Chapter 12 #2
I shovel his leftover into my mouth with less grace than I did the first plateful. Stuff him. He wants to get in bed with the poor, he gets to live our misery.
Fucking rich fucking arsehole.
He stands up and moves over to the thermostat, kicking it up a notch. I growl at him through a mouthful of bacon, but he ignores me by stalking past me to the bedroom. Relieved to be out from under his pitying stare, I concentrate on my food as I hear him filling the bathtub up.
Ex-priest mafia man likes a soak.
Don’t blame him.
I take the last forkful of eggs in with relish and then pick up the plates to carry them to the sink to start the washing up.
“There’s a dishwasher,” he says, returning to see me filling up the sink.
“Of course there is,” I mutter and look around. I can’t see one.
“It looks like a cupboard but has the handle in the middle,” he says, pointing to a cupboard door I overlooked.
“Oh,” I say, yanking it out and seeing he is correct. “Go back to your bath. I’ve got this.”
“It’s not for me.”
I freeze, plates still in my hands. “What?”
“The bath. It’s for you.”
My chest tightens. I set the plates down carefully in the dishwasher, buying myself time to process. “I don’t need—”
“You’re exhausted. You’re running on fumes and adrenaline. Take the bath, Nuala.”
I turn to face him. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. The tattoos peek out from under his shirt sleeves, and I force myself to meet his eyes instead. “I don’t want or need your pity.”
“Who says I’m pitying you? I’m taking care of you. Don’t you like being taken care of, Nuala?” His blue eyes are serious, dark, and it sends a thrill coursing through me that goes straight to my clit.
The way he says my name, the heat in his blue eyes, the promise implicit in his words—it all sends liquid fire coursing through my veins straight to my core.
Being taken care of. When was the last time someone asked me what I liked?
When was the last time someone looked at me like I was worth caring for? The answer makes my chest ache.
“Taken care of?” I murmur, placing the plates in the dishwasher.
“What’s that?” I stride past him, trying not to break down from humiliation.
I walk into the bedroom and see that it is his own personal space.
There is a book on the nightstand, a pair of glasses resting next to it.
A bottle of water, half-drunk. There is a pair of gray joggers slung over the back of the chair and a gym bag near the closet.
I turn my head to see him standing in the doorway watching me take in his bedroom. The steam from the bathroom beyond curls around him like smoke.
“Through there,” he says, nodding toward the ensuite.
I turn away from him and slip into the black and chrome bathroom. The tub is massive, already filled with water that steams invitingly. He’s added bubbles, and it makes me giggle.
“Take your time.” He starts to leave, then pauses. “Lock the door if it makes you feel better.”
“Will it stop you if you want to come in?”
His eyes darken. “No.”
The honesty shouldn’t thrill me. But it does.
He leaves, pulling the door closed behind him. I stare at it for a long moment, then strip off my clothes. The uniform is wrinkled and stained. I drop it on the floor and step into the bath.
The heat hits me like a physical thing. I sink down with a groan, letting the water cover me up to my chin. My muscles unlock one by one. The tension I’ve been carrying since the shooting starts to drain away. My feet sing in bliss.
I close my eyes.
The woman’s face flashes behind my eyelids. Gray skin. Bulging eyes. That line across her throat.
I open my eyes fast, heart hammering.
“Stop it,” I whisper to myself. “Just stop.”
I try to relax and enjoy the moment of warmth and solitude.
I don’t know how long I lie there, letting the water soak into my bones. Long enough that the steam starts to dissipate. Long enough that my fingers prune. Long enough that the shakes finally stop.
I sink even lower in the water. The bubbles smell like something expensive—sandalwood maybe, or cedar.
My stomach is full for the first time in days. My body is warm. I should feel safe.
I don’t.
Because safety is an illusion when you’re in proximity of evidence that people have died for. When men with guns are hunting you. When the only thing standing between you and a bullet is an ex-priest with split knuckles and a god complex.
An ex-priest who looks at me like he wants to devour me.
An ex-priest whose best friend died because God didn’t answer his prayers.
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the spiral.
But my brain won’t shut off. It keeps replaying everything—the notebook falling on my foot, that woman snatching it away, the gunfire, Stacey’s voice cutting off mid-scream, Logan’s hand over my mouth, his body shielding mine as we ran through the chaos.
I sink deeper into the water until it covers my ears, muffling the world. The silence underwater is absolute. Peaceful. I hold my breath and count.
One. Two. Three.
At fifteen, my lungs start to burn.
At twenty, I surface with a gasp.
I sit forward, twist the big dial that lifts the plug, and climb out, reaching for one of the fluffy black towels on the heated towel rail.
“Nice,” I murmur, snuggling into it for a moment before reluctantly peeling it away to dry off. I wrap it around myself and grab another for my wet hair. I wrap it up turban style and cautiously open the door.
Logan is on the pristine white, king-sized bed, his glasses on, reading his book like he has no cares in the world.
My breath catches in my throat at the sight of him—lounging there with a book, glasses sliding down his nose, looking like he belongs on a lazy Sunday morning instead of in the middle of a manhunt.
This is what he looks like when he’s not protecting me or threatening someone or carrying the weight of violence on his shoulders.
This is Logan at rest, and he’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest tight.
“Glasses,” I say with a smile.
He snorts. “Only for reading small type.”
I nod and spot the black tee laid out at the foot of the bed. “For me?”
He nods slowly.
I pick it up and pull it over my head, then drop my towel. It comes to my mid-thigh, and I take a moment to thrill in the reality that I’m wearing his t-shirt.