19 - Insolent Prick
Cordelia
The car ride back to Logan’s house is quiet, muffled by the steady hum of the engine. Both of us drowning beneath a barrage of thoughts and emotions we can’t comprehend. We couldn’t risk returning to mine in case mama was home, but Logan assured me that his house would be empty tonight.
I won’t lie. Spending the night at some mafia kids house, alone, frightens me. No responsible adults. After what happened the last time we were alone together, there’s no feasible way we classify as responsible anymore.
It’s a terrible idea.
But what choice do I have?
Logan keeps his eyes on the road, and I keep mine on anything but him.
It’s like an unspoken mutual agreement. He stayed true to his word and refused to let me drive.
On a normal day, that would piss me off, but my eyes feel heavy from the night’s exploitation.
Also, thanks to the prick with a chip on his shoulder, I now need to visit the bathroom every goddamn hour.
As if the whole pregnancy thing isn’t messing with my body enough.
My gaze drops to the pale cotton wrap, tainted crimson where fresh blood has seeped through the bandage. Any movement stretches the sensitive skin surrounding the wound, threatening to tear the laceration further. An involuntary hiss escapes my lips, and Logan’s attention turns on me.
“Sorry.” Those blue-grey eyes flit back to the traffic.
“For which bit?” I demand, voice thick with bitter resentment. “Allowing your friend to spill my blood on his sheets—TWICE. Or enrolling me in the fucking mafia?”
“That wasn’t part of the plan.” His jaws tightens, hands gripping the steering wheel with such tenacity he may just snap the whole thing off.
Beyond the window, neon signs flicker through the darkness, buried amongst the shaded shutters of shops and cafes.
Silhouettes of buildings and generic skyscrapers shine against the murky skyline.
It’s a vast contrast from Nice. Where the promenade comes alive with music at night and so many colourful lights and performers line the streets.
Locals and tourists alike head out in search of quaint, family-run restaurants for a taste of true Mediterranean authenticity.
Those who seek more of a thrill can head to the bars and nightclubs.
From chic laid back cocktail bars to buzzing venues open until the early hours to dance the night away.
The dank streets of London are desolate; barren and lacking any heart nor soul. Rain smatters against the windscreen, a harsh and depressing reminder of what I had to leave behind me. Regardless of my questionable companionship, I take comfort from the warmth and security of the car.
With a huff, I fold my arms around my waist and sneer. “Don’t get blood on my seats.”
Logan’s house is oversized. Unsurprisingly.
With only the two of them occupying the space, I imagine it can get lonely.
It’s older in style to Clarke’s modern mansion and one thing is clear.
The love and attention this house was once shown is gone.
The front lawn brushes my ankles and along the perimeter of the brick building, where flowers grew in abundance, nothing remains but barren strips of dirt.
Logan and his dad gave up looking after this house long ago.
Once inside, it’s clear by looking around that it’s a male-dominated household.
I’ve never seen Logan’s mum, and he doesn’t tend to speak about her much either.
The furniture is functional but lacks the sense of style and elegance a female touch would bring.
There’s a weight bench in the living room, in prime position in front of the TV.
Logan works out; daily, judging by the muscles bulging beneath his black t-shirt, as he strides across the lounge.
A couple of games consoles sit at the base of a glass table, complete with scrambled cables that rival spaghetti junction.
There are no heels by the front door, or handbags draped over the back of the sofa. No throws or pillows, or scented candles. Everything has a purpose.
I trail behind him through to the kitchen, another minimalistic space decked out with black and white tiles.
There’s a huge air fryer plugged in at the wall, and some mismatched plates stacked next to it.
A large tub of protein powder sits on the counter beside two china mugs.
One reads ‘The Boss’ and the other, ‘The Real Boss.’ And I can’t help but wonder who’s who.
“Want a drink?” Logan strides past me, heading straight for the fridge. He swings the door open, spilling light onto the floor at his feet. Staring at the contents, that’s when I realise what an obsessive control freak the man is.
One half of the fridge holds cans of beer, and a couple of half-eaten take-away boxes.
The second half is just as full but packed with individual containers.
Except these ones have been arranged in a neat vertical line and clearly labelled with the name and date.
That’s some fanatical preparation right there.
And to think last night I was scoffing down leftover pizza.
The vast differences between Logan’s and his father’s nutrition are fascinating.
