Chapter 8 Damien
DAMIEN
The barbell hits the rack with a metallic clang that echoes through the gym. Sweat drips down my temples, stinging my eyes, but I don’t wipe it away. I need the burn and the distraction.
It’s not working.
Morgan’s face flashes in my mind again—the terror when Marco touched her. The way she stumbled back like a cornered animal. How she dropped everything and ran.
I move to the pull-up bar, gripping it hard enough that my knuckles go white. Fifteen reps. Twenty. My shoulders scream, but I keep going.
Marco Delacruz.
Watching him put his hands on her through that shop window made me want to break through the glass and snap every one of his fingers. But I couldn’t. Not in broad daylight with witnesses everywhere.
I drop from the bar and grab the battle ropes, slamming them against the floor in violent waves. The rhythm matches my pulse—hard, fast, relentless.
Marco needs to come to New York. I need him in my territory, where I can control the variables.
The question is how.
I could create a reason. An emergency with one of his relatives—no, too easy to verify. A job opportunity? Possible, but risky. Something personal would work better. Something that would make him think he has the upper hand.
My jaw clenches as I drop the ropes. Marco’s the kind of pathetic excuse of a man who gets off on power and control. He’s kept tabs on Morgan online, remembering the one who got away. That’s his weakness.
He wants her back just to break her properly.
I could use that. Make him think he has a chance. Lead him straight into a trap.
The idea crystallizes in my mind. This isn’t just about Morgan anymore. Marco fits the profile perfectly—multiple victims, escalating violence, a woman dead because of him. He’s already on my list. Morgan just moved him to the top.
I’m toweling off when movement catches my eye.
Morgan.
She’s walking through the entrance, gym bag over her shoulder, looking around like she’s searching for someone. Her dark eyes sweep the weight section, and when they land on me, she freezes.
I grab my water bottle and lean against the squat rack, watching her without making it obvious. She’s wound tight—shoulders rigid, fingers clutching the strap of her bag like it might fly away. Her gaze darts toward the entrance twice in the span of thirty seconds.
Hypervigilant. Classic trauma response.
She’s doing that thing people do when they’re trying to look casual but failing—touching her hair, adjusting her shirt, shifting her weight from foot to foot. The encounter with Marco on Christmas Eve rattled her. She shouldn’t be here. She should be home, processing, and recovering.
But she came anyway.
And she’s looking for me.
The realization sends heat through my chest. I should maintain distance. I’ve already crossed enough lines—following my princess to Madison, watching her through her bedroom window, planning to eliminate her ex. Getting closer will complicate everything.
Except she’s moving toward the treadmills now, and if I don’t intercept her, I’ll lose the opportunity.
I time it perfectly. She’s setting her bag down when I cross to the water fountain, close enough that she’ll notice, but not so close that it seems intentional. I fill my bottle slowly, counting the seconds.
“Morgan.”
She spins around, and I catch the flash of relief before she masks it with surprise.
“Damien. Hi.” Her voice wavers slightly.
I cap my bottle. “You okay?”
The question lands heavier than I intend. Her expression shifts—vulnerable, then guarded.
“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because I saw you run from that store like the devil was chasing you. Because I know Marco touched you and you nearly collapsed.
“You look tired.”
“It’s been a long trip.” She tugs at her gym bag strap. “Family and all that.”
“Right.” I step closer. “Christmas.”
“Yeah.”
The silence stretches. She’s waiting for me to say more. Still, I’m cataloging details—the shadows under her eyes, the way she keeps glancing past my shoulder, the rapid pulse visible at her throat.
She wanted to see me. Came here looking for me.
That shouldn’t matter, but it does.
“Water?” I offer the fountain.
“Sure.” She moves past me, and our hands brush as she reaches for the button.
The contact is brief. Electric.
She jerks back slightly, color flooding her cheeks.
“Sorry,” she breathes.
“Don’t be.”
The water fountain hums between us, and I make the decision.
“Have a drink with me.”
Her eyes widen. “What?”
“There’s a bar two blocks over.”
She bites her lip, and I track the movement. “I don’t know—”
“One drink.” I keep my voice level, unthreatening. “You look like you could use it.”
The resistance flickers across her face—fear, want, uncertainty. I wait, letting the silence work for me.
“Okay,” she whispers. “One drink.”
“Meet you at the entrance in fifteen minutes?”
She nods, already backing toward the women’s locker room.
I head the opposite direction, my pulse hammering harder than it should. This is strategic. Necessary. I need to know what happened with Marco, gauge how much danger she’s in, and determine if my timeline needs to be accelerated.
