Chapter 5 Morgan
MORGAN
“Sheesh, More” Basia says, elbowing me in the ribs. Or, well, she would have elbowed me in the ribs, but my arms are wrapped tightly around me, protecting my torso. “Why are you hunched into yourself like that? It’s all gonna be pretend.”
We’re doing practical scenarios at the self-defense class today, and I’m already sweating bullets just imagining being pinned down, hands grabbing my body, grasping onto my exposed skin.
I feel so self-conscious in my leggings and sports bra.
I haven’t shown this much skin since before…
him. I’m hyper-aware of my body, reflected at me from every mirror.
My brow, revealed by my tight ponytail, shines with sweat under the bright fluorescent lights, and my eyes are wide with panic.
What if I end up having another attack? In front of all these people, just like at the work party. Fuck, why did I even agree to this?
But I don’t have time to run away. Basia’s friend Danielle introduces her very tall and very male partner, who’s going to be helping us learn how to react if assaulted.
My breathing picks up speed as I watch them demonstrate the holds and escapes—it looks so freaking easy when they do it.
Just a twist of the arm, a step back, a smooth break of contact.
“Simple,” he says. “If someone grabs you, don’t fight strength with strength. Redirect. Use leverage.”
Simple, my ass. Why is it so hot in here? Shouldn’t it be air-conditioned?
Breathe, Morgan.
My EMT’s voice sounds in my head, a mantra I’ve been shamefully indulging in all too often these last couple of weeks. My shoulders drop the tiniest amount in response. Pavlov’s dogs ain’t got nothing on me. At least they didn’t imagine the bell.
When the instructor gestures for us to pair off, Basia immediately links up with Danielle, leaving me with a stranger. One of the volunteers. A guy. He gives me an encouraging smile, but all I can see is his hand reaching for mine.
The moment his fingers close around my wrist, I lock up. It’s like ice spreading through my veins, pinning me in place. Though my mind knows it’s a controlled drill, my body doesn’t get the memo. My pulse spikes, hammering in my throat, and my lungs squeeze tight.
“Okay, now just twist out,” the man prompts gently.
I can’t. My muscles won’t move.
When the instructor passes by, he crouches slightly, speaking calmly. “You’re safe here. It’s just a drill. Try a breath in… Good. Now exhale. Let your body follow the motion.”
I manage a jerky nod, but my skin crawls when I try again.
This time, when the man’s hand circles my waist to demonstrate another hold, it’s too much.
The sudden pressure at my side triggers a rush of adrenaline so sharp I feel dizzy.
For a second, the gym tilts and I’m not here anymore—I’m back in Madison, trapped under a body heavier than mine, breath tearing in my lungs as I beg for space that never comes.
My hands tremble. My throat burns.
“Easy,” the instructor says, instantly pulling the man’s hand away. His voice is steady, grounding. “You’re in control. You set the pace.”
I nod again, though my chest feels like it’s bound in iron bands.
If it were Damien’s hands on me, I wouldn’t be this frozen. If it were his voice telling me to breathe, my lungs would obey.
Heat prickles up my neck, humiliation mixing with something darker. God, what is wrong with me? This is supposed to be about survival, about taking my power back. Not about imagining the EMT who saved me pinning me down in ways that make my thighs squeeze together.
I force my attention back to the drill, desperate not to let anyone see the war inside me.
When the class ends, I’m soaked in sweat, exhausted from more than just the physical exertion, and thankful this was the last lesson before the holiday break.
Maybe I can find an excuse not to come back?
I don’t think this is helping me reclaim my power.
If anything, it’s reminding me just how weak I feel, that I still don’t fight or run—I most certainly fawn.
My heart is still racing when I reach for my bag, and that’s when I see him. Sweat-slicked short blonde hair, many colorful, intricate tattoos revealed by a black tank top, gym shorts clinging to impressive thigh muscles. My man doesn’t skip leg day.
Your man? You wish, More.
Damien is here. I recognize that neck tattoo.
I imagined kissing it more times than he’ll ever know.
He’s lifting what looks to be an insane amount of weight on the barbell, and though he’s facing away, I can see his reflection in the mirror.
He has earbuds in, his lower face is covered by one of those masks that reduces oxygen flow and makes him look like Bane from Batman, and he doesn’t seem to notice the crazy woman gawking at him. Am I drooling?
My EMT looks a million times scarier than any of Danielle’s volunteers, yet my heart isn’t racing out of terror anymore, and my lungs are working hard for a different reason now. I feel like a schoolgirl running into her crush at the library, the event of her week.
“Coming, babe?” Basia asks distractedly. I glance back to see she’s already scrolling on her phone, her head no longer in this gym with me.
“You go on ahead,” I tell her. My voice sounds breathless even to my own ears, but Basia doesn’t even look up. “I see someone I want to say hi to.”
I don’t know why I don’t tell her it’s the EMT from the party.
