Chapter 16
Nuala
His silence is worse than his denial of my basic human right to be free.
I stare at his broad back, watching muscles shift under tattooed skin as he methodically chops vegetables. The domesticity of the moment clashes violently with the possessive claim he just made on my body, my life, my choices.
“You can’t just ignore me,” I say, hating how my voice wavers.
He keeps chopping. The knife hits the cutting board in steady, controlled strikes that make me think of violence barely contained.
I cross my arms over my chest, the soft jumper suddenly feeling too warm. “This is kidnapping.”
“Call it what you want.”
“I want to call the Garda.”
That gets his attention. He sets the knife down carefully and turns to face me. His blue eyes are cold, calculating. “And tell them what? That you’re harboring evidence in a mass shooting? That you are the only survivor and that you saw something that you aren’t telling me?”
Each point lands like a blow. My face heats.
“I didn’t see anything,” I whisper.
“Why did you let Connor think you did?”
“So he wouldn’t shoot me!”
He doesn’t answer immediately. Just turns back to his cutting board and resumes chopping with controlled precision that makes me want to scream.
“You were the one holding the gun!” he snarls suddenly.
“You think I’m lying?” It hurts. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I care what he thinks.
Except I do. He has gotten under my skin in the last two days in a way that makes my breath catch when I think about him. But right now, he is being a dick, and I don’t know how to deal with it.
“I think,” he says slowly, each word measured, “that you’re scared. That you saw something or heard something that you’re too afraid to admit even to yourself, or that you’ve blocked out because you don’t want to think about it.”
“That’s not—”
“The woman was strangled before the shooting started. You found her. You were in that bathroom for how long before the gunfire?”
I dig my nails into my palms. “I don’t know. A few minutes.”
“And in those few minutes, did you hear anything? See anyone?”
My mind races back to that moment. The silence of the bathroom. The dead woman on the toilet. My hand reaching for my phone to call the Garda.
“No,” I say, but something flickers at the edge of my memory. Something I’m not quite grasping.
He turns to face me fully now, his eyes boring into mine.
“Fine,” he says finally, stepping back. “You were bluffing.”
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by confusion at the sudden shift.
He goes back to chopping. “But you’re still not leaving this apartment.”
“Logan—”
“I said no.” He doesn’t look at me. “If you need things from your flat, I’ll have someone collect them. Give me a list.”
“I don’t want strangers going through my stuff.”
“Then you’ll have to live without it.”
I clench my fists, anger overriding the fear. “You’re being unreasonable.”
Silence.
He does the cold shoulder better than anyone I have come across.
“I hate you!” I hiss and storm toward the bedroom, only to realize it’s his bedroom and veer off into a guest room, slamming the door behind me.
My hands are shaking with fury and fear.
The man who took care of me, fed me, bathed me, turned his heating up for me, is gone, and in his place is this cold…
monster, placing me in a cage that is closing in around me.
I pace the small guest room, my heart hammering against my ribs.
The space is impersonal—cream walls, a double bed with a beige duvet, a chest of drawers that probably has nothing in it.
It’s a room for people passing through, not for people being held captive.
I sit on the edge of the bed and drop my head into my hands. The anger drains out of me as quickly as it came, leaving exhaustion in its wake. My body aches in places that remind me of what we just did. What I let him do. What I wanted him to do.
God, I’m so stupid.
I fell for the protective act. The way he looked at me like I mattered. The way he touched me like I was something precious. But underneath it all, he’s a criminal who thinks he can control me.
My stomach growls, reminding me that I stormed off before he could finish cooking. I press my hand against it, willing it to shut up. I won’t go back out there. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
The door opens.
I shoot to my feet. “I didn’t say you could come in.”
Logan stands in the doorway, a plate in his hand. He’s still shirtless, still unfairly attractive even when I want to throw something at his head. “You need to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Your stomach just growled loud enough for me to hear in the kitchen.”
I cross my arms, refusing to look at the plate. “Get out.”
“Nuala. I’m trying to keep you alive.”
“By treating me like a prisoner?”
“By making sure you don’t do something stupid that gets you killed.” He steps into the room and sets the plate on the chest of drawers. “Eat. We can argue after.”
The smell of whatever he’s cooked makes my mouth water despite my anger. I glance at the plate—chicken, vegetables, rice. It looks good. Too good.
“I don’t want your food.”
“Yes, you do.” He moves closer, and I back up until my legs hit the bed. “Stop being stubborn.”
“Stop being a controlling arsehole.”
His jaw clenches. “I’m trying to protect you.”
“I didn’t ask for your protection!”
“You asked for it the second you got in my car.” He crowds me, his presence overwhelming in the small space. “You asked for it when you let me fuck you against my wall. You asked for it when you held a gun to my uncle’s face and asked me to pick up the notebook.”
My breath catches. “That’s not—”
“It is.” His hand cups my jaw, forcing me to look at him. “You’re mine to protect now. Accept it or don’t, but it doesn’t change the fact.”
I want to argue. I want to shove him away and tell him he’s wrong. But the truth is, some part of me did ask for this. Some part of me wants to be protected, wants to be claimed by this dangerous man who looks at me like I’m the only thing that matters in his world.
“I hate that you’re right,” I whisper.
His thumb brushes across my lower lip. “I know.”
“I still want to go to my flat.”
“No.”
“Logan—”
“I’ll compromise.” His eyes search mine. “Tell me what you need from there. I’ll go get it myself.”
