Chapter 33
CHAPTER 33
The bar’s heat hit Logan like a wall as he stepped back into its chaotic embrace—bodies pressed close under dim lighting, laughter cutting through Springsteen’s rasping voice on the jukebox. The air smelled of stale beer, sweat, and vape smoke that clung to the back of his throat. His senses sharpened, honed by years of training to detect threats in any environment.
He spotted them almost immediately. Devon and Ethan laughing at something Brick had just said, their silhouettes backlit by the neon beer signs. Ethan stood with his jacket slung over one shoulder, looking outwardly relaxed but with tension visible in the tight line of his shoulders, a subtle shift only someone who’d studied him would notice.
Their eyes met across the room. A brief connection, electric and raw, before Ethan looked away quickly like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
Logan squared his shoulders and shoved through the crowd, pulse hammering in his temples. Whatever game Devon thought he was playing tonight? It ended right here.
Devon leaned against a brick pillar, his posture deliberately casual, but his eyes told a different story. They were sharp, calculating, locked onto Ethan with an intensity that betrayed his smug demeanor. Arms crossed over his chest, he caught Logan’s glare from across the room and held it for a beat. With a cocky tilt of his head, he raised two fingers to his temple in a mock salute, the gesture dripping with challenge.
“We ready to party?” he grinned, slinging one arm around Ethan’s shoulders, pulling him in close. His grip was firm, too familiar, fingers digging into Ethan’s muscle—a casual claim masked as camaraderie. The same possessive grip Logan remembered all too well. He tapped Brick on the shoulder with his free hand. “You in?”
“Hell yeah!” Brick adjusted the battered baseball cap perched backward on his head as he leaned back in his chair with one boot propped against the table leg. “Beats sittin’ here losin’ at darts all night.” He tossed a balled-up napkin at the dartboard in mock disgust before standing and grabbing his jacket off the back of a chair. “And you can’t go party without the party king!” He threw his head back, letting out a wolfish howl that cut through the noise. “Now show me the ladies!”
Ethan chuckled, but his eyes flicked to Devon’s hand on his shoulder. The way it lingered, the heat in Devon’s dark gaze—it wasn’t just friendly roughhousing, and Ethan knew it.
He eased from under Devon’s arm as they headed for the exit, Brick leading the charge like a bull through the crowd.
Logan stepped into the frame, blocking Ethan’s path. His broad shoulders filled the doorway, stance wide and unmistakably territorial. “You off?”
Ethan met his stare and lifted his chin, defiance sparking in his eyes. “Yeah. What’s it to you? We’re hitting that club. Brick’s idea, he wants to see those girls again. He says they like to party.” He flashed a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I figured I might get in on the action this time.”
Logan’s jaw ticked, and he took a deep breath that did nothing to calm the storm building in his chest. “Don’t do this. Don’t go with him.” He lowered his voice, the words scraping his throat. “Trust me when I say stay away from Devon. He’s not who you think.”
“Yeah, so you’ve said,” Ethan shot back, heat creeping up his neck, staining his cheeks. “Well, he seems pretty cool to me. And besides that, he’s not afraid to say what he wants.” The last words landed like a punch, deliberate and aimed to hurt.
“He’s not afraid to take what he wants either.” Logan stepped closer, close enough that Ethan caught the faint scent of whiskey on his breath, felt the heat radiating from his body. “Whether it’s offered or not. Please, don’t go with him.”
Ethan narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice to a harsh whisper. “Listen to yourself. Who the hell are you to lecture me about anything? I can handle myself. I’m not as naive as you think.” His words came faster, sharper. “For Christ’s sake, I’ve been through BUD/S. If I can survive hell week, I can handle Devon in a nightclub.”
He leaned in, close enough that Logan could feel his breath. “I know what I’m doing and no one’s leading me astray. Just because you can’t handle how you feel about what we did, doesn’t mean I can’t.” He straightened and shoved past Logan, shoulder connecting hard enough to hurt. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have somewhere to be. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow—if I feel like it.”
Lines etched Logan’s face, his expression one of frustration laced with something darker as Ethan strode out—Brick and Devon flanking him like shadows. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he muttered, half to himself. “Yeah, just do what you want—as usual.”
He turned back to the bar and shoved his empty glass at the tender—a grizzled guy with a stained apron and a permanent scowl. “Sling another JD in there?”
The bartender nodded and poured the amber liquid into the glass. Logan sank onto a stool and stared into the drink, watching the light fracture through the whiskey.
The noise in the bar faded into the background: pool balls clacking, a drunk couple arguing by the jukebox, someone cranking up the volume on a country song that grated against his already raw nerves.
Ethan was gone, and Logan’s gut churned with a mix of regret and dread. He swirled the JD in his glass, then tipped it back. The burn down his throat didn’t dull the ache in his chest or wash away the image of Ethan walking out, Devon’s arm slung around him like a leash. He’d tried to warn him, tried to stop him, but Ethan was so damn stubborn, so determined to prove something.
His defiance cut deeper than Logan expected.
Fuck, maybe the kid was right. Maybe he couldn’t handle his feelings—the memory of Ethan’s skin under his hands tangled up in the mess of what he’d done with Devon years ago in that dusty barracks room outside Kabul.
He drained the glass, the ice clinking as he set it down, and signaled for another, which the bartender slid over without a word or judgment—the best kind of bartender.
Devon wasn’t just some flirt; he was a predator, and Logan knew that better than anyone. The night after they returned from that mission had been a blur of too much whiskey, too many blurred lines, and it ended with fists and blood and promises of retribution.
That was when Devon’s obsession really turned ugly.
Logan had buried the past, told himself Devon had moved on, but seeing him with Ethan, that warning klaxon blared in his skull like an incoming mortar.
“Shit,” he muttered, rubbing his temples. He should’ve dragged Ethan back, consequences be damned.
He tossed a twenty on the bar, nodded to the bartender, and pushed through the Friday night crowd toward the exit. The cool night air hit him like a splash of clarity after the stifling heat of the bar.
Logan stood outside, keys digging crescents into his palm as he stared at his Jeep, its black paint catching faint glints of neon from the bar sign overhead. Ethan wasn’t his to claim, not anymore—hell, maybe not ever. And wasn’t that the whole damn problem? He’d shoved Ethan away with both hands but couldn’t stand seeing someone else’s hands on him.
The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on him. But the thought of Devon pushing Ethan into things he didn’t want, using the same playbook he’d tried years ago in Kabul—it lit a fire in Logan’s chest that whiskey couldn’t douse.
He needed to let it go. Ethan wasn’t some helpless kid who needed rescuing—he was a Navy fucking SEAL and a damn good one. But nothing could erase that flicker of uncertainty he’d seen in Ethan’s eyes, that split-second hesitation before Devon steered him away.
“I won’t be too rough with him.” Devon’s whispered promise echoed in Logan’s mind, carrying the same predatory edge it had years ago. The same words, different target.
Fuck.
The Jeep’s engine growled to life beneath him, restless and ready as his own pulse. No plan, just purpose. Whether he ended up dragging Ethan out by force or simply watching from the shadows like some fool guardian, he wasn’t letting Devon’s game play out.
Not tonight. Not with Ethan.