Chapter 4
MORGAN
The hand clamped over my mouth tasted of salt and old pennies, and it pressed hard enough to bruise my lips against my teeth.
I thrashed against him, my heels digging into the wet pavement of the alley, trying to find purchase, to make noise, anything to draw attention from the street beyond.
But his arm around my waist was iron, lifting me off the ground with a strength that felt unnatural, my struggles doing little more than tiring me out.
The pepper spray had slipped from my fingers in the chaos, rolling away into the shadows, useless now.
My heart hammered, a wild rhythm that drowned out everything else, fear and fury twisting together until I could barely tell them apart.
This wasn't happening. Not to me. But it was, and fighting it blindly wasn't going to get me out.
He moved fast, not running but with a purposeful stride that ate up the distance, sticking to the darker edges of the streets, avoiding the pools of light from streetlamps and storefronts.
I twisted my head, biting at his palm, tasting blood as my teeth broke skin, but he only grunted, adjusting his grip without slowing.
"Stop," he muttered, voice low and rough, like gravel underfoot.
It was a command, laced with exhaustion that didn't match the vise of his hold.
I didn't stop. I kicked backward, aiming for his shins, connecting once with a solid thud that made him stumble slightly.
Good. If he was hurt, maybe I could use it.
The alley spilled into a backstreet, then another, the route twisting through parts of the city I recognized vaguely: the old rail yard on the industrial side, chain-link fences rattling in the wind, abandoned lots overgrown with weeds.
I memorized it all, forcing my mind to focus past the panic.
Left at the rusted gate, right past the burned-out warehouse with the graffiti tag that looked like a snarling face.
If I got free, I'd need to know how to get back, how to tell the police where this bastard had come from.
Up close, with my body pressed against his in the forced march, I got my first real look at him, stolen in glances as we moved under intermittent light.
He was tall, broader than I'd realized in the dimness of the alley, his coat dark and worn, hanging open to reveal a frame honed lean and hard, like someone who survived on edges rather than comfort.
His face was sharp-angled, shadowed with stubble, eyes a piercing gray that flicked constantly, scanning for threats.
There was something striking about him, annoyingly so, the kind of raw, dangerous appeal that hit like a gut punch even as I hated myself for noticing.
High cheekbones, a jaw that could cut glass, hair dark and tousled by the rain.
It pissed me off, that flicker of unwanted awareness, tangled up in the terror, like my body was betraying me by registering anything beyond the threat.
I shoved the thought down hard, focusing on the rest: the way his breath came uneven, labored in a way that suggested pain or strain, a faint tremor in the arm holding me that he seemed to fight against. And his skin, where my nails had scratched earlier, showed veins too dark, almost black, threading under the surface like ink stains.
He wasn't right, not fully, like something was eating at him from the inside.
Drugs, probably. He was unstable and dangerous.
If I could exploit that, maybe I'd have a chance.
We crossed a deserted lot, gravel crunching under his boots, mine dragging uselessly.
I tried to scream again, muffled against his hand, but he tightened his grip, pulling me closer, his body heat seeping through my clothes despite the chill.
"Quiet," he said again, sharper this time, and I felt a vibration through him, like he was holding back a wince.
The sword was sheathed at his side, the one that had pressed against me in the alley without cutting, that impossible moment replaying in my head.
It hadn't cut, hadn't even scratched me, and he'd recoiled like it burned him.
What the hell was that? Some trick? A muscle spasm?
I didn't know, but it had shaken him, enough that he'd chosen this instead of finishing it.
That meant something, a weakness maybe, but right now it just meant I was being dragged God knows where by a man who could be the killer everyone was terrified of.
The journey felt endless, but it couldn't have been more than twenty minutes before the warehouse came into view, a hulking shape at the edge of the industrial district, windows boarded up, the fence sagging like it hadn't been maintained in years.
He slipped through a cut in the chain link, hauling me with him, the metal scraping against my coat as we passed.
Inside, the space opened up, vast and echoing, the air cold and musty, smelling of rust and old oil.
He didn't pause, steering me toward a side door, kicking it open with his foot.
The room beyond was smaller, an old office maybe, walls cracked and peeling, the floor concrete scattered with debris.
A cot in one corner, a cracked mirror propped against the wall, a bucket of water nearby, and not much else.
No kitchen, no comforts, just the bare bones of survival.
