28. Riley
I can feelthe men watching me all the way up the stairs, so I keep my shoulders straight and my head high, despite the pain that radiates from the belt marks on my ass and the flush that seems to cover my entire body.
As soon as I make it back to my room, I kick off my heels and crawl onto the bed, pulling the blankets up over myself.
I’m pissed at Maddoc for humiliating me like that, but another part of me feels like I actually got off easy. What I did tonight was reckless and dangerous, and if I’d been thinking clearly, there’s no way I would’ve caused a scene like that. It didn’t help Chloe and might’ve only made things worse for her.
It definitely made things worse for us.
So compared to the things that filtered through my mind on the drive back as I considered how Maddoc might punish me, belting my ass was actually pretty tame. It could’ve been a lot worse… but that doesn’t explain my body’s reaction to it. It doesn’t explain why I was leaning into the strokes of Maddoc’s belt by the time he delivered the final few, or why the fierce licks of pain that burst through my body made my clit throb and my pussy grow wet.
Why did I enjoy any of that?
I roll over onto my back, hissing as the soft bedspread rubs against my raw ass. It fucking hurts, but for some reason I don’t roll back, taking a perverse pleasure in the flaring pain.
“God, I’m a freak,” I whisper, clutching one of the pillows on the bed to my chest.
I don’t know why I need the pain, but it grounds me, and it eases some of the ache in my chest that’s lingered there ever since I saw Chloe at the club. It gives my mind something else to focus on besides all the ways I feel like I’ve failed her, and although I’m not sure that was Maddoc’s intent, I’m almost grateful for it.
Fuck, did he hear me moan when he belted me one of those last times?
Dante and Logan were standing there watching. Could they tell that I was turned on?
I close my eyes, still hearing the deep rumble of his voice as he counted off each stroke, still feeling the phantom pressure of the tie around my wrists. My pussy clenches, and I whimper softly. I don’t understand my reactions to these men, or the things they bring out in me. I don’t understand who I am anymore.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tossing the pillow aside and getting to my feet.
I grab a robe, a lightweight lavender one I’m almost certain Dante picked out himself, then throw it on and slip out of my room, heading to the bathroom to get ready for bed.
The vague murmur of the men’s voices filter up from downstairs, and none of them come up as I quickly take care of my business in the bathroom, including awkwardly slathering my welted ass with some lotion I find in there.
They’re still deep in discussion as I pad silently back into the bedroom and fall into a restless sleep.
I’mexhausted when my eyes finally open the next morning, even though I can tell by the light coming in through the curtains that it’s not early. My body feels drained beyond just the poor sleep I had, so I don’t bother getting out of bed for a while.
I don’t have anywhere to be, and there’s nothing I can do to help Chloe until the Reapers decide to make a move. I’m sure I’ve long since lost my job at Club M, and I have absolutely no fucks to give about that. At some point, if they keep me here, not paying my rent on the apartment will become an issue, but I’m sure they don’t want me here any longer than necessary, so hopefully it won’t get that far.
I grab some clothes from the new supply Dante brought up yesterday, then head to the bathroom. The hot water stings my sore ass, waking me up even faster than the coffee I’m craving will.
As I get out of the shower and wipe the steam off the mirror, I can’t help but look.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, twisting and turning in an effort to see all of it. The welts Maddoc left on me aren’t quite as angry-looking as they were last night, but they’re still raised, red, and throbbing. The marks cover my ass and upper thighs in a crisscross pattern, standing out against the pale skin around them.
For a long moment, I can’t look away from the sight.
He marked me.
That thought sends a shiver down my spine. I’ll probably wear these marks for a while, a constant reminder of him. Some wild, primal part of me likes that idea, the ache in my core that I wouldn’t let myself take care of last night returning as my clit throbs lightly.
Stop it, Riley. Get your head on straight. No more fucking mistakes.
Still chastising myself mentally, I tug on my clothes and towel dry my hair, then leave the bathroom and head downstairs.
I assume I’ll find myself alone the way I have on most other mornings, but as I make my way toward the kitchen, something amazing hits my nose—a medley of delicious scents that smell so good I almost moan.
