Chapter 15 – Morgan #2
"And your mother? You said she died when you were seventeen? But you didn’t say how." I asked, though part of me already knew the answer would be terrible.
His expression hardened, though his touch remained gentle.
"She was found in a hotel in France. They think she had a heart attack. But I think she died of a broken heart. Before she died. She’d given me a glimpse into what my grandfather was really like.
How it had been for her in his house. She wanted me out. I wish I’d listened."
The flat way he said it, devoid of emotion, sent a chill down my spine. I squeezed his wrist, sensing there was much more to the story than he was saying.
"After she was gone, things changed. My grandfather was angrier, more paranoid.
Started talking about 'real loyalty' all the time.
Said I had to prove myself properly. Apparently, all the people I'd hurt before didn't count enough.
" His knuckles went white for a moment before he consciously relaxed his grip, returning to the careful massage.
"Suddenly, the people in my life were gone.
My mother was gone. Her bodyguard, who had been like a surrogate father to me, was gone. He'd disappeared."
"So you were completely alone," I murmured, the full weight of his isolation hitting me. Tears slipped down my cheeks as I imagined Lance, barely an adult, surrounded by darkness with no one to help him find the light.
Lance's laugh was hollow, but his fingers continued their soothing rhythm.
"All I had was Hector, but he hated me for a lot of reasons.
The biggest being that I didn't want the life.
And he wanted it so much. That's when they gave me the name," he said quietly.
"The French Devil. That's what they called me.
Not for how many I killed, but for how I did it. "
His eyes met mine, and for the first time since I'd known him, I saw no walls, no carefully constructed restraint.
Just raw, unfiltered truth. I should have been repulsed.
Should have run screaming from this confession.
Instead, I found myself reaching for his hand, stilling his movements and holding his palm against my ankle.
"I did terrible things, Morgan," he said, voice breaking around my name. "Things I can never erase or atone for. Things that haunt me every time I close my eyes."
"Then why did you leave?" I asked, my voice thick with tears. "What finally made you walk away?"
He was quiet for a long moment, his thumb absently tracing circles on my ankle.
"After my mother died, I woke up one morning after my first official assignment and caught my reflection in the mirror," he said finally.
"I didn't recognize the person staring back at me.
I'd become the monster my grandfather always wanted me to be.
And I was terrified of what would happen if I stayed.
Mom had tried to hard to keep me from it.
I wanted to be the person she could be proud of. "
His thumb traced circles on my palm, the touch so gentle it made my throat tighten.
"I spent ten years building a new life. A real life. Becoming someone good." His eyes found mine, vulnerability raw on his face, his hands still cradling my foot. "Hid in plain sight. Fake ID, the whole works. Got close to Gwen, became part of your family."
"You were always there," I said softly. "Like family."
He nodded, his expression solemn, his hands resuming their gentle massage. "And then things between us changed. For the first time since I'd left everything behind, I thought maybe I could truly outrun the past. Be something more than what he made me."
His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "I should have known better. Should have known he'd never really let me go."
I swallowed hard, fighting back fresh tears. "I'm so sorry you went through that."
He shook his head. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. I brought this into your life. I exposed you to danger. To them." His hands tightened briefly around my foot. "I'm sorry you had to see that today. Sorry I couldn't protect you from it."
The apology hit something deep inside me, cracking open a vulnerability I'd been fighting since the moment I'd walked back into his loft.
"It's not your fault," I said, surprising myself with the sincerity behind the words. "You didn't ask for any of this either."
His expression shifted to something unreadable, but his hands never stopped their careful attention. "I should have told you from the beginning. About all of it. Maybe then you would have been better prepared."
"For seeing a man executed in cold blood?" I asked with a humorless laugh. "I don't think anyone can be prepared for that."
He studied me for a long moment. "Most people would be running by now."
"Well, most people haven't promised Adele Beckman twenty pieces for Fashion Week," I said dryly. "I think I'm more afraid of her."
"True." A ghost of a smile touched his lips, his hands finally stilling on my ankles. "Still, you're holding up better than I expected."
I snorted. "You mean considering I had a complete meltdown in the middle of the garment district?"
"Considering you witnessed a murder, were brought back safely by my brother, and are still sitting here having a rational conversation with me?" His eyebrow lifted. "Yeah, I'd say that's better than expected."
Despite everything—the terror, the grief, the overwhelming reality of what I'd gotten myself into—I felt something uncoil in my chest. "I think the shock is wearing off."
"Good." He moved closer, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen, his other hand still resting warm against my ankle. "You need to rest. We can talk more in the morning."
When he patted my feet, then moved them off his lap and stood. “Why don’t you grab a shower. I’ll grab you some food and more tea.”
I watched as he walked into the kitchen and my heart broke for him. The walls between us weren't gone, but they'd shifted, become more transparent.
For the first time in the last few months, I felt like I saw him. Really saw him. Raw and unfiltered. Just like I’d asked.
Now, the only question was, could I handle it?