Chapter 16
DAMIEN
The first hint of dawn bleeds through my bedroom window as I strip off my clothes and drop them in the medical-grade biohazard bag.
My hands still smell like bleach despite the gloves I wore.
Marco’s gone—ashes scattered in three different locations by tomorrow afternoon if Vic keeps his word. And Vic always keeps his word.
I pad naked into the bathroom, scrubbing my hands and arms with antibacterial soap until my skin stings.
The shower runs scalding hot. I stand under the spray until the tension in my shoulders loosens, until I’m certain every trace of tonight has circled down the drain.
Morgan’s asleep in my bed where I left her hours ago, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek. The sheet’s tangled around her waist, her bare back rising and falling with each breath. Christ, she’s beautiful, even with smudged mascara and her hair a mess.
I slide into bed behind her, careful not to jostle her too much. The mattress dips. She stirs immediately, making a soft sound in the back of her throat.
“Damien?”
“Yeah, princess. Go back to sleep.”
Instead of listening, she rolls over to face me, blinking those dark eyes open. Her hand finds my chest, fingers tracing the tattoo there.
“What time is it?”
“Just after seven.”
“Did you…?” She trails off, but her gaze is steady. Direct. There’s not a hint of judgment or fear.
“Yeah. It’s done. All of it.”
Morgan nods, her thumb brushing over one of my nipples. The touch sends heat straight to my cock, but I’m too exhausted to act on it.
“Good,” she whispers.
That single word hits me harder than expected. Good. Not ‘oh god, what have we done?’ or ‘I can’t believe this happened.’ Just… good.
I pull her closer until her head rests on my shoulder, my arm wrapped around her waist.
“You’re not freaked out?”
“No.” Her breath warms my skin. “Should I be?”
“Most people would be.”
“I’m not most people.” She tilts her head back to look at me. “You saved me, Damien. Twice now. And you gave me something I didn’t know I needed.”
“What’s that?”
“Closure.”
I kiss her, slow and thorough, tasting the mint toothpaste still lingering on her breath. When I pull back, silence settles between us. Heavy. Expectant.
Morgan’s studying my face like she’s trying to read something written beneath my skin. Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, but there’s hesitation in the touch now.
“What is it?”
She bites her lip, and I recognize that tell by now. She wants to ask something she’s not sure she should.
“What made you start doing this? The… the killing.”
The question lands like a punch to the sternum. I’ve never told anyone this story. Not Ethan, not Killian. They know pieces, fragments, but never the whole ugly truth.
My jaw tightens. I could deflect, change the subject, distract her with sex. But Morgan watched me butcher her ex without flinching. She chose to stay, to participate. If anyone deserves to know, it’s her.
“My old man beat my mom.” The words scrape out of my throat. “For as long as I can remember. He’d hit me, too, but never as bad as her. She took the worst of it.”
Morgan’s hand stills on my chest, but she doesn’t speak. Doesn’t interrupt.
“I was ten. He came home drunk—drunker than usual. Started in on her about dinner being cold or some bullshit. I heard the first few hits from my room, heard her crying, begging him to stop. Then it went quiet.”
My chest constricts. Even after all these years, the memory’s sharp enough to sting.
“When I came out, she was on the kitchen floor. Not moving. Blood everywhere. He was standing over her, staring at his hands like he couldn’t figure out what they’d done.
” I swallow hard. “Then he looked at me. Just looked at me. Walked to the bedroom, grabbed his pistol, came back, and put it in his mouth.”
Morgan’s breath catches.
“Pulled the trigger right in front of me. His brains splattered across the wall behind him, some of it on me. I stood there between their bodies until the neighbors heard me screaming. The neighbors called 911. I ended up in foster care.” I stare at the ceiling, seeing those years play out in fragments.
“Bounced around until I was eighteen. Some homes were okay. Most weren’t.
One guy thought I’d make a good punching bag since I didn’t have anyone to complain to.
Another one’s wife liked to burn us with cigarettes when we didn’t finish our chores fast enough. ”
Morgan’s fingers curl against my skin, her nails pressing in just enough that I feel it.
“I joined the Navy the day I turned eighteen. Got myself through Corpsman training, told myself I’d spend my life saving people. Making up for what I couldn’t do for my mom.”
“But it wasn’t enough,” Morgan says quietly.
“No,” I admit. “I became an EMT after I got out. Thought saving civilian lives would be more fulfilling, you know? Just help people, go home, repeat. Simple.”
I shift onto my side so I can see her properly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
“First year on the job, we got a call about a domestic disturbance. A woman in her thirties, her husband had beaten her unconscious with a baseball bat. She woke up in the ambulance, blood everywhere, and the first thing she said was, ‘Please don’t tell the police.’ She was terrified he’d kill her if we reported it. ”
Morgan’s eyes darken.
