21. Sloane
SLOANE
T he silence between Logan and me stretches like a wire as we walk back to his cabin, each step crunching in fresh snow.
My mind churns with the weight of everything that's happened—the team's acceptance, their willingness to help, the way they looked at me when I finally told them the truth.
Not with judgment or fear, but with understanding. With resolve.
So why does my chest feel so tight?
Logan walks beside me, quiet but alert. His shoulders are set with that familiar tension, eyes scanning the treeline like he expects shadows to materialize.
Always the protector. Always watching.
But I've started to see beneath that armor. The way guilt lives in the corners of his mouth. The way trauma hides behind careful control.
We reach his cabin, and he unlocks the door with efficient movements—check the frame, sweep the interior, secure the exit.
I've memorized his routine now. The way he moves through space like he's mapping escape routes.
Inside, the fire's dying. Logan kneels to stoke it while I hover near the couch, unable to settle. My fingers drum against my thigh—a nervous tell I thought I'd trained away years ago.
"You're quiet," he says without looking up.
I almost laugh. "Says the man who speaks in tactical signals."
That earns me a ghost of a smile, but he doesn't push. Just adds another log, letting sparks dance up the chimney. The flames cast his profile in sharp relief—all angles and shadows.
My chest aches as I watch him. This man who pulled me from the snow. Who's seen me at my worst and still chose to stand beside me. Who carries more weight than anyone should bear alone.
"I keep thinking..." The words slip out before I can stop them. "What if I made the wrong choice? Bringing them into this?"
Logan stills, his hand frozen mid-motion. When he turns to face me, his eyes are dark with something I can't name.
"They chose this," he says quietly. "Same as I did."
"But what if—" My voice catches. I swallow hard. "What if someone else gets hurt because of what I know? Because of what I'm chasing?"
He stands slowly, movements careful like he's trying not to spook me. "You mean like Max?"
The name hits like a physical blow. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold in the surge of guilt and grief. "He trusted me with the truth. And it got him killed."
"Sloane." Logan takes a step closer. "Max died because someone wanted to silence him. Not because you failed him."
"Didn't I?" The words taste bitter. "I let him dig too deep. I encouraged him. If I had just?—"
"Stop." His voice is gentle but firm. He crosses the space between us, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You can't carry that weight forever."
"Watch me try." It comes out sharper than intended.
But Logan doesn't flinch. Instead, he reaches out—slow, telegraphed—and brushes a strand of hair from my face. The touch is light, barely there, but it unravels something inside me.
"Tell me," he murmurs. "What was on the drive?"
I close my eyes. Take a shaky breath. "Everything. Mission logs. Kill orders. A civilian marked for termination because he knew too much." I look up at him.
Pain flashes across his features before he can mask it. His hand drops to his side, fingers curling into a loose fist.
"Blackout," he says, the word heavy between us.
I nod. "The thumb drive... it had details about what really happened. About Granger."
Logan's jaw ticks. He turns away, pacing to the window. His reflection stares back, ghostlike against the glass.
"Thomas Granger," he says finally, voice low and controlled, "was my brother in arms. We served together for years. Trained together. Bled together." He exhales slowly. "I trusted him with my life."
The admission costs him—I can see it in the rigid set of his spine, the way his shoulders bunch with tension.
"What happened?"
He's quiet for a long moment, just staring into the darkness beyond the glass. When he speaks again, his voice carries the weight of years of buried pain.
"We were Navy SEALs. Elite unit. Clean record. Then came Echo-13—codename Blackout." He turns back to me, eyes haunted. "The mission brief said we were extracting a high-value target. Someone running an international weapons pipeline. But when we got there..."
He trails off, running a hand down his face. I want to go to him, to offer comfort, but something tells me he needs space to get through this.
"It wasn't a weapons dealer," I say softly. "It was a whistleblower."
Logan nods once, sharp. "Civilian. No training. No threat. Just... evidence. The kind that could bring down careers. Implicate people in power." His voice turns bitter. "We weren't sent to extract him. We were sent to silence him."
The fire crackles in the silence that follows. Outside, wind moans through the trees like a wounded animal.
