Fallen

Chapter 16

Logan

Walking away is like leaving a part of my soul behind.

There is no choice in the matter, though.

She is untouchable. Every cell in my body wanted to take her right there in the corridor, where everyone could see us and know that she is mine, but it’s not going to happen.

Needing to shake off the rage that is bubbling up at seeing that asshole’s hands on her, is tearing through me. It’s dangerous. I wanted to kill him.

I know that no matter what I do, she has worked her way under my skin, and this craving I have for her isn’t going anywhere. Knowing what seeing her with another man does to me is dangerous.

Seconds.

I was mere seconds away from stabbing him in the gut and thus exposing myself and the Society to Serena, an outsider.

It would’ve sealed both our fates. I’d have ended up on a date with Isaac, which would’ve seen me thrown from my sixteenth-floor balcony, and Serena would’ve been cleaned up.

Despite who her uncle is, the global Society would’ve taken care of it.

Drawing her into my darkness places her in danger, and that is now the thing that is driving me away. She will live forever in my head, but I can’t touch her or be near her—which poses a problem at work. One I will have to figure out before Monday.

Cutting through an alley on my way home, I hunch my shoulders against the pouring rain, stalking into the night, only to be stopped by an asshole who doesn’t know any better.

“You need to mind your own business, fucker,” he snarls behind me.

“Go away, kid. You don’t want to push me. Not now.”

“I could’ve got her back, but you had to stick your fucking nose in.”

“She would never be with a dick like you.”

“Are you fucking her?”

“Now, that’s none of your business.” Stopping, I turn around and take in this dipshit with a death wish.

“I doubt it,” he taunts. “She's tied up tight, that one. Won’t open her legs for anyone. Frigid bitch.”

Hearing him say that about her drops the red haze of fury that is so easily accessible to me. Launching forward, I bunch my hand into his cheap shirt and plant my other fist in his face.

“Don’t speak about her that way,” I growl, punching him again. I’ve already broken his nose, he’s spluttering on his blood, but I’ve gone past the point in teaching him not to fuck with me. I want to hurt him. I want to kill him.

“She’s a fucking cunt,” he chokes. “A cock-tease.”

Does he not know when to give up?

My fist connects with his face a third time, and he goes down. Kicking him in the ribs, enjoying the sound of my shoe connecting with his ribs, he grunts and groans, curling up against the second kick.

I should stop.

I need to stop before I kill him.

But no one hurts Serena and gets away with it. Not anymore.

Bending over him, I haul him up by his shirt again and slam my fist into his face. Again and again, until I’m so lost in the blood, in the pain, that I barely feel it when my knuckles split open.

My eyes snap open.

Staring at the ceiling of my bedroom, I turn my head slightly to glance at the clock.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

It’s nine o’clock.

Thinking back, I don’t remember what time I went to bed.

I don’t even remember going to bed. Shoving the covers back from my naked body, I wince when my left hand aches.

Bringing it up to stare at it, last night floods back on an unwelcome tide.

Scotch, Serena, and leaving that fucker who touched her for dead.

With a pounding head, I stand up, reaching for the bottle of water on the bedside table. Uncapping it, I gulp it all down, quenching my thirst caused by the hangover that is lingering on the edges of my consciousness.

Crossing over to the bathroom, my semi distracting me, I step into the shower and turn the jets on, relishing the freezing cold blast before it warms up almost instantly, sending shockwaves of pain slicing through my busted hand.

I groan softly, closing my eyes, and picture Serena’s hands on my hips, her fingers gripping them almost lovingly.

Grabbing my cock, I almost feel her breath on my neck as I sink deeper into the fantasy.

My fingers stroke faster and harder as my mind spins out more and more images of what I imagine her perfect body looks like naked.

Her magnificent tits, her long blonde hair draping across her shoulders, her soft curves inviting my exploration.

Groaning louder, my breath quickens as I imagine burying my face in her neck, inhaling her sweet scent, relishing how her skin would feel on my tongue, her taste lingering on my lips.

Thrusting my hips forward, I push my arousal into my palm as I grasp myself tightly.

Faster and faster, pleasure building in my core.

Sweat begins to dot my forehead, mingling with the hot shower water pounding down around me as I imagine Serena's lips trailing down my body, her hands exploring, before she plunges her hot mouth over the tip of my cock.

My breath comes in ragged pants as I grip my dick tighter, pumping my hips, feeling the warm water rush over my body.

Serena's face swims before my eyes, her beautiful eyes gazing into mine.

Climaxing with a loud grunt, pleasure flooding my whole body, I revel in the feeling of my balls expelling my cum over my hand, to be washed away, taking the evidence of my weakness for this delicate woman, whose cracks run deep and reflect in her eyes with it.

Slumping against the shower wall, I regain my breath; shaking my head, I clean up, ignoring my injured hand.

A faint smile plays on my lips as I turn the jets off and step out, wrapping a towel around my hips.

The release has cleared my head, eased my tension, but with a crack of the memory whip, I recall what I said to Serena last night.

Two words uttered on instinct, without any thought going into them through my alcohol-infused mind.

“You dick,” I mutter and then turn my head sharply to the stairs when I hear the sounds of the coffee maker whirring away downstairs.

Without a second thought to my lack of clothing, I run down the stairs, stopping at the bottom when I see Quentin sitting at the dining table, a fresh mug of coffee in front of him.

His gray suit and coat are spotless despite the rain still falling outside.

His leg is crossed at the knee as he regards me with a cool, level stare that unnerves me, knowing I’m guilty of lusting after his niece.

“Quen.”

“Sit.”

“Can I get dressed first?”

“No.”

A quick glance around shows no signs of Isaac.

“I’m alone. This is a sensitive matter.”

