Chapter 17
Logan
“Don’t,” I say through gritted teeth, tightening my grip on her throat.
“It’s true though, isn’t it?” She doesn’t back down, even though I can see the fear warring with guilt in her eyes. “You couldn’t save Chris, so now you’re trying to save me.”
The sound of Chris’s name on her lips makes something violent surge through me. I release her and turn away before I do something I’ll regret—like prove to her exactly how much control I’ve lost over myself since she walked into my life.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then tell me I’m wrong.”
I can’t. Because she’s not entirely wrong. But she’s not entirely right either.
I grip the doorframe, my knuckles going white.
But there is nothing to say. I leave, slamming the door behind me and heading straight for the bottle of whiskey still on the counter where Connor left it.
I don’t bother with a glass. I tip the bottle back and let the burn scour my throat.
It doesn’t help. Nothing helps when she looks at me like that—like she sees straight through the fortress I’ve spent six months building.
Chris is dead. Ripped away from life by a disease that medically couldn’t be cured. I believed God would intervene if I just had enough faith.
I was wrong.
I drain another mouthful and with a roar filled with every ounce of pain and guilt I’ve been trying to squash, I throw the bottle across the room.
It hits the wall and smashes, splashing the contents all over the pristine white walls and the expensive white carpet.
Hundreds of tiny pieces of glass glimmer in the lamplight mimicking my shattered heart, my shattered faith.
The bedroom door opens behind me. I don’t turn around. I can’t look at her right now.
“Logan.” Her voice is soft, stripped of the defiance from moments ago.
“Leave me alone.”
“No.” Her footsteps approach carefully. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You were right.” The admission tastes like blood. “Chris died because I was arrogant enough to think my prayers mattered. That if I just believed hard enough, God would save her.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“No shit.” I finally look at her. Her green eyes are wet with tears she’s trying to hold back. “I watched her waste away for months. Praying every fucking day. Begging. Bargaining. And for what? She died anyway.”
Nuala’s hand cups my jaw. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know that. Rationally, I know that.” I close my eyes against her touch. “But knowing it and believing it are two different things.”
“Is that why you left the priesthood?”
“I left because I realized I’d been lying to people for years.
Telling them God had a plan. That everything happened for a reason.
That their suffering meant something.” I open my eyes and meet her gaze.
“It was all bullshit. There is no plan. There is just chaos and pain and people trying to survive it.”
“And you think saving me will somehow make up for not saving Chris?”
“I think keeping you alive is the only thing that makes sense right now.” I pull her hand from my face and hold it between both of mine. “Maybe it started that way. Maybe some part of me is trying to atone. But it’s more than that now.”
“What is it then?”
“You.” I bring her hand to my lips and kiss her knuckles.
“It’s you, Nuala. You matter because you’re you.
Not because you’re a replacement for someone I lost. You matter because when I look at you, I feel something other than guilt and rage.
You make me want to protect you, yes. But also, to know you.
To hear your thoughts. To make you smile. To hear you scream my name again.”
Her breath catches. “Logan—”
“I’m not good at this. I spent my adult life in celibacy and prayer. I don’t know how to navigate whatever this is between us. But I know I need you safe. I know I need you close. And I know I’m not letting you go. Ever.”
Fear of my possessive words flashes across her face. But I won’t take it back. I will never allow her to leave me. The sooner she accepts that the better.
“Your whole adult life?” she asks, chewing the inside of her lip.
I narrow my eyes at her. “Use your words, Nuala.”
“Were you… a virgin before earlier?”
I press my lips together, not wanting to scoff at her honest question. “No.”
The look of relief that passes over her face intrigues me. “Why do you look like that?”
“Like what?” Her cheeks flush and it’s fucking adorable.
“Like you’re glad you didn’t deflower me.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like a deflating tire, her gaze dropping to her bare toes. “Well, yeah. That’s a hell of a burden. What we did was raw, visceral. Not a first-time experience.”
I hook a finger under her chin, tilting her face up until she has no choice but to meet my stare.
“That’s quite sweet, but I can relieve you of that burden.
I lost my virginity before I entered the seminary.
This was the first time I’ve had sex in nearly a decade.
But you weren’t the fall. You were the landing. ”
Her breath hitches, her pupils dilating until they swallow the green iris. “That sounds poetic for a man who just smashed a bottle of Midleton Very Rare against a wall.”
“She knows her whiskey.”
“Work in a fancy bar.” She blinks and gulps. “Worked.”
I glance at the destruction. Amber liquid drips down the white wall, pooling around glittering shards. The room reeks of high-end whiskey and my own unchecked rage.
“I’ll buy another,” I say dismissively, dropping my hand. The urge to drag her back to the bed is a physical ache, but the floor is a minefield. “Don’t move an inch until I clean this up.”
“I can help—”
“You’re barefoot,” I point out, heading for the utility closet. “If you want to help, put your cheap-ass shoes on or sit down and do as you’re told.”
Her mouth drops open in rage at my insult about her shoes, but then she closes it with a sigh.
She knows. She was the one who brought it up.
I wouldn’t know expensive shoes from bargain basement by sight.
But I know she will never have to worry about that again.
Somewhere in the bags she hasn’t unpacked are shoes that she deserves.
She just hasn’t found them yet and I’m not giving her an excuse to potentially cut herself cleaning up the mess I made.
I grab the dustpan and brush, along with disinfectant spray and a cloth which will probably ruin the carpet, from the utility closet.
“Are you sure about your stuff?” I ask casually, kneeling to start the clean-up.
“Yes. I don’t need or want it. But I need toiletries, not the least of which is a toothbrush and tampons.”
“Done. Was that so hard?”
“Shut up and clean,” she grumbles and turns to the bags to sift through them absently. “You dick,” she adds after a beat.
