Chapter 2 – Lance #2
I pressed my hand against the monitor, wishing I could reach through the glass and touch her. Just once. Just enough to let her know she wasn't alone.
"Lance." Hector's voice was gentle. "You can't save her if you're dead."
"I can't save her if she's given up either."
“Don’t do anything stupid.”
Morgan's eyes opened on screen, and for a moment, she stared directly at the camera. Like she could feel me watching. Like some part of her knew I was still here.
Then she curled deeper into the blankets, clutching my journal tighter.
“I won’t.”
I would be careful. Tonight, while everyone slept, I was going to see my wife.
The penthouse security system was child's play. After all, I'd designed it with Gwen. I knew all the backdoors.
I'd designed half the protocols myself back when Atticus and Gwen did the remodel. Twelve minutes to disable the cameras, loop the footage, and slip inside without triggering any alarms.
The hardest part wouldn’t be getting in. It would be making myself leave.
I stood in the shadow of the building for ten minutes before I worked up the courage to move.
Hector would lose his shit if he knew what I was doing.
The man who'd spent a decade hunting me was now trying to keep me alive, keep Morgan safe.
Strange how finding out your grandfather murdered your mother could turn an enemy into an ally.
But was it real? Had he really been planning to defy grandfather all along, or was this recent? How long had he known about our mother?
I wanted to trust him. Needed to trust him. But ten years of believing he was my enemy didn't disappear overnight, even if he'd never actually been working for grandfather the way I thought.
Watching Morgan through surveillance feeds was driving me insane.
I needed to see her. Touch her.
The elevator moved silently to the penthouse floor. Atticus had spared no expense on soundproofing when he'd renovated this place. Every surface was designed to muffle noise, to keep secrets.
Perfect for midnight visits from dead husbands.
Gwen and Atticus were asleep in the master bedroom. According to my tablet. Ava was in her nursery. The night nurse was in her room.
I didn't have too long. Atticus and Gwen had been taking turns checking on Morgan nightly. Like she might disappear if left alone too long.
They weren't wrong.
I moved like a ghost through their space, muscle memory guiding me around furniture I'd helped them pick out. The same couch where Morgan and I had fallen asleep watching movies. The dining table where we'd eaten Magda's cooking and argued about everything and nothing.
Everything was exactly the same, but it felt different now. Changed.
I'd watched through the surveillance feed as Gwen had tried to give Morgan a sleeping pill an hour ago. Morgan had refused, shaking her head and pushing the medication away.
She never did like meds. Even when exhaustion was killing her, she'd rather suffer than take anything. Pure exhaustion had finally won out over grief and adrenaline.
Which meant I could get closer without waking her.
I was halfway down the hallway when I heard footsteps behind me. Slow and deliberate.
Shit.
I slipped into the nearest doorway, the guest room where Morgan kept her design materials, just as someone rounded the corner.
"I know you're here," Gwen's voice was soft but certain. "I can feel you."
My heart hammered against my ribs. How the hell could she know?
She stopped in the hallway, close enough that I could hear her breathing.
"You son of a bitch," she whispered to the empty air. "How could you leave her like this?"
She was talking to my ghost. But her instincts were right. I was here.
"Morgan's dying without you. Actually dying. And I can't fix it because you're not here to fix."
Her voice cracked on the last word, and I had to press my hand against the wall to keep from responding.
"I loved you like a brother," Gwen whispered. "But right now, I hate you for leaving us."
Guilt and regret nearly knocked me on my ass, but I forced myself to stay rooted.
I ruthlessly silenced the urge to say “Hey, I’m here.
” Not yet. Not until I’m strong enough to protect them myself.
I couldn’t leave that responsibility to Hector.
not when I wasn’t entirely sure I could trust him.
How the hell could I sit back and expect him to safeguard the people who meant everything to me?
Gwen stood there for another long moment, like she was waiting for an answer. Like part of her knew I was listening.
Then her footsteps moved away, continuing down the hall.
I stayed hidden for another five minutes, making sure she was really gone. My heart took several minutes to level out.
When I finally emerged, my hands were shaking.
The space smelled like Morgan. Coconut and lime shampoo and that vanilla lotion she always used. It hit me like a physical blow, memories of mornings when I'd wake up surrounded by those scents.
