40. Riley
I’ve gotno reason to be nervous as I approach Logan’s bedroom, but that doesn’t stop my heart from racing.
The thin cut he made on my chest has healed to nothing but a faint red line, but I can still vividly remember what the knife felt like as he dragged it across my skin. I can also recall the way he almost begged me to tell him to stop… and the way my mouth stayed glued shut.
I pause outside Logan’s door to wipe my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants, taking a second to try to get my shit together before I knock.
It’s just stitches, I remind myself. In and out, and then it will be done.
I blow out a breath, then lift a hand to the door, and Logan startles me by swinging it open before my knuckle can rap against the wood more than once.
“Shit,” I blurt, my fist still hovering in the air. “Um, I guess you were waiting for me?”
I can see some kind of medical kit laid out on the bed behind him, which means Maddoc must have told him he’d have to patch me up. So he probably has been waiting for me.
“Yes.” He nods, his expression impossible to read.
He may have opened the door, but he’s still blocking my way, as if he’s not entirely sure he wants to let me in. I glance around quickly, trying to keep the movement of my eyes subtle. I’ve only been in his room one other time, and the memory of that time—and of what happened afterward—makes me shiver.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I tell him, clearing my throat. “I was just getting Chloe settled in. She needed to decompress a bit, and I don’t think my wound is even bleeding much anymore, so I figured it wasn’t urgent. Not that I really know what constitutes ‘urgent’ when it comes to gunshot wounds. This was my first time being shot, so I’m not really much of an expert.”
I realize I’m rambling and force myself to stop talking, pressing my lips together.
Logan is still staring at me with those penetrating light blue eyes, so after a long beat of silence, I clear my throat and ask, “Um, should I come in?”
He sighs, his jaw tightening, but finally steps aside.
I guess, in Logan-speak, that’s an invitation.
Now it’s my turn to hesitate. Do I even really need stitches? Maddoc was so fucking pushy about it, though, and if I’m about to be on my own with Chloe, it’s definitely a bad idea to risk my wound getting infected or anything.
“Thanks,” I murmur. I slip past him, and he closes the door again.
Instantly, I feel claustrophobic, as if all the air has been sucked out of the room. I’m acutely aware that I’m alone with him in his private space. I’ve already seen the inside of his bedroom, but it’s different now, with him watching me as I take it all in.
I squeeze my hands together so they won’t shake as I glance over at him and ask, “Should I sit on the bed?”
Logan blinks, then lets his gaze slowly slide down my body, hovering over the blood stains at the bottom of my shirt.
He looks back up at me. “No.”
“Then where—”
“Lie down,” he instructs, his voice cool and measured. “On your side. After you take your shirt off.”
My pulse kicks into a fast, almost frantic pace, but I do what he said, undoing the heavy bullet proof vest I’m still wearing and setting it down on the floor, then tugging off my shirt. That leaves me in only my bra, and my nipples peak beneath the thin fabric as Logan stares at me for a long, loaded moment. The weight of his undivided attention is so heavy that I could almost imagine it’s his hands skating over me instead of his gaze.
Goosebumps spread over my skin as I walk over to his bed and carefully lie down on the perfectly made bedspread. I wedge my arm under my head as I roll onto my side, but Logan shakes his head.
“Move your arm,” he commands. I do, wincing a little at the pain in my side, and I watch him carefully as he lifts the lone pillow on his bed and wedges it under my head instead.
I’m surprised he gave me his pillow, honestly. He’s obviously very protective of his stuff, so I would’ve thought he’d be worried I would get blood on it or something.
“Thank you,” I murmur softly. “That’s better.”
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he carefully lowers himself to the bed, sitting right next to me and touching me with a clinical precision that’s so… him. He cleans away the blood from the raw, angry wound at my side, puts something on it that stings like an angry bitch, then reaches for the medical kit.
I close my eyes, already anticipating the pain of the stitches.
He doesn’t warn me, doesn’t pause at all when he first threads the needle through my skin.
“Fuck!” I hiss, my body tensing at the sudden bite of pain.
That gets a reaction from him—or a pause, at least, if only for a split second. Then he goes right back to it, stitching my torn flesh back together with an intensity of focus that I can only remember feeling from him one other time.
So many things about this moment remind me of that night. The way he was utterly silent and completely terrifying when he came into my room and sliced the clothes off my body. The sharpness, care, and precision he must’ve used as he cut up all of my things, leaving only tatters and shreds.
I can still feel the touch of that knife… and I’ll always bear the scar.
A shiver passes through me, and a small sound almost like a moan escapes my lips before I can stop it. Logan pauses again, his eyes lifting to mine for a moment. Then, as if he can read my mind and knows what I’m thinking about right now, he looks down at my chest.
His gaze traces the red line where he cut me, right between my breasts.
Then he lifts his hand, his finger following the same path.
I suck in a breath, my body suddenly desperate for oxygen as if I’m drowning. But the deep inhale only has the effect of making my chest press harder against the gentle touch of his finger. His gaze leaves the thin scar, darting to my face, and the air in the room seems to thicken.
