Chapter 14 Damien
DAMIEN
Ipull into the narrow alleyway behind my building, killing the headlights before parking near the service entrance.
Marco’s unconscious body slumps in the backseat, head lolled against the window.
I glance at Morgan in the passenger seat.
Her face is pale, eyes glassy in the dim light filtering from the street.
“Stay close and don’t make a sound,” I tell her, my voice low and firm.
She nods, biting her lip.
I exit the car and circle to the back, hauling Marco over my shoulder again. His weight barely registers—I’ve carried heavier loads through worse terrain. Morgan climbs out, wrapping her arms around herself against the winter cold. Her breath forms small clouds in the frigid air.
“Come on.” I jerk my head toward the service door.
She follows without hesitation, though I catch the tremor in her hands as she walks beside me.
I punch in the access code, and the lock clicks open.
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor and exposed pipes.
Our footsteps echo too loud in the empty corridor.
The freight elevator waits at the end of the hall. I press the call button with my elbow, Marco’s dead weight shifting on my shoulder. Morgan stands close enough that I can smell her perfume.
The elevator groans open, and we step inside. I hit the button for my floor, watching Morgan’s reflection in the dull metal doors. She’s staring at Marco’s limp form, at the blood matting his hair where I struck him.
“Eyes on me, princess,” I command softly.
Her gaze snaps to mine. Good. I need her focused, need her with me.
The elevator jerks to a stop, and the doors slide open. I lean out, checking the hallway. Empty. Three doors down to my apartment. I move quickly, Morgan’s footsteps light behind me.
A moment later, I unlock the door, and we’re inside. I lock it behind us with one hand, the automatic deadbolt sliding home with a satisfying thunk.
Morgan stands in my entryway, arms wrapped tight around her middle, watching me with those dark eyes. This moment marks the change between us. Where she either accepts what I am or runs screaming.
I stride down the hallway, Marco’s weight familiar and manageable across my shoulders. At the end, a concealed door waits, devoid of handle or keyhole. Just a small black panel mounted at eye level.
I lean forward, letting the scanner read my face. A soft beep, then the lock disengages with a mechanical click.
The door swings inward on silent hinges.
Behind me, Morgan’s breath catches. I hear it—that small, sharp intake of air. But she doesn’t stop walking. Her footsteps follow mine across the threshold.
I flip the light switch.
Fluorescent panels flicker to life overhead, flooding the room with clinical white light.
The space looks exactly like what it is—a medical examination room stripped of any warmth or pretense.
The stainless-steel table dominates the center, complete with drainage channels and restraint points at each corner.
Cabinets line one wall, their glass fronts revealing instruments arranged with surgical precision.
Scalpels. Bone saws. Syringes. IV stands wait in the corner like skeletal sentries.
An EKG machine sits beside the table, its screen dark. The blood pressure cuff hangs from a hook. Intubation equipment rests on a rolling tray.
Everything is spotless. Sterile. Professional.
I cross to the table and dump Marco onto it. His body hits the metal with a dull thud, limbs sprawling, and then I fasten his limbs down to the table with the restraints.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Morgan’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and rising. I turn to face her.
She stands just inside the doorway, one hand gripping the frame so tight her knuckles have gone white. Her eyes dart around the room, taking in every detail—the restraints, the instruments, the drain in the floor beneath the table.
Recognition dawns across her features. Not understanding, not yet. But recognition that this room has a purpose, and that purpose isn’t all good.
“Damien.” My name comes out strangled. “What the hell is this?”
I pull latex gloves from a box mounted on the wall, snapping them on one at a time. The sound echoes in the small space.
“Protection,” I say simply. “For you.”
“What the fuck, Damien?” Morgan backs away, her eyes wide with horror. “What is this place? Who are you?”
I continue preparing my instruments, arranging them in the order I’ll need them. My movements are automatic, practiced. I’ve done this dozens of times—either saving the boys when injured, or ending scumbag abusers.
“Look at me!” she demands, voice cracking.
I turn to face her, still holding a scalpel. “This is who I am, Morgan. This is what I do.”
She shakes her head, hand reaching behind her for the door handle. “You’re going to kill him.”
It’s not a question. Smart girl.
“Yes.”
