Close Call
1170 Words
Tylor went rigid, his breath catching as Morgan’s words echoed in the room. His wide eyes locked on her for a heartbeat, lips parting slightly, before he looked away.
"I don't need to repeat myself, do I?" Morgan said, her tone silky and commanding as she eased into a chair, crossing her legs. Her gaze stayed fixed on him—sharp, unblinking.
Tylor lowered his eyes. He swallowed hard, his fingers trembling as they reached for the hem of his shirt. One by one, the layers came off—first the shirt, then the trousers—until he was left in only his boxers. His cheeks burned crimson, jaw clenched as he kept his eyes on the floor. The silence around them pressed in tight.
He hated this.
But he’d learned from a young age that disobedience always earned punishment—and he didn’t want to find out what kind this beautiful, terrifying woman might give.
"You’re not done," Morgan said, leaning back in her chair, one brow raised. "When I say 'strip,' I mean everything."
His breath hitched.
He reached for the waistband of his boxers with shaking hands, still trying to stay kneeling.
"You can stand," she added, amused. "You’ll do better that way."
Legs asleep and unsteady, Tylor slowly pushed himself upright, swaying slightly as feeling returned to his limbs. He moved slowly, almost reverently, slipping the final piece of clothing down his hips until he stood bare before her.
He kept his head bowed, arms limp at his sides, the flush spreading down his neck.
Morgan’s eyes traveled over him, the corner of her mouth curling upward. Fragile-looking, yes—but his body held a quiet strength, lean and defined. A well-built frame hidden behind wide eyes and soft features. Not bad at all.
She let the silence linger, let the weight of her gaze soak into him.
Finally, she stood.
"Get dressed," she said, her tone clipped now. "My men will be here shortly to get you."
Tylor didn't move right away. Only after the echo of her heels faded down the hallway did he release a shaky breath, his hands already reaching for his clothes.
After dressing, Tylor curled up on the edge of the bed, knees pulled tight to his chest. His fingers twisted nervously in the hem of his shirt as he waited. Morgan had said someone would come for him—he didn’t know who, or why, and the uncertainty pressed down like a weight.
The wait wasn’t long.
The door creaked open and a large, broad-shouldered man stepped inside. He didn’t speak—just jerked his chin toward the hallway.
Tylor rose on unsteady legs. Every step forward felt like wading through water. As he passed the man, he caught a glimpse of the sneer on his face—pure disgust.
Tylor dropped his gaze.
He walked ahead, his bare feet nearly silent on the cold floor, while the man followed behind, heavy boots echoing with each step. Fear curled around his spine. His hands trembled at his sides.
They stopped outside a sleek, modern door.
Inside, Morgan was seated behind a desk, eyes locked on her work. The man—her second-in-command, if Tylor remembered correctly—cleared his throat.
“My lord, I’ve brought the boy.”
Morgan didn’t look up. “Send him in. You can go.”
“You heard her,” the man muttered. He gave Tylor a sharp nudge between the shoulder blades before turning on his heel and leaving.
Tylor hesitated, then stepped into the room.
The door clicked shut behind him.
He hovered near the entrance, unsure of where to stand, his eyes still lowered to the floor. Morgan didn’t glance his way—she continued scribbling notes and flipping through papers, as if he weren’t even there.
Minutes passed in silence.
Then, without warning, she rose, brushed past him, and threw a single command over her shoulder.
“Follow me.”
Tylor obeyed instantly, trailing her like a shadow, never daring to raise his head.
They got to the car packed outside and Morgan got in and motioned for Taylor to follow suit and soon the car was on its way.
The ride was silent. Tylor sat stiffly in the backseat, eyes fixed on the blur of buildings passing outside. Morgan sat beside him, legs crossed elegantly, fingers tapping rhythmically on the leather seat. The ten guards that had accompanied them rode in separate black vehicles, forming a protective convoy.
They arrived at a sleek, secluded estate—the kind surrounded by steel gates. As they stepped out of the car, Morgan didn’t spare Tylor a glance. She simply walked ahead, heels clicking with authority. Tylor trailed behind her, flanked by her guards.
Inside, the meeting room was dimly lit.
The other mafia lord was already in sit waiting.
He sat on an obsidian throne-like chair at the far end of the room, a cruel smirk on his face. On either side of him, a young woman and man knelt silently—heads bowed, eyes fixed on the floor. Behind him stood a line of suited men, tense and ready.
Morgan entered without hesitation. She nodded once at the man and took a seat opposite him, her guards fanning out behind her like shadows. Tylor lingered behind her until Morgan’s voice cut through the room, coldly.
“Kneel here.”
He dropped to his knees beside her, heart thudding in his chest.
The mafia lord’s gaze swept over Tylor like a predator sizing up prey. A slow cruel smile curled on his lips.
“I like your pet,” he said. “Pretty and delicate. How about you let me have him?”
Morgan didn’t blink. “Tylor is off-limits,” she said coldly. “Put your eyes somewhere else.”
The man’s smile faded. “I wasn’t asking.”
He turned his head slightly. “Grab him.”
One of his men stepped forward.
Bang!
The gunshot echoed like thunder in the room. The guard who’d reached for Tylor crumpled to the floor, a bullet lodged between his eyes. Smoke rose from the barrel of Morgan’s pistol.
“I said,” Morgan whispered, voice laced with ice, “he’s off-limits.”
The mafia lord rose, face contorted in fury. Without hesitation, he grabbed his weapon—and fired.
One of Morgan’s men collapsed behind her.
And then the room erupted in gunfire.
Shots rang out from both sides, bullets flying like sparks from a fire. Screams, grunts, the thud of bodies hitting the ground.
Amid the chaos, Tylor tried hiding under the table but it was too late.
A single shot pierced true the air clean, sharp, and fast heading straight for him.
Taylor sat frozen on the ground, eyes wide in terror, watching as the bullet came fast at him. His breath hitched. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He closed his eyes, bracing for the impact—his body curling in on itself, trembling. And then...
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