Chapter Twenty-Six
Logan
Skin against skin, blood and bone
You're all by yourself, but you're not alone
You wanted in, and now you're here
Driven by hate, consumed by fear
Let the bodies hit the floor
‘Bodies’ - Drowning Pool
I sit on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips under my weight, the springs giving a soft groan in the stillness. My boots are planted on the floor, shoulders hunched forward, as if leaning any closer to her will somehow keep her here.
Mac is asleep, finally.
Doc gave her something mild, just enough to help her body settle after everything.
She’s curled on her side under the blanket, the fabric tucked under her chin like she’s trying to hold onto whatever warmth she can find.
Her breathing is shallow but steady, a rhythm I keep finding myself matching without realizing it.
Every inhale and exhale from her is proof that she’s here, in this bed, in this room, and not in that hellhole.
Her face is bruised in ways that make my stomach knot.
A faint, ugly purple is forming along her cheekbone, the skin just under her eye swollen.
Her lips are cracked, the edges dark from where he hit her.
Her wrists are ringed in red from the cuffs, the angry marks standing out against her skin.
Doc said she has a concussion, along with other bruises scattered across her body.
But she’s here.
She’s alive.
And I can’t stop staring at her.
I rub my hands together slowly, feeling the sting along my knuckles.
The skin there is split in places, scraped raw.
I can’t tell if it’s from the fight or from clenching my fists so tight afterward.
Every muscle in my body feels strung too tight, like I could snap if I so much as breathed wrong.
My head keeps replaying the moment I saw her on that bed.
It loops over and over, like some sick film I can’t turn off.
I should’ve gotten there sooner.
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, head in my hands. My jaw aches from grinding it. My ribs are sore, probably cracked one on the doorframe when I kicked it in, but the pain is nothing compared to the pressure in my chest.
But I don’t care.
None of it matters.
What matters is I let her go.
I told her to stay. I knew she wasn’t ready. I knew he was still out there. And I still let her walk into that interview alone.
I hear her scream in my head, sharp and panicked, the kind that cuts straight through bone.
I see her wrists yanked tight against the headboard, her body exposed and vulnerable, stripped of the power she’s fought so hard to reclaim.
And him. Standing over her like he had the right to take whatever he wanted.
Rage surges up, hot and choking, until my hands curl into fists again. I press the heels of my palms to my eyes, trying to blot it all out, but it doesn’t go. It won’t go.
Because I failed her.
And I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to look at me again without remembering that I was too late.
A soft rustle breaks the silence.
I look up.
Mac’s eyes are open, just barely. Her lashes flutter with the effort of keeping them that way. Her voice is rough, the sound scraping against my chest. “Logan?”
I’m at her side in two steps, crouching down the way I did in that room except this time, she’s safe. There’s no lock on the door. No chains.
“I’m here,” I say, my voice low and hoarse.
She shifts slightly, wincing at the movement. Her hand, small and trembling, reaches for mine and squeezes.
“You didn’t fail me,” she whispers.
The words land hard. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You don’t know that.”
She looks at me and there’s no fear in her gaze. Just exhaustion, and something that hits me harder than any punch I’ve ever taken. Grace.
“I know it,” she says, her voice gaining strength. “You found me. You saved me.”
I shake my head. “You shouldn’t have needed saving. I let you go in there alone. I should’ve—”
“You respected me,” she says, cutting me off before the guilt can take root any deeper. “You believed in me. Don’t twist that into a mistake.”
Her hand comes up, brushing along my cheek. My eyes fall closed at the touch, and I lean into it like I’m afraid she’ll take it away if I move too fast.
“I can’t lose you,” I whisper, and it comes out like a confession.
“You didn’t,” she murmurs. “I’m still here.”
The silence that follows is different this time. It’s not sharp or suffocating. It’s heavy, weighted with everything we’ve both been through, everything we can’t put into words yet. It settles between us, honest and unflinching.
After a long minute, I ease onto the bed beside her.
Slowly. Carefully. She shifts against me, tucking herself into my side like she’s done it a hundred times before, like nothing that happened today can erase the truth of where she belongs.
My arm comes around her, holding her as gently as I know how, every movement deliberate so I don’t hurt her.
Maybe the place she’s safest is still with me.
And maybe I need her just as much as she needs me.
I press a kiss to the top of her head, breathing her in. The faint scent of her shampoo clings to her hair, mixed with the clean cotton of the blanket. I let it fill my lungs and push the rage down, if only for a while.
For the first time since I got to that room, I let myself believe that healing is possible.
Not easy.
Not quick.
But possible.
For her.
For me.
For us.
***
I walk downstairs to the basement room that we use when we need to handle problems privately.