Her breath comes in short gasps. I can see her mind working, processing. “How many... how many others have there been?”
“Twenty-seven.” I set the scalpel down. “All of them were abusers. Men who beat their wives, their girlfriends. Men who hurt children. I find them through my work—the EMT calls, the hospital visits. The ones the system fails to punish.”
“You can’t just—” she starts.
“I can. I do.” I gesture to Marco’s unconscious form. “Do you know how many women he’s put in the hospital? Six that I could confirm. One died. And the system did nothing. He walked away every time.”
Morgan flinches, but doesn’t look away.
“I see them at their worst moments. The women with broken jaws claiming they ‘fell.’ The children with cigarette burns that their parents say were ‘accidents.’” My voice remains calm, clinical. “I’m trained to save lives. But some lives can only be saved if I rid the world of their abusers.”
I step toward her, careful to move slowly. “What I do in this room—it protects people who can’t protect themselves. People like you, Morgan.”
Her eyes flick to Marco, then back to me. “You’re a killer.”
“I’m a protector. I remove threats.” I hold her gaze. “The world is full of monsters wearing human faces. I simply... unmake them.”
“And what gives you the right to decide?” Her voice trembles, but there’s steel underneath.
“Someone has to.” I spread my hands. “The system won’t. The courts won’t. So I do.”
Marco’s eyelids flutter. A groan escapes his throat as consciousness returns.
His eyes snap open, wild and unfocused. He jerks against the restraints—thick nylon straps secured across his wrists and ankles. “What the fuck?” His voice comes out hoarse, panicked. He yanks harder, the straps biting into his skin. “What the fuck is this?”
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him struggle.
His gaze lands on Morgan standing by the door. Something shifts in his expression—fear transforming into rage.
“You bitch,” he snarls. “This is what you’re into now? Playing kidnap games with your new boyfriend?” He glares at her with such hatred. “You always were a fucked-up whore. Needed a real man to straighten you out, but you couldn’t handle it.”
Morgan flinches, her face draining of color.
“I should’ve finished what I started before you ran like a coward.” Marco’s lip curls. “Thought you were special? You were nothing. A pathetic little—”
“Shut the fuck up.” My voice cuts through his tirade like a blade.
He turns his venom on me. “Or what? You gonna save her? She doesn’t need saving, she needs—”
I’m across the room in three strides. My hand wraps around his throat, squeezing hard enough to cut off his air. His eyes bulge, feet kicking out.
“One more word about her and I’ll make your torture last days instead of hours.
” I lean close, letting him see exactly what waits behind my eyes.
“I’ll keep you conscious for every cut, every break.
I know exactly how much the human body can endure before it gives out, and I promise you’ll beg me to end it long before I do. ”
I release him. He gasps, coughing.
Morgan’s voice cuts through the silence. Clear. Steady.
“Do it.”
I turn to look at her.
She’s stepped forward, away from the door. Her hands are clenched at her sides, but her chin is lifted, jaw set.
“Torture him.” Her dark eyes meet mine without wavering. “Kill him.”
Pride surges through me, hot and possessive. I cross back to her, cupping her face between my hands.
“That’s my princess,” I murmur, searching her eyes. “My brave, strong girl.”
A flush spreads across her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away.
“You crazy bitch!” Marco’s voice erupts behind us, shrill with panic. “You’re both fucking insane! You think you can—”
I grab a clean rag from the supply cabinet, ball it up, and stuff it into his mouth mid-sentence. He gags, trying to spit it out, but I secure it with surgical tape wrapped around his head. His muffled screams die to desperate whimpers.
I turn back to Morgan, gentling my voice. “Princess, you should step outside. Wait in the living room. I’ll come get you when it’s done.”
She shakes her head, the movement sharp and immediate.
“No.”
“Morgan—”
“I need to be here for it.” Her voice trembles but doesn’t break. “I need to see he’s really gone. To see him go through the pain he inflicted on me.”
I study her face, looking for cracks in her resolve. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, jaw tight. But her eyes—those dark eyes that first captured me—they burn with something I recognize. The need to reclaim power. To witness justice when the world denied it.
“You understand what you’re asking?” I step closer, voice low. “Once you see this, you can’t unsee it. It changes you.”