It looked like a place someone hid in, not lived in, isolated and forgotten, the kind of spot where screams wouldn't carry far.
My stomach dropped as he released my mouth, shoving me toward the cot, but kept a grip on my arm, twisting it behind my back just enough to warn against fighting.
I gasped in air, the words tumbling out before I could stop them.
"What the fuck do you want? Let me go, you psycho.
" My voice echoed off the walls, sharper than I'd intended, but I wasn't going to cower.
Fear was there, clawing at my chest, but anger burned hotter, keeping me upright.
He didn't answer right away, barring the door with a heavy bolt that clanged into place, then turning to face me fully.
Up close in the dim light from a battery lantern he flicked on, he looked even more worn, shadows deepening the hollows under his eyes, those dark veins more pronounced on his neck and hands.
He trembled slightly, a fine shake he tried to hide by clenching his fists, and for a second, his gaze unfocused, like he was listening to something I couldn't hear.
Then it snapped back, cold and assessing.
"Sit," he said, voice flat, pointing to the cot. He drew the sword from its sheath, laying it across a makeshift table, the metal gleaming dully. No blood on it, but the sight made my skin crawl, remembering how it had refused to cut me.
"Fuck you," I shot back, yanking against his hold, though it didn't budge.
"Who are you? Why did you bring me here?
" Questions, keep him talking, buy time.
I scanned the room as subtly as I could: one door, barred now; a small window high up, boarded but maybe breakable; shards of glass on the floor that could serve as a weapon if I got close; the lantern, heavy enough to swing.
No phone visible, no signs of anyone else, just traces of long isolation—stained clothes piled in a corner, empty food wrappers, a sense of decay that spoke of months, maybe years, in this hole.
He was alone, fraying at the edges, and that made him unpredictable.
He released my arm suddenly, shoving me back a step, but stayed between me and the door.
"You don't ask questions." His tone was exhausted, like speaking cost him, and he rubbed at his temple, wincing as if in pain.
The tremor was back, stronger now, traveling up his arms, and he leaned against the wall for a moment, breathing through it.
Whatever was wrong with him, it was getting worse, his face paling under the strain.
Part of me noted it clinically: weakness, opportunity.
But another part, the stupid, instinctive one, registered again how he looked even in this state—strong lines, a presence that filled the room, attractive in a way that grated because it shouldn't matter, not when he was the monster holding me here.
I hated that flicker, pushed it away with a surge of disgust at myself.
Focus on surviving, not whatever bullshit my adrenaline-fried brain was throwing up.
I edged toward the table, eyes on the sword, testing how close he'd let me get.
"You tried to kill me and it didn't work. What, your toy blade defective? Or are you just that incompetent? I bet you’re not even the Blade Phantom, just some loser copying him.
" Provoking him was risky, but passivity felt worse, like surrendering.
He straightened, eyes narrowing, and for a second, something flashed in them— not anger exactly, but a haunted wariness, like I was the threat here.
"Quiet," he repeated, stepping closer, towering over me without touching.
The air between us felt charged, his presence overwhelming in the confined space.
"I need to know what you are." The words slipped out, almost reluctant, and he clamped his mouth shut, as if regretting them.
Pain crossed his face again, sharper this time, and he gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white.
The dark veins pulsed faintly, spreading like cracks in ice, and he muttered something under his breath, too low to catch.
I seized the moment, lunging for a shard of glass on the floor, fingers closing around it just as he moved.
He was faster, kicking it from my hand, the edge slicing my palm shallowly.
Blood welled, warm and sticky, and I hissed, cradling it.
"Bastard," I spat, backing up until the cot hit my legs.
"If you're going to kill me, just do it. Or is that beyond you too?"
He didn't respond, just watched me with that strained gaze, like I was a puzzle he resented solving.
The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of water from the ceiling, and the weight of it settled over me: this wasn't a quick scare, a mugging gone wrong.
He had a place prepared, a life reduced to this barren room, and whatever had stopped him from killing me had trapped me in it with him.
Fear coiled tighter, real now in a way it hadn't been during the chase, because out there I'd had options, streets to run, people nearby.
Here, it was just us, and the nightmare wasn't ending anytime soon.
I sank onto the cot, not because he told me to, but because my legs were shaking, watching him pace the small space like a caged animal, waiting for whatever came next.