I smile at the ruined carpet, guessing she found the shoes.
“These are… too much. I can’t accept them.”
“Shut up and accept them,” I mutter.
“Logan. I’m not some kept woman.”
“You’re fighting with me again. No one says you have to accept them in exchange for fucking me.
You’re accepting them because walking around naked, while appealing to me, isn’t practical.
” I dump the shards into the bin and get to work on the stain.
“And you aren’t leaving this apartment either naked or in the very uniform you were last spotted in. ”
She holds up the running shoes like they might bite her. “These probably cost more than my rent.”
“Then your rent is too low.” I spray the disinfectant on the carpet stain. The chemical sting fights the whiskey fumes. “Wear them or go back to your own. I don’t care. Just stop acting like I bought your soul with a few items.”
“You think money fixes everything.”
“I think money fixes being cold and in pain.” I stand, tossing the cloth into the sink and getting the vacuum out. Who knows if you can suck up wet bits of glass, but I’m not risking Nuala cutting herself because of my mistake.
I switch it on, cutting off the rest of her protests.
It’s an effective tool. I’ll have to remember it.
The glass crackles up the pipe with a satisfactory rattle, but I keep going for longer than necessary while Nuala fumes in silence.
She knows I’m right but her pride, her independence won’t let her easily admit it. She has to fight. Always.
It strikes me suddenly that maybe she fights because that’s all she’s ever known. Fight for everything she has, and even then, sometimes it’s not enough.
I turn the vacuum off and stride over to her. I snatch the running shoes from her and move to the kitchen to chuck them in the bin.
“Whoa, what are you doing?” she asks, rising quickly and hurrying over.
“You said you couldn’t accept them,” I say flatly, blocking the pedal bin with my leg. “So they’re rubbish.”
She tries to shove past me, her hands grabbing for the stainless steel lid. “I didn’t say I wanted them in the bin! Are you insane? Those are perfectly good shoes.”
“They’re too much, remember? You can’t be a kept woman.
” I catch her wrists before she can dig them out.
Her pulse beats erratic and fast under my thumbs.
“Make up your mind, Nuala. Do you want the shoes, or do you want your pride? Because right now, your pride is barefoot with shoes that hurt your feet as your only option.”
She glares up at me, chest heaving. The fight in her is relentless. It turns me on more than it should.
“I need shoes,” she grits out.
“Then take them.” I release her wrists and step back.
She hesitates, then flips the lid and retrieves the shoes.
She clutches them to her chest like she just rescued a puppy.
It’s a small victory, but I’ll take it. Breaking her pride is necessary if I’m going to keep her alive.
She needs to learn to take what I give her without questioning the price tag.
“You have serious issues, Logan.”
“I have resources. Use them.”
She doesn’t move immediately. I feel her eyes on my back, weighing me, assessing the threat level. “Toiletries. I’ll make a list and we will go and get them.”
“No.”
“Yes. I am done being treated like a piece of glass. I’ll wear a fucking hat and sunglasses to hide my hair and face.”
“This isn’t a movie, Nuala.”
“I know that. It’s my life. I get to decide what I do with it. If I get shot and killed while we are outside, then that’s on me. I absolve you of any guilt.”
“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” I hiss. “You don’t get to absolve me. You don’t get to wipe the slate clean with a few words while your blood pools on the sidewalk.”
I grip the edge of the counter on either side of her, trapping her. She clutches those shoes to her chest like a shield, but her chin stays up. Her defiance drives me mad.
“You die, I lose,” I say, my voice dropping to a register that vibrates in my chest. “And I am done losing. I am done watching people I care about end up in boxes because of circumstances I couldn’t control. This? I can control.”
She swallows. Her throat bobs. “I need fresh air.”
“Open a window.”
“Logan, please. I’ll go crazy in here.”
“Then go crazy. Scream. Break things. I don’t give a fuck.
At least you’ll be alive to do it.” I push off the counter, putting distance between us before I shake her.
The urge to physically restrain her, to tie her to the bed until the threat passes, beats a dark rhythm in my blood. “Write the list.”
“I told you—”
“Write the list,” I interrupt.
“I’m coming with you.”
“Dammit, Nuala!”
She shoves her feet into the shoes without socks and marches over to the door. She unlocks it before I can reach her and I slam my hand over her head to stop her from opening it. “I’m going with or without you.”
My palm vibrates against the door, inches above her head. She doesn’t flinch. She just glares up at me, eyes blazing with a stupidity that looks a hell of a lot like bravery.
“You have a death wish,” I growl.
“I have a life wish, Logan. Sitting in here waiting for the axe to fall isn’t living.”
I stare down at her. The stubborn set of her jaw tells me everything. If I drag her back to the bedroom, she’ll fight me every step. She’ll hate me. Worse, she’ll try to escape the second I turn my back. A cage only works if the bird doesn’t beat itself to death against the bars.
I drop my arm.
“Fine.”
She blinks, the fight draining out of her instantly. “Fine?”
“We go. But we do it my way.” I grab a baseball cap from the rack and jam it onto her head, pulling the brim low to shadow her face.
“And put some socks on,” I say, digging around in the hall closet for a long-sleeve tee I know is in here. “I’m not carrying you because you blistered your feet in those shoes. And a coat.”
She doesn’t argue. She scrambles to the bag on the couch while I get dressed, get my shoes on, gun at my back, jacket on, phone, money, keys.
I open the door and peer out at the empty corridor, my gut twisting. I’m making a mistake. But keeping her caged is breaking something inside her I need intact.
“Ready,” she says a moment later, breathless, her hair bundled up in the cap.
I shove a pair of dark sunglasses on her face and lock the door behind us. “Stay close. And Nuala?”
She looks up.
“Don’t make me regret this.”