“I saw my mom in that woman. Saw what would’ve happened if someone had intervened earlier, if someone had stopped my old man before it went too far.
” My hand cups her face. “The cops showed up, and she refused to press charges. The system couldn’t do anything.
Two weeks later, we got another call at the same address. This time she was dead.”
“What did you do?”
“I looked up her husband. Found out where he drank, what routes he walked home. Followed him one night.” The memory’s crisp, clear. No guilt attached to it. “Broke his neck in an alley behind the bar. Made it look like he fell down the stairs drunk.”
Morgan’s breathing quickens, but there’s no fear in her expression. Just understanding.
“That’s when I reached out to Ethan—a brother in arms. He’s got skills with computers, access to databases that don’t officially exist. Started helping me identify targets. Men who beat women or abuse kids, the ones the system fails to stop.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan’s voice is soft, barely above a whisper. “No kid should ever have to go through that.”
The sympathy in her eyes makes my throat tight, but I shake my head.
“Don’t be. It made me who I am today.” I brush my thumb across her cheekbone. “I wouldn’t change it.”
“No?”
“No. If I’d had a different childhood, I wouldn’t be here. Wouldn’t have found my purpose.” I lean in closer, my forehead nearly touching hers. “Wouldn’t have found you.”
Morgan’s breath hitches. Her fingers slide up to curl around the back of my neck.
“You’re perfect,” she whispers.
A grin tugs at my mouth despite the heaviness of the conversation. “Careful, princess. Keep praising me like that, and I might develop a complex.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “Says the man who loves to hear me beg. I think you already have a complex”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you’re the one with the praise kink.” I capture her wrist, bringing her hand to my lips. “You melt every time I tell you you’re a good girl.”
“I do not—”
“You do.” I kiss the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse jump beneath my mouth. “Your pupils dilate, your breathing changes, you get wet.”
“Shut up.” But she’s smiling now, the tension broken.
I pull her flush against me, my hand sliding into her hair. When I kiss her, it’s nothing like the frantic kisses from earlier. This one’s slow and tender. My lips move against hers with deliberate care, savoring the taste of her, the soft sound she makes in the back of her throat.
Morgan melts into me, her body relaxing. Her fingers trace the line of my jaw as we kiss, unhurried and sweet. There’s no urgency, just this moment, just us.
When we finally break apart, she’s looking at me with something in her eyes that makes my chest constrict.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She settles back against my shoulder, her hand resting over my heart. “Just... thank you.”
“For what?”
“For trusting me with this. With all of it.”
I tighten my arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
“I’ll trust you with more than that, Morgan.” The words come out rougher than I intend, weighted with meaning I can’t quite articulate. “My heart, my mind, every dark corner of who I am—it’s yours.”
She lifts her head, those dark eyes searching mine.
“You’ve seen the worst parts of me. The things I’ve done, the man I really am when the mask comes off.” My thumb traces the curve of her jaw. “And you didn’t run. You stayed.”
“Damien—”
“Let me finish.” I need to say this before the vulnerability chokes me. “I’ve spent years watching people, studying them, learning what makes them break. But you? Christ, Morgan. You looked at the monster and called him beautiful.”
Her breath catches.
“So yeah, you get all of me. The good, the bad, the parts that should terrify you but don’t.” I brush my lips against her forehead. “And I swear to you—on everything I am—no one will ever hurt you again. Not Marco, not anyone. You’re mine to protect now.”
“Yours,” she whispers, and the way she says it sounds like a vow.
“Mine,” I confirm. “And I’m yours. Every broken piece, every scar, every kill I’ve made and will make. It all belongs to you.”
Morgan’s fingers curl against my chest, and when she speaks, her voice trembles. “You make it sound like poetry.”
“Maybe it is.” I tilt her chin up so I can see her properly. “The kind written in blood and bone instead of ink.”
She kisses me with such gentle tenderness that it feels like my chest cracks open. When she settles back against my shoulder, her breathing evens out within minutes, exhaustion claiming her.
I lie awake, staring at the ceiling as dawn light strengthens across the room.
This woman. This beautiful, damaged, perfect woman who watched me butcher her ex and got wet from it. Who trusts me with her safety, her body, her secrets.
I’m completely ruined for anyone else.
She’s carved herself into every part of me, branded herself on my soul until there’s no separating where I end and she begins. And the terrifying part? I don’t want to. Don’t want to imagine a version of myself that exists without her.
Morgan Cole has destroyed me more thoroughly than any enemy ever could.
And I’ve never been more grateful.