Chapter 15 – Morgan
Chapter Fifteen
Safe in His Hands..
Morgan
That image wouldn't leave my mind. Blood spreading across the concrete in a perfect crimson circle. The hollow sound of the gunshot bouncing off brick walls. The man's eyes—wide, terrified, then empty—staring at nothing as his body crumpled to the ground.
I couldn't stop shaking.
Even now, hours later, sitting on Lance's couch wrapped in a blanket, my body trembled like I was freezing from the inside out. The mug of tea Lance had pressed into my hands should have been warm, but I couldn't feel it. Couldn't feel anything except the cold terror that had settled into my bones.
I'd seen a man die today. Watched the life drain from his eyes. And the worst part? The absolute worst? The man who'd killed him had done it with the casual indifference of someone swatting a fly.
Lance's grandfather.
The reality of what I'd gotten myself into crashed over me anew. This wasn't just a family with some shady business dealings. These were people who executed others in broad daylight without a second thought.
And I was marrying into this family.
"Drink," Lance said quietly, his hand covering mine, guiding the mug to my lips. "It'll help with the shock."
His touch sent a current through me—warm and electric and terrifying all at once. The man who could break someone's neck without breaking a sweat was now handling me like I was made of spun glass.
I took a sip. The tea was sweet—too sweet—the way he knew I liked it when I was upset. The familiar taste broke something inside me.
"He shot him," I whispered, my voice cracking around the words. "Right in the head. I cannot unsee it. "
Lance's jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grinding. "I know."
"He was begging," I continued, the memories spilling out now. "Begging for his life. For a second chance. Your grandfather just... looked at him. Like he was garbage. Then he pulled out the gun and—" My voice caught on a sob.
Lance moved beside me, close but not touching. The heat of him called to me, promising safety even as my mind screamed that he was part of this world. Part of them.
I shifted, wincing as pain shot through my legs. I must have run farther than I'd realized, my muscles protesting the unexpected exertion.
"You're hurt," Lance said immediately, eyes narrowing as he tracked my movement.
"Just sore," I assured him, rubbing at my calf. "These boots weren't exactly made for running through back alleys."
"Give me your feet," he said, abruptly changing the subject.
I blinked, thrown by the sudden shift. "What?"
"Your feet," he repeated, patting his lap. "You've been in those boots all day. Your arches must be killing you."
I hesitated, uncertain where this was going. But the prospect of relieving the ache in my feet won out over suspicion. I shifted on the couch, extending my legs toward him.
Lance unlaced my boots with practiced efficiency, sliding them off and setting them aside. His hands were warm as they wrapped around my right foot, thumbs pressing into the arch with just the right amount of pressure.
"Oh my god," I groaned, head falling back against the couch cushions. The relief was immediate and intense, better than I wanted to admit.
"Too hard?" he asked, though the smugness in his voice said he already knew the answer.
"Don't you dare stop," I warned, eyes still closed.
His low chuckle sent warmth curling through my belly, a sensation I firmly ignored. This was just... tension relief. Nothing more.
Except his touch felt like coming home. Like muscle memory. Like something I'd been missing for too long.
His thumbs found every knot, every ache I didn't even know I had, working from heel to toe with meticulous care. By the time he switched to my left foot, I was practically liquid, all the tension of the day seeping out of me under his skilled hands.
"How do you always know exactly where it hurts?" I asked, voice embarrassingly breathy.
"Basic anatomy was part of my training," he said, his voice dropping to that low register that always made me shiver. "Pressure points can bring pain or pleasure."
His eyes met mine, something dark and intense flickering in their depths. "I'd rather focus on the pleasure."
My breath caught at the suggestive tone, heat rushing to my cheeks despite everything. I swallowed hard, trying to redirect my thoughts away from the dangerous path they were heading down.
"What was it like for you?" I asked quietly. "Growing up there. What I saw today..." I shivered, fear washing through me again at the memory.
He stared at his hands for so long I wondered if he'd answer, but his fingers never stopped working the tension from my feet, the steady rhythm almost hypnotic. When he finally spoke, his voice was unnervingly calm.
