22 - Cordially Invited
Cordelia
“What the hell have you done to me, Cox?” I splutter, still reeling from the shock. “Two?”
Logan freezes, eyes wide, with half a cheese and tomato toastie dangling from his mouth. It would be comical if we hadn’t just been through such an emotional fucking hurricane. He swallows the morsel of bread, cocking an eyebrow.
“You know the whole sex thing involves two people, sweetheart?”
“Thanks for the biology lesson, Professor Cox,” I grumble sarcastically. “Perhaps next time someone can teach you the consequences of the birds and the fucking bees.”
My fingers strangle my coffee cup, pretending—for a moment, it’s his neck.
We get as far as the end of the corridor before I have to dash to the toilet to hurl up that vile shake he forced down my neck this morning.
It’s as grim on the way up as it was going down.
Afterwards my legs shook like baby Bambi on ice.
So, Logan insisted we grab something to drink at the cafe before heading home.
Of course, he then convinced me to share a toastie with him.
I agreed, only to shut him up. The man’s persistence is intolerable.
So now I’m staring at the offending half a sandwich with hate and regret. I’ve always had a poor relationship with food, and now I know I’m going to get heavier, it’s playing on my mind. Even if there is a logical reason. Two humans will be growing inside me.
Two
“It won’t magically appear in your mouth, Cordelia,” Logan interrupts my internal conflict.
I lift my gaze. He’s resting his chin in his hand, a wolfish smile curving across his lips.
I can’t help but wonder if our children will inherit his smile.
The one where one corner tilts just a fraction higher than the other, equal parts charm and danger—heavily contrasted by the adorable dimples that appear on his cheeks.
I bet he hates those. For a second, I let myself think that he wouldn’t be such a bad father.
Then he opens his mouth, and all those warm notions go out the window.
“Although,” he says in a raspy murmur. “I can make that happen. If need be,”
“Do you take anything seriously?” I growl, swiping the stupid toastie off the plate.
The smell alone sends my stomach queasy.
But I force myself to bite into it, just to make a point, if nothing else.
After we’d picked our jaws up off the floor, Dr Arvanitis prescribed me some medication to ease the sickness.
Logan tilts his head to the side, eyebrows drawing together. “I’m taking this all very seriously, sweetheart. Hence, making sure you’re fed and watered,” he gestures to the food in my mouth, and I blush awkwardly at the spark of admiration in his eyes.
“I’m not a prize cow,” I mumble through a mouthful, eyes dropping to where my fingers grip the sides of the coffee cup to stop them trembling. “I’m scared.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said in months.
He stretches his arm across the table, fingers encircling the cup to rest on top of mine. The gesture feels like a solemn promise, subtle but no less impactful.
“I’m petrified,” he admits, thumbs brushing gently over my skin. The admission fills me with an odd sense of contentment. “But we’re in this together, remember. I will do everything in my power to support you.”
The pure intensity of his vivid blue stare has me turning to look at the whitewashed wall beside me. A deep breath escapes my lungs.
“This is going to change our lives,” I murmur, pretending to be fascinated by the rough grain and subtle sheen of the glossy paint. “It could ruin both of us.”
The squeeze he gives my hand is so constricting it almost hurts, but it draws my attention back to him.
I drag my eyes slowly to meet his. The fierce passion that burns behind his gaze has me stunned, utterly speechless.
I’ve never witnessed so much raw determination in another.
It crackles between us, like electricity, charging through the air, brimming with fragile vulnerability.
“It won’t ruin us if we don’t let it,” he says with certainty.
I offer him the weakest of smiles. We haven’t talked any of this through.
We barely know each other, and we’re having babies together.
The thought should terrify me - and it does - but a part of me, a very minute part, thrums with something akin to excitement.
All I’ve ever longed for is someone to love and cherish, who will experience that same bond as deeply as I do.
“So,” I say, broaching the subject with caution. Based on what I’ve learnt so far, Logan’s a fairly private person. I doubt he’ll want to discuss his personal life, but he knows plenty about mine, so it’s tough. “What was the doctor talking about? What appointments are you not attending?”
Just as we we’re leaving, Doctor Arvanitis pinned Logan in a corner. It’s the first time I’d seen him so on edge. He brought up questions regarding missed appointments and medication. So now, I’m eager to know what those appointments are for.
His eyes dart to mine, where a flicker of fear resides in their blue depths, before indignation quickly takes over.
“It’s not important.”
“Logan,” I scold, pinning him with a disapproving gaze of my own. “You’ve been twitching like an addict gone cold turkey all morning. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
My tone comes out harsher than intended. But if this thing between us - whatever the hell it is - is going to have any chance of success, I need to know what kind of man I’m dealing with.
He blows out a breath, shaking his head, eyes cast to the table.
“Oh, Jesus,” he mutters to himself, exhaling another long breath before looking at me. “My mum died here.”