“Okay. What’s up?” I sit, leaning my elbows on my knees, my hands dangling between my legs, my right hand covering up the injured left hand, but he’s already seen it.

“You know what this is about?”

I nod. “Is he dead?”

“No.”

“Is he going to press charges?”

“Probably. Want to tell me what that was about?”

“Not really.”

“Wasn’t a question.”

Sighing, I know I have no choice. My actions will always and forever be known to the Society. That’s how it is. I accept it and own it.

“I was protecting your niece.”

Letting that hang there like a noxious gas, our gaze meets, his going hard and as furious as I’ve ever seen it.

“Meaning?” he growls.

“Serena was accosted by some dickhead who figured he could coerce her into being with him. I disagreed and told him to stay away from her. He came looking for a fight. I gave him one.”

He rubs his hand over his face. “Jesus. Is she okay?”

“Far as I know.”

“What were you doing with her?” The warning in his tone is a level red alert.

“I was drinking in the same bar she was in with her friends. I saw it and stopped it.”

He remains silent, contemplating his reply. “Thank you,” he says eventually.

“I don’t need thanks.” It’s the last fucking thing I want. What I really want is her. There are no two ways about it. I did what I did for me because I can’t stand the thought of another man touching her. Plain and simple.

“The Society will make this go away.”

I nod my gratitude. It’s not something I was looking forward to dealing with, although most of me hoped he was dead.

Rising, I make my way to the coffee maker, expecting this to be over.

It’s not.

“The cleaner said her apartment was empty.”

My blood runs colder than the Arctic ice.

And that’s why Isaac isn’t here.

“Do you know where she’s gone?” I ask carefully, pouring coffee into a mug before I face him again, leaning up against the counter nonchalantly.

“You’re an asset to the Society, Logan. You always have been, and you are on the path to taking my place when I move up. This is…not good.”

“Admittedly, no, but surely, we can find her. She had her throat sliced open, that doesn’t go unnoticed or untreated.”

“Of course. And we both know some people are born survivors. You, me, and now her.”

“She’ll be in a bad way. I can’t see her resurfacing anytime soon.”

“Find her and deal with it. For good this time. Yes?”

“Of course.”

He nods and stands up. “This is between you and me, Logan. I don’t want anything getting in the way of you taking my place. If you get canceled, then I’m back to square one, and they won’t move me up if I have to find someone else to take my place. Are we on the same page here?”

“Always.”

There is no threat here. I should’ve made sure Shelley was dead before I left.

I’m no stranger to a sliced throat and have a one hundred percent death record, up until now, that is.

Fucking bitch. I should’ve known she’d cause me grief.

But my head was up my ass with thoughts of Serena, and I failed in my mission.

This is all on me, and I’ll make it right or throw myself on the proverbial sword.

Isaac won’t have to come for me; I’ll hand myself over.

“Good. Enjoy your coffee, and thanks again for protecting my niece.”

The reminder of it tells me all I need to know. He is letting me off the hook from a severe punishment over the Shelley thing because of Serena.

He already knew.

He played me to see if I’d tell him.

I seriously need to sweep this place for bugs and be more vigilant for covert tails when I leave here.

Quentin has always made it clear that he recruited me to take over from him when the higher-ups in the global Society promote him.

It’s why I’m more untouchable than most. But he’s right.

Without a proper candidate to take his place, he will be left behind.

I’ve been given two reprieves today, and I won’t take either of them for granted.

Some people are born survivors.

Well, he’s not wrong there.

Fuck knows why he places himself into that category, I may never know, but me…he knows.

Shoving the towel a bit further down my hips, I run my finger over the old scar on my lower abdomen.

Before I had a cosmetic surgeon fix it, it was a nasty scar.

A deep, jagged wound that healed badly and kept me in the hospital far longer than it should’ve.

But I was grateful for the shelter as a young boy who’d just witnessed his entire family be slaughtered and was supposed to be dead alongside them.

It hurt more than words can say to have to be forced into the foster system and moved around every few months.

Never settling, never loved, never wanted.

It’s no wonder the light never came back.

Gritting my teeth and ignoring my coffee, I race back up the stairs and haul out the box from the top shelf of the closet. When this appeared the other day, I was overwhelmed. Unable to focus on the severity of what was inside.

Placing it on the bed, I carefully lift the lid and glare at the contents. Visible through the evidence bag is a decades-old bloody knife, left to gather dust on a cold case that has been forgotten. Forgotten by everyone but not by me.

Witnessing the death of my parents and my sister and experiencing the pain of my own death and rebirth, has shaped my view of the world.

In the hospital, I shut down. I blocked out any feelings, any warmth or light, only sinking deeper into the murky gray where I still reside thirty years later.

It could be worse. I could’ve fallen deeper into the darkness, but I didn’t really want to.

Needing to remember the agony, the loss, the sheer weight of what was thrust upon me to guide me, to help me see that the world is an ugly place and the people in it are vile to their core.

It’s why I became a lawyer. To try to figure out where I fit into it.

Good or evil, none of it really matters.

Replacing the lid and moving the box back to the closet, I search for my phone, finding it in my coat pocket.

Quentin gave me the evidence I needed to find my family’s killer and assert my own justice against them.

It can be reanalyzed using top-of-the-range equipment not available three decades ago or even two decades ago when the case was dug up and looked at again, only to be replaced in the box weeks later when they hit another dead end.

I could’ve pushed and shoved and, by the brute force of the law, demanded they keep looking, but I’m a patient man, and already settled on solving it myself. I just needed the knife and no connection whatsoever to my name procuring it.

Now I have it.

In exchange, Quentin has given me a temptation that is as dangerous as the path I’m following to my past, but I’ve waited a long time for this.

A really, really long time.

After making a short call with my heart pounding, I put the phone down carefully and then compartmentalize the past, back in the box where the demons lie.