The heavy steel door at the bottom of the stairs is shut tight, the chipped paint around the handle a reminder of all the times it has opened to welcome the worst kind of men to their last moments.
The air down here is different, thicker, heavier, carrying the faint vibrations of everything that has happened between these walls over the years.
Opening the door, the room smells like death, stale and lingering, but a smile touches my lips knowing that it hasn’t happened yet. Not for him. Not for the bastard chained in front of me.
Anthony is strung up by his arms, the steel links of the chain disappearing into the ceiling.
His shoulders sit in an unnatural way, twisted too far forward, and I can tell they are both out of the socket.
His body is a roadmap of pain, covered in gashes, bruises blooming in deep purples and sickening greens, blood crusting over older wounds while fresh ones still ooze.
A dark, primal satisfaction rolls through me at the thought of how he got them.
Bursting through the door, I head straight for the piece of shit who thought he could touch her. Hurt her. Break her. My hand wraps around his throat, the skin hot and slick with sweat under my palm. “You are gonna die, motherfucker.”
He smiles at me, slow and smug, the kind of smile that dares me to finish what I started. “I don’t give a shit. At least I left my mark on that bitch first.”
The words are a spark in dry brush. My fist drives into his face before the sentence even finishes, and the crack of impact sends a shock up my arm.
His head snaps to the side, body spinning from the force, the chain above tightening and jerking against his already ruined shoulders.
I lose the thin thread of control I’d been clinging to.
My fists begin to find every inch of him, ribs, stomach, jaw, each blow making his body sway like the heavy bag I use at the gym.
Except this is better. This hits back in a way a punching bag never could.
My knuckles split wider, the warmth of my own blood mixing with his, the air filling with the metallic tang of it.
I feel hands on me, pulling me back, and it takes a second before I realize it’s Cain, his voice cutting through the roar in my head.
“Take a breath, brother.”
Anthony starts to laugh, low at first, but it grows, a sound both mocking and broken, threaded with pain. It’s not the laugh of a man who’s won, it’s the laugh of a man too stupid to understand he’s already lost.
Cain steps closer to him, his eyes dark. “Don’t think I’m pulling him off you as a sign of mercy. I’m doing it because what I have planned for you, I need you alive and suffering for.”
Cain moves toward the far corner of the room, his boots thudding against the concrete. “Dom, cut the clothes off him.”
Dominic doesn’t hesitate. He steps forward, pulls a knife from his waistband, and drags it down the front of Anthony’s body in one clean motion.
Fabric tears, falling to the floor in strips.
The blade kisses skin in its path, leaving thin, angry red lines that bead with fresh blood.
Anthony flinches but stays silent now, his jaw clenching tight.
When Cain comes back into view, I see the pressure washer in his hand. The sight of it pulls something dark and satisfied from deep in my chest. “Always wanted to see if this thing could wash away skin like it does dirt in the shop.”
He flips the switch, the motor humming before the water blasts out in a narrow, brutal stream.
Cain stands about eight feet away, aiming directly at Anthony’s now naked body.
When the spray hits him, the scream that rips out of Anthony is pure agony, echoing off the concrete walls.
Skin shreds under the force, curling away to reveal raw, angry tissue beneath.
Cain glances back at me, smiling like a man who’s just discovered a new favorite toy. “Go check on Mac. I’m gonna enjoy this shit.”
A hand touches my shoulder, pulling me out of the memory and back into the now. One of my brothers stands beside me. “Thinking he’s about ready for you. I go at him anymore, it’ll kill him.”
I’d told the guys from the beginning that I wanted him to suffer, but that the final blow was mine to take.
That it had to be me. I walk closer, the soles of my boots sticking faintly to the damp floor from the mix of blood and water.
He’s slumped forward, head hanging, and for a second I wonder if he’s already gone.
I smack his cheek, once, twice, until his eyes flicker open.
“Death might seem like a reward to you right now,” I tell him, my voice low, steady, the kind of tone that doesn’t waste words.
“Just know that you didn’t break her. She will rise above everything you ever tried to do to hurt her.
She will move on and have a life with me where your memory will cease to exist.”
My hand clamps around his throat, fingers digging into tendons and veins.
I squeeze. The air hitches in his chest, his breaths turning into sharp, wheezing gasps.
His eyes bulge, locked on mine, and I watch the light start to leave them.
I needed this. I needed to end it for her.
To make sure that this man would never again touch her, stalk her, hurt her, or even speak her name.
He jerks a few times, desperate, before the fight drains out of him completely. His final gasps fade into silence, and then the weight of him sags in the chains, lifeless.
It’s done.
The buzzing in my head starts to fade, replaced by something quieter but heavier. Now I just need to make sure that Mac is okay.
She has to be.