Morgan's sketchbooks were scattered across the desk by the window. Pencils and charcoal sticks in organized chaos. The way she always worked, claiming she thought better when her materials weren't perfectly arranged.
I picked up the nearest sketchbook, flipping through pages of evening gowns and cocktail dresses. Her lines were shakier than usual, like her hands had forgotten how to be steady. But the designs were still brilliant.
Still Morgan.
Then I found the wedding dress sketches.
Three different designs, all variations on a theme. Flowing silk that would move like water. Delicate beadwork that would catch light when she danced.
We’d talked about renewing our vows on our anniversary. To do it all over again with no danger looming. Had she been designing something for that?
At the bottom of the page, in her careful handwriting: "What could have been."
My chest caved in.
I sank into the chair, staring at the sketches until they blurred. This was what grief looked like. Not just missing someone, but mourning all the futures that would never happen.
All the dreams that died with me.
I put the sketchbook back where I'd found it, making sure everything looked exactly as Morgan had left it.
Now I needed to see Morgan. Touch her.
Morgan's bedroom was at the end of the hall. The door was cracked open. I eased it wider, just enough to slip inside, then closed it carefully behind me.
Morgan was curled on her side, facing away from the door. The sight of her hit me like a physical blow. One of my older journals lay open beside her.
Her breathing was shallow but steady.
I stood there for a long moment, just watching her breathe.
She was wearing one of my old t-shirts, black with the logo faded from too many washes. The fabric swallowed her smaller frame, but I could see how much weight she'd lost. She looked fragile.
Too breakable.
Her braids were everywhere, spilled out on the satin covered pillow. She hadn't bothered with her bonnet.
Moving carefully, I approached the bed. The floorboards knew my weight, didn't creak under my feet. I'd learned to walk silently before I'd learned to drive, back when making noise meant punishment.
The journal was open to one of my entries from our honeymoon. The ink was smudged from her tears.
Morgan laughed so hard at dinner tonight that she snorted wine through her nose. She was mortified, but I've never seen anything more beautiful and hilarious. She's going to hate that I wrote this down, but I want to remember everything about loving her.
My chest tightened. I'd forgotten about that night. The waiter had flirted with her in French, thinking I wouldn't understand. The way she'd covered her face with her hands, embarrassed, while I'd fallen even deeper in love with her.
I knelt beside the bed, close enough to see the tear tracks on her cheeks. Even in sleep, she looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes even in sleep. She looked younger somehow, but also broken. Hollow. Like she was fading away piece by piece.
This was killing her.
"I'm so sorry, Spitfire," I whispered, barely breathing the words.
My hand hovered over her face. I knew I wasn't going to wake her. Morgan had always been a heavy sleeper. But when she was upset, it was as if her mind protected her and kept her deep asleep while she worked out the problem or healed.
Still though, I shouldn't touch in case it might wake her. Finally, I gave in. I traced one finger along her cheekbone, memorizing the sharp edge of it. Her skin was warm. Real.
"You have to keep fighting," I breathed against her temple. "You have to stay alive until I can come back to you."
She shifted slightly in her sleep, and I froze. But exhaustion kept her under. Her breathing stayed deep and even.
The shirt gaped at the neck, slipping to one shoulder. Brown skin. The kind I used to taste like a prayer and a sin. My throat burned.
Don't wake her. Don't be an idiot.
My fingers hovered at her collarbone, tracing the dip, then the edge of cotton where the fabric dragged over a sensitive peak. The thin material shifted when she breathed, a small rise under my fingertips like a heartbeat answering mine. Heat shot through me, savage and sweet, and I went still.
Her lips moved. Barely. A sound. A whisper shaped in the dark. My name, soft as breath. Like she'd found me in a dream and didn't want to let go.
I swallowed a groan. Every muscle braced, fighting the need to move, to take, to climb in beside her and soak in her warmth until morning made a liar of me again. I shouldn't have come. I knew that. But staying away had been its own slow death.
She shifted on the pillow, arching just enough that the shirt slid higher on her thigh.
The soft curve of her thigh, the familiar constellation of freckles I used to trace with my tongue. I couldn't look away.