Page 52 of The Last Morgan

Lucy chuckled, still riding the high of victory.

They talked for hours — about training, life, the madness that had swallowed her world — and for the first time in days, Lucy felt almost normal.

Almost.

Byron’s absence from the room gnawed at the edges of her mind.

Eventually, Lucy yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.

"I think I’m calling it," she said, rising to her feet.

Damian stood too, rubbing the back of his neck shyly.

"I’ll walk you to your room." Lucy smiled, feeling a warmth, she didn’t quite know what to do with.

They moved through the dimly lit hallways quietly, the house sleeping around them.

When they reached her door, Damian paused.

"Goodnight, Lucy," he said softly.

His door — just across the hall — was left open, an unspoken promise that he was near if she needed him.

"Goodnight, Damian," she whispered back.

She slipped into her room, the door clicking softly behind her.

The room was cool, washed in moonlight.

Lucy moved automatically toward the window, pulling back the curtain.

And froze.

Byron.

Standing alone in the garden, a cigarette burning between his fingers, his head tilted back as he stared directly at her window.

Lucy’s breath caught painfully in her throat.

Without thinking, without really thinking, she closed the curtain.

Cutting off his view.

Lucy crawled into bed, burying herself under the covers, willing her heart to slow.

But sleep wouldn't come.

She stared at the ceiling, the heat of Byron's gaze still burning into her skin even from a distance.

Outside, Byron watched the curtain fall. Watched her turn away from him. And something inside him snapped.

Without hesitation, without thought, he moved. Inhumanly fast.

He scaled the stone wall of the mansion, If anyone saw him, they'd think he was superhuman. They wouldn’t be wrong.

Byron reached her window and slipped the latch easily.

The window opened with the barest whisper.