“I don’t need to encourage any more toilet breaks, merci beaucoup,” I’m still stewing as I replay the evening repeatedly in my head. Like one of those embarrassing TikTok memes.
Logan pulls a beer from the fridge, scratching the back of his head sheepishly. “Err, yeah. About that...”
I try to act indifferent, shrugging my shoulders.
“What can I get you to eat? I’ve got spaghetti bolognese, chickpea curry, chilli con carne.” His eyes narrow disapprovingly when he sees the wrinkles form on the bridge of my nose. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you’re not eating much, Cordelia.”
I let out an exasperated groan, scrunching up my face. “You try eating when you’re sick at least four times a day.”
“Four times?” His eyes grow wide in disbelief. Maybe I shouldn’t have divulged that information to Captain Control over here. “Have you been to the doctor?”
“No.” I dip my chin. “I’m fine.”
Logan snorts and flings the fridge door shut with a bang. “That doesn’t say you’re fine to me, sweetheart. We’re going to the doctors tomorrow. First thing.”
“Excuse-moi? You don’t get to order me around because you’ve suddenly decided to play the doting boyfriend.” I prop my hands on my hips.
He quirks a brow at me, blue eyes vivid against the sea of monochrome. “I’m not playing, Cordelia. You’re being sick several times a day and acting like that’s normal.”
I scoff. Lifting my chin. Forcing a smile. “Maybe I like the attention.”
Anything to shift the fractious mood in the room.
Logan doesn’t laugh, though he does take a single step closer. And suddenly dwarfed by his height, my new-found confidence flutters away.
“You’re not funny. I’m trying to help.”
“Then maybe ask me rather than bossing me around like a child.” My cheeks burn with heat, fingers twitching with the urge to create friction.
He levels me with a look, tilting his head a fraction. “First. Fucking. Thing,” he repeats, with a tone that clearly says, ‘don’t fucking argue with me.’ “I don’t care if you scream. I don’t care if you hate me. You’re going.”
“You’re such an insolent prick!” I’m snarling, practically spitting at him with pent-up rage. Throwing my arms down by my sides, the fingernails bite into my fleshy palms. The sting grounds me to reality.
Logan steps in closer still. Heat radiates off him in waves, scorching the very air between us. I crane my neck to continue glaring at him.
“And you’re fucking hot when you’re angry.”
In one fell swoop he pins me between his arms. Long fingers grip the counter edge, drawing out the defining muscle spanning his thick forearms. The sight alone has my legs locking together, even before his tantalising scent mingles with the air.
Weaving its way around me until all rational thoughts are long forgotten.
My back hits the frosty edge of the marble. I press my palms flat against his iron chest to create some much-needed distance. That way he looks down at me, eyes brewing a storm, lips parted ever so slightly.
Like he wants to devour me whole. I can’t let that happen. He’s a murderer that takes pleasure in torturing people for fun. A man forged from blood and sin. I bet his list of crimes is a mile long. And that’s why I must shield us from the darkness. Or risk being dragged under his cloak.
My breath turns erratic. No matter how hard I fight to resist, my body responds to him in ways beyond my control.
First, my pulse quickens—heartbeat thudding against my ribs like a canary trapped in a cage.
The rhythm is so consuming it echoes through the rest of my body. My wrists. My neck. My head.
Next is a blaze of heat— searing its way through my veins, igniting an unstoppable fire in its wake.
My hands go clammy, cheeks flushed, and my brow sweats with unbridled fever.
Beneath me, my legs begin to quake, trembling with encompassing want and need.
And my knees betray me, weakening under the weight of his desire.
I am completely and utterly fucked.
Like a puppet tangled in its master’s strings, I lean into him. My back remains rigid, but my brain still fights for the last scraps of hopeless control. This is how we ended up in this mess in the first place!
When he swoops in to plant his lips against mine, I whip my head to the side so all he gets is the burning skin of my left cheek. Which clearly pisses him off. His fingers seize my chin, wrestling my attention back to the centre.
Piercing eyes shackle us together, invisible chains coiling tighter with every breath.
Fingers so deceptively gentle sweep a rogue strand of hair behind my ear, and I shudder under the touch.
Logan inclines his body towards me, biting his lower lip, fingers lingering against the jarring pulse at my neck.
“Now. Turn around and bend over. Arse in the air. Grip the counter.”