Maybe I just don’t want him talking to my gorgeous coworker.
She’s tall and blonde like him and, unlike me, in the same league.
I’m smaller, curvier, darker. I’ve always been proud of my mixed heritage, and I never let anyone bully me about it until Marco started gaslighting me.
Now there’s this doubt, this need to be perfect in this stranger’s eyes—as perfect as I find him.
I bet Damien would never make a girl feel uncomfortable in any way.
When Basia says bye, I straighten my back as much as I can and lift my trembling chin.
I’m playing with the straps of my bag to try and steady my hands, and just as I walk up to his side, they slip out of my hands.
The bag hits the ground with a loud clang, the water bottle inside crashing against my phone, inhaler, lip gloss, and keys with a painful sound.
I cringe and drop down to pick it up. Maybe he didn’t hear anything?
He’s probably listening to loud metal or something. Right?
Just as my fingers wrap around the straps again, his large, warm hand covers mine. My breath catches in my throat, and I slowly lift my eyes up to meet his piercing blue orbs.
“H—hi,” I stutter, the corners of my lips twitching up into a nervous smile that I just know looks super awkward. I’m blushing already, and he hasn’t even said a word.
“Hi,” he replies quietly. The altitude training mask makes his voice come out somewhat deeper and a bit muffled, his breathing sounding like sandpaper over glass.
“I don’t know if you remember me,” I begin, but he cuts me off before I can continue.
“I remember you, princess.”
Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. I think my heart is about to make an escape through my ribcage and straight into his ridiculously defined arms.
“Oh, I…” I giggle nervously. “I wanted to say thank you. Again. For saving my life.”
Damien’s head tilts, and he rises out from the crouch, smoothly taking my bag out of my hands.
For a moment, I blink up at him from my kneeling position, the subtext of it—at least in my head—making my ovaries tingle.
When he offers a hand to help me stand, I avert my eyes, feeling vulnerable in a way I’ve never experienced before.
And I thought I was an expert on the sensation.
“Just doing my job, Morgan,” he finally says, smoothly pulling me up.
When I realize what he means, my cheeks light up with flames from hell. Of course, he’s just doing his job, you ho. He’s not thinking of you every waking moment. He’s not that pathetic.
“Oh, well, thanks anyway,” I mumble, reaching blindly for my gym bag.
I need to get out of here before I embarrass myself more than I already did.
Just on cue, I lose my balance from standing up too fast and tip forward.
His hand grabs my elbow to steady me, and the touch sends sparks radiating out from the point of contact, straight to each pleasure center in my body. I’m such a fool.
“Careful there, princess,” he says, the mask making even the endearment sound somewhat sinister. “Don’t want to end up at the ER again.”
I try to laugh it off, but it comes out thin and shaky. My heart hasn’t slowed since the second I spotted him across the room.
Damien helps me put my gym bag on my shoulder, his fingers grazing my collarbone in the process. The touch is fleeting, practical, but my skin buzzes like he branded me. His other hand lingers just a moment too long at my elbow.
“You’re flushed,” he observes, tilting his head. His blue eyes scan me like he can read my vitals without equipment. “How’s your breathing?”
I swallow hard, wishing my lungs weren’t so tight for entirely different reasons now. “I’m fine. Just… Classes are intense.”
Something flickers in his gaze, like he knows exactly what kind of “intense” I mean.
I clutch the strap of my bag with both hands, grounding myself. “I probably shouldn’t be pushing it anyway. Stress isn’t exactly my friend.”
His brows lift slightly, the mask muffling his exhale into a low rasp that makes goosebumps rise on my arms. “Stress never is. You got something coming up?”
The question is simple, but it hits a little too close to the truth. Before I can stop myself, words slip out: “I, uh… have to go home for Christmas. To Madison.”
Damien stills, just for a beat. How odd.
I rush to cover, shaking my head. “It’s nothing. Just… family stuff. I’m not… I’m not thrilled about it.” My laugh is brittle. “Guess I’m better at numbers and policies than dealing with people.”
His eyes stay locked on me, unblinking, too intense for a casual gym chat. The mask muffles his next inhale, before he finally says, “People can be unpredictable. Dangerous.” His voice is lower now, more like a warning. “But you? You’ll handle it, princess.”
My stomach flips, half with nerves, half with the shameful thrill that coils through me every time he calls me that.
Before I can think of a reply, his phone rings. He pulls it out of his pocket, glances at the screen, then levels me with a serious look.
“I have to go. Work. Stay safe, Morgan.” His voice is gravel over velvet, and when he walks away, my knees feel like they might not hold me. I follow him with my eyes for as long as I can, praying he doesn’t look back and catch me eyeing his ass like I’m a starving cannibal.
When I realize I’m probably never going to see him again, my heart sinks. Maybe I should keep going to these classes after all? Just in case I run into him again…