"I refused the kill order," Logan continues. "Tried to get him out instead. That's when everything went sideways. Support teams pulled out. Comms went dark. We were surrounded, outgunned, with a civilian to protect."
He starts pacing, energy thrumming beneath his skin. "Granger... he followed orders. While I was trying to clear an escape route, he—" His voice catches. "He executed the civilian. Clean shot. Professional."
My heart twists at the raw pain in his voice. At the way his hands shake slightly before he clenches them.
"But he didn't stop there," Logan says. "He turned on us. Shot me first. Then Caleb. Ryker. Eli. Knox. Asa." His laugh is hollow. "Could've killed us all. Should have. But he didn't. Left us bleeding in the sand instead."
I take a step toward him, unable to stay back any longer. "Logan..."
He shakes his head. "We survived. Somehow. Local villagers found us, patched us up. But by then, the damage was done. The mission was classified clean. Records sealed. Media blackout."
"And Granger?"
"Promoted." The word drops like stone. "Last I heard, he was embedded in the SEAL Team One. Deep cover. Making sure Echo-13 stays buried."
Understanding dawns cold and clear. "That's why he's after me now. The thumb drive... it could expose everything."
Logan turns to face me fully, his expression raw. "He won't stop, Sloane. Not until every loose end is tied off. Not until every threat is neutralized."
"Including you?" My voice wavers. "The Forge team?"
"We're already marked," he says quietly. "Have been since that day in the desert. He's just been waiting for the right moment to finish what he started."
The weight of it settles over me like a shroud.
All these years, Logan and his team have been living with this sword hanging over their throat. Building The Forge not just as a sanctuary, but as a fortress against the very system they once served.
And now I've brought the threat right to their door.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "I never meant?—"
Logan closes the distance between us in two strides. His hands come up to frame my face, calloused palms warm against my skin.
"Don't," he says roughly. "Don't apologize for seeking the truth."
I reach up, wrap my fingers around his wrists. Feel his pulse thunder beneath my touch.
"But your team?—"
"Chose this life," he cuts in. "Same as I did. We protect what matters, Sloane. No matter the cost."
The intensity in his eyes steals my breath. Because I see it now—the way he looks at me like I'm something worth protecting. Something worth fighting for.
"Logan..."
He kisses me before I can finish. Not gentle this time. Not careful.
It's fierce, all-consuming, like a firestorm sweeping through a dry forest.
His hands move from my face to tangle in my hair, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss.
The world around us fades, replaced by the raw, primal connection between us. I can taste the desperation in his kiss, the hunger that's been boiling.
It's a kiss that screams of need and longing, of a man who's been holding back for far too long.
I respond instinctively, my hands gripping his shirt, pulling him closer. The heat between us is overwhelming, a wildfire that threatens to consume us both.
His lips move against mine, demanding and possessive, leaving no room for doubt or hesitation.
In that moment, I'm not the journalist on the run, and he's not the ex-soldier with a past full of shadows.
We're just two people caught in a whirlwind of emotions, clinging to each other like lifelines in a storm.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. His forehead rests against mine, eyes closed like he's gathering strength.
"I can't lose anyone else," he whispers. "Not to him. Not again."
The confession cracks something open in my chest. I curl my fingers in his shirt, anchoring us both.
"You won't," I promise. "We're stronger together."
His laugh is soft, almost broken. "You make me want to believe that."
"Then believe it." I brush my thumb across his jaw, feel the way he leans into the touch. "You're not alone anymore. Neither of us are."
He opens his eyes, and the vulnerability there steals my breath. Because Logan Bishop—former SEAL, protector, man of steel and silence—is looking at me like I might be his salvation.
"Stay," he murmurs against my lips.
Not a command. A plea.
I kiss him softly. "I'm not going anywhere."
His arms tighten around me, and I feel something shift between us. Some final wall crumbling. Some truth neither of us can hide from anymore.
Because this?
This isn't just about protection or sanctuary or survival.
This is about two broken people choosing to be stronger together.
This is about trust.
This is about home.
Even if we're building it in the middle of a war zone.