“Admiring your work?” I rasp out, my voice oddly husky.
He stiffens, as if he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, and he jerks his hand away.
“Hold still.”
His voice is a cool monotone like always, but there’s a raspy quality to it just like there was in mine.
Silence falls between us as he finishes stitching up the gash at my waist, and although the first push of the needle hurt like a bitch, my body starts to get numb to it after a while. Even though I feel every thrust of the needle, every tug of the thread, I’m barely aware of those sensations. I’m too caught up watching Logan. Too confused by the way my body remembers the pain he’s inflicted, twists it up with the pain he’s causing me right now, and still feels drawn to him. Attracted on some truly fucked up level that should probably repel me.
It doesn’t. And his silent intensity just makes me feel like the two of us are trapped in some sort of strange bubble together. One of pleasure and pain. Attraction and anticipation. The feel of his hands on me, the way he pierces my skin and controls my body as he puts me back together, is both invasive and intimate.
Logan is dangerous. I’ve sensed it from the start, but even knowing how easily he can hurt me and that a part of him clearly wants to, it’s almost impossible to fight the part of me that’s drawn to that.
To him.
His fingers brush against my skin, a smooth counterpoint to the line of pain he’s stitching into my flesh, and goosebumps erupt across my body.
He notices.
Of course he notices.
This man notices everything.
His gaze roams over them, a look of utter fascination on his normally blank face, as if he’s never seen anything like this.Then he blinks, shifting his focus back to the stitches. He ties off the thread and cuts away the extra before rising smoothly to his feet.
“You’re done.” he says flatly, looking away.
He picks up my shirt and holds it out to me. I take it from him, then wince a little as I pull it over my head and the raw line of stitches—another mark I’ll always bear from him—pull at my waist. Logan stands at a distance, keeping his gaze averted.
He’s always seemed so enigmatic and terrifying, but now he seems almost afraid of me, as if he’s scared to let me get too close, or even to look at me. For some reason, that thought makes me feel less anxious than I did when I arrived. I may be completely off-balance here, but at least I’m not alone in that.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I tug down the hem of my shirt. “For the stitches. But also for Chloe. For helping to get her back tonight.”
I really mean it. I’m grateful from the bottom of my heart that they actually got her back. I owe a lot to all three of the men in this house, but Logan is the one who planned it, who made sure all bases were covered despite the variables he couldn’t account for, who thought everything through and left no room for mistakes. And then he took out the Capside men as easily as he flipped the French toast he made me the other day.
Smoothly. Effortlessly. Precisely.
I draw in a breath, fighting back my emotions, and Logan looks up in time to see me blink the tears from my eyes. His brows draw together, and he takes a small step closer to me.
“Thank you,” I repeat, my voice dropping.
“You’re… welcome,” he says stiffly.
“I know you didn’t want to have anything to do with me at first. I know you hated me,” I whisper. “And I know it’s been hard on you to have me here, in your space and in your home, but I’m still so grateful for everything you’ve done. And at least it will be over soon, right? I’ll be gone before you know it, me and Chloe both.”
“You’ll be gone soon.”
Something flickers over Logan’s face as he speaks, and it seems almost like he’s just now realizing that I’ll be leaving with Chloe as soon as Maddoc gives us the okay. That my time in this house is almost done.
I’m not sure which one of us moved this time, but we’re standing closer together now than we were before. We’re so near to each other that I feel each breath he exhales flutter over my cheeks. Close enough that his ice-blue eyes are all I can see, staring into mine like he’s trying to pull me apart with his gaze. Dissect me in a way only his mysterious brain can ever hope to understand. Figure out what makes me tick, the same way a curious little boy might take a watch apart to figure out how it works.
A shiver runs through me, my breath catching in my throat, because I have to wonder…
If he takes me apart, would he be able to put me back together again? And should I be scared that I’m not sure I care?
A part of me wants him to do it, even if it hurts. Even if there’s nothing left of me afterward.
It’s the part of me that’s born of darkness but drawn to that eerie intensity of his like a moth toward a blazing flame, compelled to move closer to what’s guaranteed to make me burn.
“You’re leaving,” he whispers. “You’ll be leaving us.”
His fingertips skim down my wrist and drag over my palm, a touch so light I shouldn’t even be able to feel it.
But I do.
I feel it everywhere.
His gaze dips to my mouth, and my stomach swoops. He’s not quite holding my hand, but it almost feels like he is, and it makes my chest feel suddenly too tight, my breath catching in my throat. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, and I sway toward him without meaning to.
“Logan…”
My voice is barely more than a whisper, but he jerks as if I shouted his name. The shutters fall over his face again, and he steps back so abruptly that I almost lose my balance.
“Get out,” he says, his voice raspy.
I take two quick steps back, my heart thundering against my ribs, then turn and leave his room without looking back.
What the hell is going on?
As insane as it sounds, I can’t escape the feeling that Logan almost just… kissed me.
And even more crazy than that?
I wanted him to.