43 - Pain
Cordelia
I have so many conflicting emotions spinning around in my head right now that I don’t know what to believe.
After our red-hot session of lovemaking, Logan took me upstairs to get cleaned up.
Just hoisted me up with those hulking muscles of his and carried me to the top as if I weighed nothing–even with his son growing inside of me.
His embrace is secure, oddly safe. Which doesn’t make any sense after what he just did to me.
Did I genuinely think he was going to suffocate me?
No, I didn’t. He absolutely could have taken my life.
Logan is a wall of solid muscle thanks to his training, and I wouldn’t have stood a chance fighting him off even if I tried.
So why did I enjoy being pinned beneath him with his fingers wrapped around my throat?
Why did I like him dominating me from behind, slamming into me like a whore, to be used and abused?
I egged him on, told him to do his worst. Was that as bad as it gets, or did he hold himself back?
I’ve literally witnessed the man be an accomplice to a brutal, gruesome murder. Yet something deep inside me trusts him implicitly.
“Sweetheart.”
My head shoots up, eyes wide open, straight into the stream of oncoming water spilling from the showerhead above.
“Crap,” I grumble, momentarily blinded by the spray.
Logan stifles a laugh with his fist, and when my vision clears, he’s beaming down at me, dimples and all. Water cascades over every line of his body, over his broad shoulders, and down his rippling abs, tracing the sharp V shape that dips into his thick-set thighs. He is. A god.
My gaze travels back to his face, where a single eyebrow is raised in bemusement. Heat turns my cheeks pink because he just watched me full on look him up and down.
“You were quiet earlier,” he says, slipping a finger under my chin, encouraging me to look at him again. “Everything alright?”
Opening my mouth, I prepare to do what I do best: lie, tell him I’m fine. Only when I catch my reflection in his eyes, I simply can’t. The passion and devotion within the depths of his ocean-blue eyes burn so fiercely that it’s borderline aggressive.
“Is this,” I stutter. “This thing between me and you. Is it real?”
Logan steps closer, hands resting on the stretched skin of my belly. “You mean this isn’t real enough for you?”
I shake my head, groaning frustratedly, because trust him to put a stonewall of sarcasm up to smother any genuine feelings.
“That’s not what I meant,” I mumble, suddenly finding my feet the most fascinating thing in the world. “It doesn’t matter.”
Deft fingers seize my chin, clamping down in a firm grip. Logan angles my face toward him and blows out a soft grunt when he’s met with my eyes shut tight.
“Vixen,” he warns, and the rumble of his voice shakes the air, even louder than the rush of water. “Open your eyes.”
My lids half open, lashes fluttering to ward off the water clinging to them. The severity in his expression, and the tightness of his jaw have me swiftly closing them again.
“Eyes open. Don’t make me ask again.”
The threat crawls up my spine, and I flinch at the biting tone, blowing out a defeated breath. Our eyes finally meet, and the world seems to vanish around us.
“I love you,” he says, with zero hint of anything other than savage hunger and adoration.
He taps his finger on my belly, adding a smile that makes me melt into a puddle.
“You and our little one. And I will do everything I can to protect you both and give you a life filled with happiness and devotion.” He pauses to tuck a strand of rogue hair behind my ear.
“I will worship the ground you walk on, my love. For as long as we both breathe.”
Heat pulses between us. No man has ever uttered those words to me before, except Papa. Sadly, I can’t reciprocate his undying declaration just yet, and luckily, he doesn’t expect as much.
“Why do you want to hurt me? Why do I want you to hurt me?” I wonder instead about the notion that baffles me daily. “Is it because of what happened to us?”
I still can’t say the words out loud. In the morning when I wake up, sometimes I can still convince myself it never happened, that it was a cruel, visceral nightmare. But then my little boy socks me in the stomach, and it all comes rushing back.
Logan reaches over my head to turn the faucet, and the water slowly ebbs until just a thin trickle remains. He rubs the stubble on his chin, which is more than a couple of days overgrown. I can’t say I don’t like it. He looks wilder, untamed.
“I‘ve thought about this a lot,” he mutters, blue orbs flicking to the ceiling in consideration. “I think it provides a distraction, a way to numb the pain. Shutting out our feelings is easier than facing reality. An escape.”