I’m suddenly so hungry that I can’t help my steps from speeding up, but they falter when I round the corner and see that Logan is the one responsible for all those amazing smells.
His back is to me as he cooks, and as always with him, everything in the kitchen looks utterly spotless and organized despite the obvious evidence that he’s been here a while. A variety of breakfast dishes are laid out with military precision on the countertop, each plated beautifully and every single one of them making my mouth water like I haven’t eaten in a year.
But this is Logan, and I truly have no idea where I stand with the unreadable ice king, so I start to back away as quietly as I can.
“Stay,” he says without turning around.
I freeze awkwardly, mid-step. My first instinct is to run now that he’s somehow noticed me, but it’s already too late. He turns away from the stove to face me, sliding a steaming omelet that smells like heaven onto a plate as those ice-colored eyes flick over to me and then back to the task at hand.
“Eat something,” he says without any inflection.
I swallow. “What… um, what should I eat?”
He lifts one shoulder in a small shrug before fastidiously wiping down the stovetop and efficiently transferring the pan and spatula he just used to the sink. “Whichever one you’d like, or all of them. It’s all for you.”
I blink, confused. “What?”
He frowns. “Eat,” he repeats, looking at me like I’m the crazy one. “I made you food.”
“Okay,” I say carefully, wondering what the catch is.
He just stares at me in that slightly unnerving way he has until I move, creeping slowly into the kitchen in case there’s some kind of booby trap I don’t see.
“Uh, thanks,” I finally remember to add.
Logan grunts softly, turning back to the sink, and I snatch the first plate I reach from the counter next to him and retreat to the end of the tall island in the middle of the kitchen that the guys often eat at.
He finishes washing the pan, dries it, returns it to the cupboard, then pours a fragrant cup of coffee and doctors it with a hefty pour of cream, just the way I like it. He brings it over to me, along with a set of silverware.
I freeze, hoping against hope that one of the other men will suddenly walk in.
No one does, and being so close to Logan, being alone with him, has my heart beating in overdrive.
“Why are you doing this?” I blurt when he silently sets the items down in front of me and then turns away to pull something out of the oven.
He looks up at me, a faint wrinkle between his eyebrows, as if the question confuses him.
I clear my throat. “I mean, why did you make me… breakfast?”
“I knew you’d be hungry. You haven’t eaten anything substantial in the past thirty-six point nine hours.”
The specificity of his answer, right down to the last time I ate a real meal, throws me for a loop, and I have no idea how to respond. It doesn’t answer the question I was really asking, and unless he’s just completely clueless when it comes to all social norms, he has to know it.
But he’s not wrong. I really am hungry.
What happened between us the night he snuck into my room had me too freaked out to come near any of them yesterday, so after coming down to ask for new clothes, all I had to eat was the last of those crackers in my room from the first night I was here.
The idea that Logan might know that even though I’ve barely seen him over the past thirty-whatever hours he just rattled off weirds me out almost as much as the fact that he prepared my coffee exactly as I take it. And, of course, this whole Top Chef act of his.
But now he’s back to ignoring me, methodically turning out perfectly rounded muffins onto a cooling rack, and hunger overcomes my fear.
The plate I grabbed has two photoshoot-worthy pieces of perfect French toast on it, complete with a sprinkling of powdered sugar and juicy, perfectly sliced strawberries fanned out on top. I load up my fork with a large bite, careful to get a little bit of everything, and moan at how fucking good it tastes.
Logan freezes at the sound, his back stiffening.
His eyes snap up to meet mine, and something flickers behind the eerie blankness—a heat that I’ve seen before a few times, like he’s got an inferno raging inside him, hidden behind the walls of ice he wears.
“Um, it’s really good,” I tell him, trying to dispel the tension in the air.
He nods as if that’s a given, then jerks his chin toward one of the tall stools set around the island. “Sit,” he says. “It’s better for your digestion.”
I slide my plate over a little and settle onto the stool, wincing when my welted ass makes contact with the hard wood.
Logan notices that too, and this time, the heat in his eyes lingers longer before he shutters his expression again.
He goes back to cooking, and I get down to eating it, filling my belly after the past few days of not enough food and way too many emotional ups and downs. I sample a few more of the amazing dishes he made and allow myself to enjoy the pleasant silence for a few minutes.
