TWENTY-SIX
Logan
I was pacing outside the garage, every nerve tingling. When Sebastian summoned the medical team, my mind raced—something had gone wrong, and I feared Kaylan was involved. Yet, as the vehicle rolled in and the doors swung open, I couldn’t discern from Zarek and Leora’s somber expressions who it might be. They were unscathed, physically intact, which only heightened my dread for Kaylan.
Then I saw her, slightly hunched and gingerly touching her side, her expression tight with discomfort as she was carefully assisted into a wheelchair—the same one she had so recently cast aside. The sight struck me like a physical blow, reigniting the all-too-familiar cocktail of anger, protectiveness, and helplessness.
“It’s not necessary, I can walk,” she grumbled.
Without a word, the medical team swiftly wheeled her towards the clinic, her back to me, as I stood frozen, watching the growing distance between us, feeling utterly powerless.
Snapping back, I jogged alongside the medical team, hovering until they finished tending to her wounds. Once Kaylan was settled into her wheelchair outside the clinic, I took over, gently pushing her toward the elevator. The familiarity of the action, despite the grim circumstances, brought a bittersweet comfort.
“I missed this,” I found myself murmuring.
“Me, hurt and shoved into a wheelchair?” She responded dryly. The hint of scorn proved terrifying amusing to my heart.
“No,” I gently clarified. “I meant I missed being near you, feeling useful to you.”
It was almost evening, and everyone else was gathering for dinner, but I could see the adrenaline fading from Kaylan, leaving her drained. Without a second thought, I lifted her gently, mindful of her injury, and carried her to her bed, settling her down with care.
After making sure she was tucked in, I gently pressed my lips to her temple.
“Thank you,” she whispered, her eyes widening.
“Just sleep, Chaos. I’ll be right back.”
I headed to the lounge, where the rest of the team was already eating. Zarek and Leora were absent, likely cleaning up after the day’s events. I quietly put together a plate of food, just in case, and carried them back to Kaylan’s room on a tray. By the time I returned, she was asleep, a peaceful expression on her face and the duvet snug around her.
Realizing she might need more than just rest, I went down to the clinic to pick up a first aid kit, just in case she needed her dressing changed later. On a whim, I grabbed a bottle of whiskey, some ice, and a glass.
Back in her room, I settled into the armchair by her bed, whiskey in hand, gazing out the window. The quiet sound of her steady breathing helped calm the storm inside me, each breath she took easing my worries just a little.
???
The room was quiet, save for the soft sound of Kaylan’s breathing and the occasional clink of ice in my glass. I wasn’t planning to sleep; watching her breathe, the quiet rise and fall of her chest beneath the duvet, was oddly comforting.
But peace didn’t last. Suddenly, Kaylan started to whimper and toss in her sleep, her face twisted in distress. I set my glass down quickly and moved closer, my chest tightening at the sight of her caught in a nightmare.
Fuck, was it me?
I climbed onto the bed, gently trying to calm her flailing arms.
“Shhh, it’s okay. It’s me, Logan. You’re okay,” I murmured.
She was deep in her nightmare, her eyes shut tight, breathing sharply. I cocooned her in my arms, lying next to her.
Then, suddenly, her hand slipped under the pillow and she pulled out a knife—a sharp flash of steel in the dim light. My heart skipped a beat as she positioned herself over me, knife raised.
Instinctively, I grabbed her wrist to stop her, my other hand cupping her face, trying to bring her back to reality. “Baby, it’s me, Logan. Come back to me,” I said softly, hoping to break through her dream.
For a moment, I thought about letting go, weighed down by guilt for all the pain I had caused her. Maybe I deserved whatever came next. If I was her nightmare, then she needed this, didn’t she?
Closing my eyes, I let her hand go, bracing for the strike. The knife came down, a sharp pain below my collarbone jolting her awake.
“Logan!” she gasped, horror filling her face as she dropped the knife. Tears welled up as she started to apologize, her voice shaking. “I…I’m so—”
“Hey, hey! It’s okay. I deserved it,” I murmured, feeling the truth of those words. I pushed myself up, her straddling me on my lap still, as I gently circled my arms around her waist, careful not to touch the side that was injured. Her lips trembled as she looked into my face, her hand hesitating near my wound.
“Was I your nightmare?” I whispered, dreading her answer.
“No,” she replied gently, and I wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb. “You were never my nightmare.” She added looking into my eyes.
My eyes searched hers, heavy with unasked questions.
“It was him,” I said, the weight of it settling heavy between us.
The tension in my jaw tightened, my hand unconsciously clutching her shirt in a tight grip. She swiftly disentangled herself from me, her movements abrupt as she noticed the first aid kit on the nearby table. With a sense of urgency, she rummaged through it, her hands trembling as she selected what she needed.
“It’s fine, Chaos, it doesn’t even hurt,” I tried to reassure her, but she ignored me, turning on the light and climbing back onto the bed with medical supplies in hand. I removed my shirt to give her better access to the wound.
“It’s not too deep, but it might scar,” she noted, her voice tight with self-reproach as she began to clean the blood away.
Attempting to ease the palpable tension, I quipped, “What’s another scar on already burnt skin, right?”
Her eyes met mine sharply, her expression hard. “I know you could have stopped me from stabbing you.”
I kept my mouth shut. She was right; I could have stopped her. But in that moment, absorbing pain felt necessary—like a penance for all the pain I had inflicted on her.
We fell into a heavy silence as she finished patching me up, each of us lost in our own thoughts. My mind raced with the horrors she must have endured, the reasons she felt compelled to keep a knife under her pillow. How many times had she had a nightmare about him? What the fuck did he do to her?
The anger bubbling inside me was fierce and raw.
“I’ll shred him to pieces for what he did to you.” I vowed.
She was quiet for a moment, then spoke softly, “You don’t have to do it for me. You do it for your squad, the assignment, for the good of humanity.”
I lifted her chin gently, wanting her to see the sincerity in my eyes. “Baby, every drop of blood I’ll make him shed, will be for you .”
As our faces hovered inches apart, the air between us charged, I hesitated, respecting the boundary before us. “Can I kiss you, Chaos?”
Her breath hitched, and after a tense pause, she whispered back, “Yes.”
I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding, as I softly pressed my lips against hers. This kiss wasn’t ignited by the usual sparks of fiery passion or tinged with the sharpness of past resentments. Instead, it unfolded with a tender deliberateness. When she parted her lips, it wasn’t just an act of physical consent but a profound invitation. An invitation, I wholeheartedly accepted, and deeply respected.
As our kiss deepened, I carefully shifted our positions, guiding her gently to lie beside me, ensuring every movement was a reassurance of my intent to protect, not overpower. This connection, this moment, was about cherishing her, about trying to communicate through every gentle press of lips and caress of tongue how deeply she mattered to me.
There was no track of time in the cocoon we created there. Eventually, the intensity of our kisses softened into the quiet breaths of sleep. I felt her relax fully against me, her head nestled against my neck, and my arms instinctively wrapped around her. In that embrace, every fiber of my being was attuned to her presence, her comfort, her safety. Her .