I nod solemnly. We’ve not talked much about what we went through. Most days it hurts too much; it’s still so raw.
“For me,” he continues, “I blame myself for Mom’s death.
Even though I was young and there was absolutely nothing I could do to alter fate.
But when I receive pain, it eases the guilt.
It feels good to punish myself. When I give pain, it’s transferred to someone else and reminds me I’m not alone.
It’s probably similar for you. I know I kick myself every day for being useless and not being able to ‘fix’ it for you. ”
A tear streaks down my cheek. He swipes it away, rubbing the sensitive skin beneath with his thumb.
“What happened wasn’t fixable.” My voice is hoarse, barely a whisper.
“I know, and it’s one of two things I’ve not been able to make right with money or coercion.”
His defeated sigh makes me chuckle. That’s typical Logan right there. What he can’t fix by force he throws money at–only this time neither worked in his favour.
“Turn around.”
A spark of panic flickers in my eyes. My body aches, every muscle, every hole, every part of me is a mangled mess of overstimulation. I won’t be able to handle round two.
“Why?”
Logan must sense my fear, because a smarmy smirk slides into place on his face.
With his elbow leaning up against the glass panel, he slicks his fingers through his wet hair.
And mon dieu, the image is like something plucked straight off Hot Hunks Calendar 2026.
Without a word, he spins me around, large hands on my shoulders.
“Don’t stress, Cordelia. I have no intention of bending you over in the shower.” He murmurs, angling his chin to rest on my shoulder. “Unless you want that, of course.”
When I vigorously shake my head, he laughs, his hot breath dancing across my skin with a featherlight touch.
The warmth of his fingers disappears followed by the sharp snap of a bottle being uncapped behind me.
When his hands return, they carry with them the sweet scent of strawberries, my strawberry body wash.
I melt under the strength of his capable hands, kneading and rubbing–falling deeper to his magnetism and beguiling methods to get me begging for his attention like a bloody fangirl.
When Logan’s done turning me into a puddle at his feet, he takes his time rinsing my skin, cleaning every inch, until I step out of the cubicle practically sparkling.
That night I drift to sleep with him–in his bed.
Spooning me, with his hands resting protectively upon my baby bump, in what may have been the most tender submission of silent expression since meeting him.
In the very same evening that I expressed my hatred for him, he declared his love, laid his heart and soul out for me, and that meant everything.
The return to Knightsbridge after my short hiatus is interesting.
People don’t respond in the way I expect.
They don’t shun or ridicule me, despite my belly being impossible to keep a secret anymore.
No oversized hoodies or jumpers can cleverly conceal it, and after the whole event with the printouts, people will have come to their own conclusions by now.
“It’s because the guys have threatened anyone who dares to blink in your direction,” Scarlett tells me, her green eyes twinkling over the rim of her corrugated coffee cup.
“Great.” I mutter. “So, everyone is basically scared to talk to me now.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Welcome to my world.”
I press my lips together and cast my eyes over the bustling on-campus coffeehouse.
It’s got an eco-friendly vibe going on. From the lime-green emulsion glazing the walls to the tangled vines weaving a labyrinth of pathways over the ceiling.
Students sit in quiet corners, busying themselves with assignments, whilst others enjoy the company of friends and excellent coffee.
The delightful cocktail of coffee beans and syrup permeates the air, a sweet temptation designed to hook you from the initial inhale, like catnip to a cat.
Music filters softly through the speakers, an elegant instrumental piece without the need for words.
Scarlett kicks up her Dr Martins onto the coffee table, narrowly missing knocking over the potted cactus in the centre.
She dangles the biodegradable takeout cup under her nostrils, smiling in satisfaction as she inhales the steam from her matcha latte.
“Have you told your friends back home yet about the pregnancy?”
“Not yet,” I admit, shoulders slumping against the textured armchair. “I will, though. Soon. It’s just I still don’t really know how I—Logan, he’s so…”
“Vain, egotistical, big-headed?” She reels off a selection of derogatory adjectives, waving a hand for effect.
I snort indignantly. “Imposing, overbearing, red-blooded…”
The mischievous glint in Scarlett’s eyes as they drift up and over my shoulder halts my mumblings. She tries her best to suppress the smile teasing her lips but fails.
I heave a breath. “He’s behind me, isn’t he?”