“Are you going to eat too?” I ask as he drizzles something sweet and creamy over mixed fruit, then swiftly and efficiently turns it into some kind of fruit salad masterpiece that he adds to the buffet.
“No. I already did,” he says, aligning the bowl and then brushing some invisible crumbs or something off the counter.
“But you’ve made so much, and it’s… it’s really good, Logan. I’m sure I won’t be able to finish all of this. Sit down with me.”
He hesitates, his face still blank but his body language clearly conflicted.
I swallow, not quite sure why I’m working so hard to convince him as I add, “Please?”
Finally, he nods, one jerky motion of his chin. He finishes cleaning a few parts of the kitchen that already look spotless to me and brings the fruit salad over to the island, placing it near my plate and then sitting stiffly on the stool across from me.
I’m getting close to being full, but everything really is delicious, so I spoon some of the fruit salad onto my plate, then nudge the bowl toward him. “Are you going to have some?”
“I told you, I already ate,” he says, his back ramrod straight.
He looks so uncomfortable just sitting here with me that it almost makes me grin. This man is either terrifying or the king of awkward, with no middle ground. But for some reason, I don’t want to hurry up and leave anymore. I’m not even hoping for Maddoc or Dante to walk in. Logan has the same mesmerizing quality that any deadly predator has, and I can feel it luring me in, tempting me to get closer. To learn more about him.
“You must cook a lot,” I say. “You’re really good at it. Are these your favorite recipes?”
That line appears between his eyebrows again as he frowns. “I don’t… this isn’t for me. I don’t need a favorite. I always start the day with a balanced meal.”
“Sounds boring,” I say with a chuckle before I remember who I’m talking about. I’m not sure Logan is the type who enjoys being teased.
But instead of looking offended, his lips twitch into something almost like a smile.
“You sound like Dante.” He shrugs. “But you’re both wrong. My breakfast isn’t boring. It’s the appropriate mix of proteins, complex carbohydrates, and healthy fats to ensure optimal energy levels throughout the day.”
I scrunch up my face. “So, what, raw egg whites and… chicken breast?”
Logan fixes me with a stern look of reproval. “Raw egg whites carry a risk of Salmonella contamination.”
“I was kidding. So what do you eat for optimal…” I circle my fork around as I search for the word, but I can’t remember whatever weird health jargon he rattled off, so I just settle on, “For optimal breakfast?”
“An egg white omelet—cooked—with four ounces of spinach and two slices of whole grain toast.”
“Yum.”
My tone is teasing, but I can’t help arching a brow in surprise.It sounded an awful lot like he just made a joke with that “cooked” thing, but probably not. If he was joking, his face certainly didn’t get the memo. But at least, for probably the first time since I met him, he looks almost relaxed.
I’m totally full by now, but I keep picking at the food and asking him more about his daily routine, just to hear him talk. He’s still closed off, and his face stays mostly expressionless, but I’m craving company right now, and sitting with him like this is… nice.
Peaceful.
It’s not a word that I ever would’ve imagined using for Logan, but despite the fact that he’s often terrifying and cold, there appears to be another side to him too. He seems almost boyish right now, the hard lines of his features easing a bit.
He leans closer to me as we speak, resting his hands on the island between us, and when he reaches over with one hand to scratch at a spot on his opposite wrist, the movement draws my gaze. It’s a scar that he’s scratching, I realize, thick and raised. I haven’t noticed it before, and I’m honestly surprised that I haven’t, although he usually wears long-sleeved shirts.
“What’s that from?” I ask softly, reaching out to touch it.
He goes still the minute my fingers brush his skin, and it feels like all the air has just been sucked out of the room.
I yank my hand away and jerk my eyes up to his, expecting him to look angry at the invasion of his space, like he did when I went into his room. But instead, his features twist into something panicked and pained. He shoves backward, sending the stool he was sitting on toppling to the floor, and strides out of the room.
I stare after him, my hand still hovering in the air as I blink in shock.
What the hell?
Every time I think I’ve found solid footing with these men, they remind me all over again how deep in over my head I am.