I blink, unsure how to respond. Instead, I let the weight of his words settle between us. The vulnerability in his voice makes him almost unrecognisable.
“Yeah.” He rakes his fingers through espresso-tinted hair.
“A few years ago, we got raided. Me and mum were home alone. Dad fucked up a deal with someone higher up and they targeted us.” He shoots me this look as if to say, ‘Please don’t make me carry on.
’ But then he sees my blank face and continues with a sigh.
“To cut a long story short. I jumped in front of the bullet that was meant for her. But they shot her anyway, right between the eyes. By the time Dad reached us, she was too far gone, lost so much blood, and I was on my way too.” His own eyes shift sideways, reluctant to be recalling the horrific event.
“They were convinced I’d die from the injury or at least spend the rest of my days in a wheelchair. But here I am.”
He spreads his arms wide to reiterate the point, grinning to mask the pain deep in his bones.
I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to go through such trauma.
To witness brutality like that, and at such a young age.
It all makes sense now: the scars, the bruises; he fights to bury the heartache. A tormented soul.
“That’s why you fight,” I say. It’s not a question, but he inclines his head in a soft nod. “No more fighting,” I bite out, and his grin shifts into a perplexed little frown.
Then he forces another grin to take its place.
“Can I still wrestle with you?” He chuckles, sticking his tongue out, swiping it over his salacious lips.
My cheeks flood with heat as the memories of last night come rushing back - thick and fast. The sex was hot.
And he’s an absolute animal in the bedroom - or kitchen in this case.
That first time we were together, he really was being a gentleman. Last night was something else entirely…
I shake my head. Get your head out of the gutter, Cordelia.
“What did I just say?” I deadpan. “Promise me.”
He bites his lip. “I’m not in the habit of making promises I can’t keep, sweetheart,” he says, being unreservedly honest. “But I’ll try to stay out of the ring. For you”
The simultaneous ping from our mobile phones cuts through our exchange. Our expressions mirror one another as we delve into our pockets to retrieve the devices. An invitation to a new WhatsApp group awaits.
Not-so-orphaned
Seriously? Clarke’s such a prick.
Clarke: How’s it going, lovebirds?
Our blue eyes meet in a moment of uncertainty before flicking back to the phones in our hands. Logan’s fingers glide over the screen.
Logan: Err, yeah, all good…there’s two…
Clarke: Two?! You stallion, Cox! *Running horse emoji*
Ezio: Two? Che bello. Congratulations
He tags the little emoji with a party hat at the end of his message.
Clarke: Si. Congrats *skull emoji*
Dick.
Me: …thanks
Dread crawls over my skin as Clarke types a message. Those silly little dots appearing and disappearing, taunting me.
Clarke: Cordelia, you are cordially invited (hey, like what I did there?) to attend the funeral of Fionn Delaney (yes, the ball-less prick) on 22nd June with your new familia.
I scowl at the words, bold on the screen.
Me: No
Clarke’s reply comes without hesitation.
Clarke: Sorry, I probably should have mentioned that the invitation is binding. Your attendance is mandatory.
Me: Still no
Logan’s clutching his phone like it might grow wings and fly away.
Clarke to Logan: Hope you’ve got that collar and leash handy, amigo. (Insert panting dog emoji)
Ezio: Clarke…
That draws a growl from Logan, who’s seething as his fingers dart across the screen.
Logan: Clarke… seriously, what the fuck? Why’s she need to be there?
Ezio: Because there’ll be a boatload of Irish in town, and she’ll be in danger anywhere else but with us. Don’t be a fool, Cox.
Logan drags a hand over his face, letting out a groan of frustration.
Logan: …alright.
“No,” I protest, raising my eyes to glare at him.
Logan shrugs. “Sorry, sweetheart, but they’re right. I can’t put you in any more danger.”
My jaw clenches. “So, you think I’ll be in less danger at the victim’s fucking funeral?”
“Keep your voice down,” he says, eyes narrowing in warning. “We’ll be there to keep you safe. I can protect you better than if you’re alone. All of you.”
I fold my arms on the table with careful precision. “I’m not going,” I say, angling my chin at the ceiling.
Logan dips his chin, lashes casting harsh shadows. “We’re not having this discussion. It’s non-negotiable.”
“Everything is non-negotiable with you,” I hiss, shoulders hunched so I can lean in close. He follows the movement, mirroring my stance, until we’re so close his breath caresses my skin.
“If it’s regarding your safety, then you’re correct. It’s not.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, swallowing the scream that’s trying to claw its way out.
This is what I’ve allowed myself to get ensnared in.
My own personal prison under the ruthless control of uncompromising arseholes.
The sting as I curl my fingers inwards is a biting reminder of the blood pact.
Parting my lips, I prepare to respond when my phone vibrates violently against the table.
Another message.
Clarke: Lovers’ tiff? *Heart emoji*
My fingers flit across the screen furiously.
Me: SHUT THE FUCK UP
And for once, he does. They all do.