I blink, surprised by the offer. “You’d do that?”
“I’m not letting anyone else touch your things. And I’m sure as fuck not letting you go there.” His hand slides to the back of my neck. “But I’ll go. Tonight. I’ll call Aran. He can watch you.”
The compromise eases something in my chest. It’s not freedom, but it’s something. “You promise you’ll get everything I ask for?”
“Every single thing.”
I study his face, looking for the lie. But his expression is sincere, that possessive edge softened slightly. “Okay. I’ll make a list.”
“Good girl.”
The praise sends heat through me, and I hate myself for responding to it. I push at his chest, needing space. “Don’t call me that.”
He smirks but steps back. “Eat. I’ll call Aran.”
“Not Aran!” I squeak. “He scares me.”
He frowns, and I expect some platitude about how I can trust him, but I’m shocked to see he takes me seriously. “Okay, but that doesn’t leave me with many options.”
“I’ll be okay here by myself. Just lock the doors.”
He gives me a scathing stare that makes me flinch.
“Okay, I’ll come with you.”
“I already said no,” he growls.
“Then what?”
“Eat. I’ll figure something out.” He leaves me alone with the delicious-looking food, closing the door behind him.
I want to tell him he’s being irrational, but the memory of what those shooters did tells me he isn’t.
They killed all those people just to get to Stacey.
It’s wild. I stare at the plate of food, my stomach winning the argument with my pride.
I pick it up and sit on the edge of the bed, shoveling forkfuls into my mouth.
The chicken is perfectly seasoned, and the vegetables still have a bit of crunch.
Even in the middle of this nightmare, Logan manages to cook like someone who actually gives a shit.
I hear him talking on the phone in the other room, his voice low and tense. I can’t make out the words, but the tone tells me he’s arguing with someone and probably trying to find a babysitter who won’t terrify me.
The absurdity of the situation hits me. Two days ago, I was worried about whether I could afford heating. Now I’m eating gourmet chicken in a penthouse while a former priest turned gangster argues about who should guard me while he raids my shitty flat.
My life has gone completely to shit.
I finish the food faster than I should and set the plate aside and lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The sex replays in my mind—the way he looked at me, the way he touched me, the way he claimed me.
I’m being ridiculous. I don’t want or need anything from my flat.
I’m trying to assert control where there is none.
He is pushing me into a corner, caging me, and my instinct is to fight back.
There is literally nothing at that flat that I can’t live without.
Except maybe the box of tampons in the bathroom.
Frowning, I try to recall the date. I have no phone because someone smashed it and threw it in the canal.
I have about a week until my period is due.
That just means I need to talk Logan into getting a delivery sent over.
I grimace.
Have I accepted my fate? Have I accepted that I’m his prisoner with benefits?
I close my eyes, and the man with the crisp fifty euro note tapping impatiently on the bar flashes into my mind. My eyes fly open, and I sit up. Why did I think of him? Gray suit. Thick neck. He looked at my chest, not my face. Tipped exorbitantly. Winked at me.
My hands start trembling. I press them against my thighs, trying to steady them. Why am I remembering him now? What’s significant about a random arsehole who tipped me well?
I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing myself back to that moment. The bar was busy. I was exhausted. My feet hurt. He ordered two whiskeys, doubles. I poured them without measuring. He slid the note across the wet surface.
“Keep the change.”
And then... what? What happened next?
Stacey shouted at me. Table six needed clearing. I took the money, put it in the till, pocketed the change. Then I grabbed a tray and started collecting glasses.
But something’s missing. Something I’m not seeing.
I dig my nails into my palms, willing the memory to sharpen. The man in the gray suit. Where did he go after I served him? Did he stay at the bar? Did he leave?
I can’t remember.
The door opens, and I jump, my heart leaping into my throat.
Logan stands there, his expression unreadable. He stares at the empty plate. “More?”
I shake my head. “Tampons.”
He frowns. “Excuse me.”
“I need tampons. That is literally the only thing I need from my flat. The rest is a pile of shit.”
“You’re fighting me over a box of tampons?”
“No, I’m fighting you over your incessant need to cage me!” I stand up and face off with him. “I get it. I do. People are dead. I could be next. But I am an adult. You can’t treat me this way.”
“Treat you what way?” he asks calmly in the face of my storm.
“Like a prisoner.”
“Like I care what happens to you?” He completely ignored my statement. “Like I want you to be safe and happy and comfortable? Like I want you to be warm and not have to choose between eating and putting the heating on? Like I want you well fed and healthy? Like I want you fucking alive?”
I stare at him, my chest heaving. His words hang between us, raw and honest, and so intense that it steals my breath.
“You don’t get it,” I whisper. “You don’t understand what it’s like to have no control.”
“Don’t I?” His laugh is bitter. “I spent years in the priesthood, Nuala. Years praying to a God who didn’t give a fuck. Years of watching people I know suffer while I could do nothing but offer empty platitudes and then bury them. I know exactly what it’s like to have no control.”
I swallow hard, my anger deflating. “Then why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I can control this.” He moves closer, his voice dropping. “I can control whether you’re safe. Whether you’re fed. Whether you’re warm. I can’t control the bastards hunting you, but I can control whether they get to you.”
“By locking me in a cage?”
“By keeping you alive.” His hand goes around my throat, squeezing gently, forcing me to look at him.
“Why do I matter? Are you doing this because you couldn’t save your friend?”
The pain that flashes across his face makes me feel like the biggest bitch on the planet.