"I was born into it. Raised in it. Trained for it since I could walk."
His eyes met mine, dark and fathomless, while his thumbs pressed into a particularly tense spot on my arch.
"The first time I saw a man die, I was fourteen years old."
The confession hit me like a physical blow.
My hand instinctively reached for his, but he continued the massage, his touch gentler now as if sensing my distress.
Tears filled my eyes as I imagined a teenage Lance witnessing death, being trained to cause it.
This wasn't just his past—this was his childhood, stolen from him one trauma at a time.
"My grandfather had been training both of us—me and Hector," he continued, something haunted flickering across his face as his hands moved to my ankles, easing the stiffness there. "Hector really took to it, embraced every lesson like it was a gift. He wanted to be the heir so badly."
"And you didn't?" I asked softly, searching his face, my heart aching for the boy he must have been.
Lance's laugh was bitter, empty, but his hands remained gentle, working their way up to my calves. "Not the way he did. Never the way he did."
“What do you mean?”
"He took more risks. Went further than he needed to.
Always trying to make my grandfather proud.
" His eyes went distant, though his fingers never stopped their methodical work.
"But for some insane reason, I was the favorite.
I think my grandfather liked that I was controlled.
That I never made any kind of move until it was necessary.
When I fought, I was efficient, not cruel. "
"That must have been hard with Hector," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Being the favorite when you didn't even want it."
A muscle jumped in Lance’s jaw, and he worked a particularly tight knot in my calf.
"Doesn't matter though. I knew when I got my first assignment that I couldn't—" He broke off, swallowing hard.
"Couldn't what?" I prompted gently, not wanting to push but needing to understand.
His eyes darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might actually answer. Then his expression shuttered, the walls slamming back into place, though his hands never faltered in their careful attention.
"I can't talk about that," he said quietly. "Not yet."
The pain in his voice was so raw, so visceral, that it broke my heart. I placed my hand over his where it rested on my leg, offering what comfort I could. Whatever that first assignment had been, whatever line he'd been asked to cross, it had left scars that hadn't healed, even after a decade.
"Before my first assignment," he continued, deliberately changing the subject, his thumbs now making small circles just below my knee, "my grandfather thought I needed a more direct education. He brought me to a warehouse where they were... interrogating someone who'd stolen from us."
I tightened my grip on his hand, fighting back a fresh wave of tears at the thought of a teenage Lance being forced to witness such horror.
"I still remember how cold the metal chair was," he said.
"How the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.
How the man's screams echoed off the concrete walls.
" A bitter smile twisted his lips. "My grandfather made me sit there for hours, watching, learning what happened to people who betrayed our family. "
The image was obscene—a teenage boy forced to witness torture, violence that no child should ever see, no matter their age.
"God, Lance," I whispered, my free hand reaching up to touch his face before I could stop myself. "No one should have to see that. Especially not a child."
He leaned into my touch for just a moment, his eyes closing briefly, and my heart cracked open a little more for him. This wasn't the controlled, dangerous man who'd kissed me senseless in that hospital on-call room. This was someone vulnerable, wounded in places that had never fully healed.
"Did anyone try to stop him? To protect you from that?" I asked, unable to imagine any parent allowing their child to witness such horror.
Pain flickered across his face, raw and exposed, but his hands continued their steady massage, moving back down to my feet with a gentleness that belied the violence of his words.
"My mother," he said after a long moment.
"She was a DuLac by marriage, but she never bought into the life.
She always tried to counter my grandfather's teachings.
" A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "For some reason, the old man would listen to her, too.
I'm pretty sure she was the reason my grandfather took so long to give me my first assignment. "
"She tried to protect you any way she could," I said, my heart aching for the boy who'd had just one person in his corner.
Morgan recalled the picture he had shown her at the loft, of an innocent gap-toothed young boy with his mother by his side.
Another thick lump formed in her throat. “What about your dad?”
His eyes grew distant. "Our father died when I was twelve. Car accident. When I was older, I learned that he'd been on a job and got taken out in a chase."