That’s the only reason.
It’s a fucking lie, and I know it.
In the shower, water cascades over my shoulders, but it doesn’t cool the heat spreading through my body. My cock is hard, straining, the image of Morgan in that black lingerie seared into my brain. The way she touched herself, the sounds she must have made—
I wrap my hand around my length, stroking fast and rough. No finesse. Just need.
“Fuck,” I breathe, bracing against the tile. “Princess.”
I imagine her on her knees instead. Those dark eyes look up at me while I guide my cock between her lips. The way she’d look, taking me, cheeks hollowed, throat working—
“Take it,” I growl under my breath. “All of it.”
My rhythm turns brutal, chasing the release I need before sitting across from her in a bar. Before pretending I’m just a concerned EMT checking on a former patient.
The orgasm hits hard. I bite back a groan as I come, Morgan’s name trapped behind my teeth.
Afterward, I quickly rinse off, forcing my breathing to steady. Control reasserts itself, familiar and necessary. By the time I’m dressed—dark jeans, black Henley, leather jacket—the arousal has banked to manageable levels.
I reach the entrance before she does.
The gym doors slide open and closed, spitting out post-workout bodies. I watch each one, tracking faces automatically. Old habit. Then she appears, wearing fitted jeans and a burgundy sweater that hugs her curves.
My pulse kicks up again.
“Ready?” I ask when she reaches me.
“Yeah.”
We step into the December night. Christmas lights wrap every storefront, casting red and green halos across the sidewalk. Morgan walks close—closer than strangers would—and I’m aware of every inch of space between us. Six inches. Five.
She shivers.
“Cold?”
“A little.”
I should offer my jacket.
I shrug out of it, holding it toward her.
“I’m fine.” She tucks her arms around herself. “Really.”
“Take it.”
“You’ll freeze.”
“I run hot.”
That makes her laugh—soft, surprised. The sound does things to my chest I don’t want to examine.
She takes the jacket. When she slides her arms through the sleeves, fabric swallowing her frame, satisfaction curls low in my gut. Mine. She looks like she’s mine.
Dangerous thought.
The bar appears half a block later—Brady’s, neon shamrock flickering in the window despite the wreaths and tinsel wrapped around the doorframe. Inside, it’s dim and warm, smelling like whiskey and pine. Christmas lights string across exposed brick walls, casting everything in amber and red.
I scan the room automatically. Exits—two. Occupants—maybe twenty people scattered at tables and the bar. No immediate threats.
The hostess offers us a booth near the window, but I shake my head.
“Corner table.”
Morgan doesn’t question it when I guide her toward the back. She slides into the chair facing the interior while I take the seat with a clear view of the entrance. Old habits.
“What can I get you?” The waitress appears, notepad ready.
“Whiskey. Neat.” I glance at Morgan.
“Um, vodka soda? With lime.”
The waitress disappears, and silence settles between us. Morgan fidgets with the edge of a napkin, folding it into smaller and smaller squares.
“How was Christmas?” I lean back, casual. Nonthreatening.
“Fine. Good.” Her fingers are still on the napkin. “Awkward. You know how family is.”
“Not really.”
That gets her attention. “No family?”
“Not anymore.”
“I’m sorry.”
I wave it off. “It was a long time ago.” True enough. “What made it awkward?”
She hesitates, and I watch the debate play across her face—how much to share, how much to keep locked down.
“I haven’t been home in five years,” she admits. “My parents had questions.”
“About?”
“Work. Dating. Why do I never visit?” She looks away. “The usual.”
The waitress returns with our drinks. Morgan takes a long pull from hers immediately.
“And what did you tell them?” I sip my whiskey, letting the burn settle.
“That work keeps me busy. That I like where I am.” Her thumb traces condensation on the glass. “Lies, mostly.”
“You don’t like it?”
“I like the distance.”
There it is.
“From them?”
“From my past.”
She doesn't elaborate, and I don't push. Yet.
I let the silence stretch, nursing my whiskey while she drains half her vodka soda. The alcohol loosens her shoulders slightly, eases the rigid set of her spine.
“What about you?" She meets my eyes. “How long have you been an EMT?"
“About six years now.”
“And before that?”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. “Navy. Eight years as a Corpsman.”
“Why'd you get out?”
“Saw enough blood. I wanted a change of pace.”
“EMT work must have plenty of blood.”
“Different context." I lean forward, elbows on the table. “I choose who I help now.”
Her brow furrows slightly at that, but she doesn't question it.
“Do you like it?”
“The work?" I hold her gaze. “Yeah. I'm good at it.”