cut through the fog of what-ifs clouding my mind.
She squared her shoulders, chin lifting in that defiant way that always made my cock throb with want. "Am I expected to fuck you?"
The crude language sliced deeper than any knife. Not because of the words themselves, but because of what they revealed—that she thought this was about possession. About taking.
"No," I growled, the word ripping from my throat. "That's not why I'm doing this, Morgan." I moved closer, unable to stop myself, drawn to her like gravity. "If I just wanted to fuck you, all it would take is a touch." The brutal honesty felt like ripping open a wound. "We both know that."
Her breath caught, color flooding her cheeks—anger or something else, I couldn't tell.
"I know I'm the bogeyman now," I continued, my voice low. "I won't touch you. Not unless you beg, like I said before."
Her dark eyes searched mine, looking for the lie. She wouldn't find one. I'd sooner cut off my own hands than use them to take what wasn't freely given.
"Then what is this?" she asked, gesturing between us. "What am I signing up for?"
"Protection," I said simply. "My name. The shield it provides."
"And when it's over? When your family is...taken care of? What then?"
I hadn't allowed myself to think that far ahead. Hadn't dared to hope there might be an "after" for us. "Whatever you want. Freedom. Divorce. A clean break."
Something flickered in her eyes—disappointment? Relief? I couldn't tell anymore. Once, I'd been able to read every micro expression on her face. Now she was a cipher, locked away from me.
"Fine," she said, turning back to her packing. "Just so we're clear."
The dismissal stung, but I deserved it. I'd earned every ounce of her contempt.
I was about to say something—anything—to break the tension when Gwen appeared in the doorway behind me. Her expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the storm brewing in her eyes.
"Morgan, can I borrow Lance for a minute?"
Morgan nodded without looking up, relief evident in the slight drop of her shoulders. Relief at being freed from my presence. That hurt more than I wanted to admit.
Gwen inclined her head toward the balcony. "Outside."
I followed her through the living room, past where Atticus sat with Ava, his expression grim. The glass doors slid open, and the night air hit us—crisp, cold, clarifying.
The moment the door closed behind us, Gwen whirled on me.
"Ten years," she said, her voice low and dangerous. "Ten years of friendship, and you never once thought to mention that you come from a family of fucking assassins?"
I'd expected this. Had been bracing for it since the moment I'd decided to reveal my identity. "It wasn't relevant," I said, immediately regretting how callous it sounded.
"Wasn't relevant?" She laughed, the sound cold and empty.
"My best friend, the man who stood beside me while I built my company, who held me when my mother died, who's the godfather to my child—and it wasn't relevant that he's been lying about everything?
That people want him dead? That he's putting everyone I love in danger? "
Her words hit like physical blows. Each one deserved. Each one true.
"I was trying to protect you," I said quietly.
"Bullshit." Gwen stepped closer, fury radiating off her in waves. "You were protecting yourself . Your secrets. Your precious double life."
"I did what I had to do."
"You lied to me !" Her voice broke on the last word, and suddenly I could see past the anger to the wounded friend beneath. "To me, Lance. After everything."
The accusation hung between us, heavy with shared history. Nights spent strategizing her company's launch. Standing beside her at her mother's funeral. Teaching her self-defense after a client got too aggressive. A decade of trust, shattered in an instant.
"You're right," I admitted, the words scraping my throat raw. "I did."
She slammed her palm against the railing, the sharp crack echoing in the night air. "Who even are you? Because the man I thought I knew wouldn't trap my sister in a marriage to save his own skin."
That one hit harder than the rest.
"I'm exactly who I've always been," I said, an edge creeping into my voice.
The darkness I'd fought so hard to contain bleeding through.
"The man who would die to protect you. The man who's killed to keep you safe.
The real me was always there, Gwen. You just made me believe I could be the version you saw. "
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration and self-loathing making my movements jerky. "There's no hiding from it now."
"And what about Morgan? Does she get a choice in all this?" she demanded, stepping into my space, fearless despite knowing what I was now.
"She made her choice."
"With a gun to her head!" Gwen's control finally snapped, her voice rising.
"You've backed her into a corner where death is the only alternative. I hate that for her. She dreams—I know she does. She's romantic, always imagining a love that defies everything. But she’s not getting that, and it breaks my heart for her.”