39 - Welcome to the family
Cordelia
Logan unloaded his gun. He was a gentleman—so he told me, pulled out, instead of emptying his seed inside me.
Personally, I can’t see how being dragged into the woods in the dead of night and fucked against the conifers classifies as being gentlemanly.
But it was fucking hot either way. He made sure to satisfy me. Twice.
Apparently, I have a mask kink. Chloe had once said she dreamed of being kidnapped by a masked man, to which I seriously considered booking her in for therapy.
But I have to admit, there’s something rather thrilling about not being able to tell who’s fucking you.
Not being able to gauge his expression or his intent.
Although he made his intent pretty obvious.
Maybe it’s because you can’t ever be sure who’s beneath the veil.
There’s this power, this villainous alter ego that twists reality, obscures what we believe, and clouds our perception.
Of course, there was no doubt who was beneath the helmet tonight.
Logan literally steered me through the woods like a prisoner about to make a break for it.
But I wonder if I hadn’t seen his face, would it have been more of a turn-on?
If there was that smidgen of possibility it wasn’t him?
Brain—stop thinking about him!
My skin prickles against the leather. With the vibrations coursing through me, relighting every nerve in my core.
I suck in a breath, thankful when we arrive at the end of Clarke’s long-ass drive.
Logan steps down as soon as he’s parked up, extending a hand to help me dismount.
The wet patch against the leather is glaringly obvious under the artificial lights.
He snickers at my wide eyes, interlocking his fingers with my own. “Ready?”
“Hardly,” I grumble back.
The helmet made my hair a hot mess, and without a hairbrush to hand, I can’t fix it.
My skin is probably coated in a thick sheen of sweat and in dire need of an application of powder.
And, oh yes, of course; the insides of my thighs are sticky, a thorough reminder of the last thirty minutes my fiancé spent fingering my pussy until I gushed like bloody Niagara.
“Stop worrying. You’re stunning.” But even he can’t suppress the grin curling the corners of his lips.
I exhale. “I just hope I don’t smell like a brothel.”
“And why would you smell like a brothel?”
In a move that would be totally comical on any day but today, our heads snap up in unison, startled gazes landing on the man leaning casually against the open door frame, cigarette smoke swirling around him like a shadowy aura.
Clarke’s attire for the evening screams expensive.
From the freshly pressed trousers to the tailored blazer that fights to stretch across his broad shoulders.
My guess is he had that customised when he was younger and has bulked up since.
Logan shakes his head, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me to the door. Clarke raises an arched eyebrow, and those onyx pupils slide from me to Logan and back again.
“What have you two been up to?” He cocks his head to one side, rubbing his chin with the hand that isn’t attached to the death stick.
“None of your business, mate,” Logan sucks his cheeks in, accentuating his cheekbones.
Clarke’s smile widens. He pauses to lean in closer, plucking a piece of bark from Logan’s jacket. I want the floor to open and swallow me.
“Uh-hm,” Clarke murmurs suspiciously, shooting glances at us. The cigarette falls to the floor, where he stomps it out beneath his heel.
“Enough of your shit,” Logan snaps, tugging me through the archway. “We’re using your bathroom.”
“Sure,” Clarke throws over his shoulder. “I suggest you douse yourself in my cologne, too. Hueles mal.”
Logan mutters something under his breath, storming through the house with me in tow.
He heads straight for the stairs and doesn’t stop until we reach his friends’ en-suite.
Once inside, he breathes a sigh of relief.
A high-pitched giggle catches in my throat.
I’m not laughing at him; it’s a sure-fire sign my nerves are shot now this dinner is looming.
He spins around with a residual scowl on his face.
And for a second, I think he’s going to jump me again.
But then the wrinkles between his brows soften, the storm in his eyes blows over, and that easy smile returns to his slightly puffy lips.
His arms encircle my neck, and he inclines his head to press a chaste kiss to my forehead.
“Why are you even friends with him?” My voice is quiet as I gaze into those bright blue eyes. “He’s an arsehole.”
“That he is,” Logan laughs, dimples showing. “But he’s also the most loyal friend I’ve ever had. And the reason I’m standing with you right now.”
His shoulders lift in a shrug of resignation. There’s no getting rid of him anytime soon, then. If Logan says he’s a good friend, then I guess I can learn to tolerate his company.
We wash up as best as we can, and Logan sprays himself with cologne. Is my fiancé smelling like the ass downstairs better than him smelling like sex? The jury’s out on that one. Either way, we go downstairs, hoping no one notices.
“Ragazzo!”
Logan visibly tenses upon hearing the deep rumble. He whirls around in the hallway, slapping a fake smile on his face.
“Uncle,” he replies cheerily, but the coiled tension in his shoulders indicates he’s anything but joyful.
His uncle is a giant. Not so much in height, but in build.
Thick-set muscles bulge beneath the pale silk shirt lining a broad chest, constricting and ready to burst at the seams. With the sleeves rolled up, every line, every sinewy muscle protrudes under the olive skin spanning his forearms, flaunting undeniable strength and a wealth of power.
Strapped around his wrist is a flashy Rolex watch; the circular face, oversized yet still appearing inferior on his arm.
He wears jet-black trousers that are a touch too long, allowing only the tip of his shiny dress shoes to peek under the linen edge.
A prod to the ribs has me wincing, dragging my eyes away from the beef and brawn to see Logan’s gaze focused on me. Did I miss something?
“Cordelia,” he says slowly, pupils dilating a little in the dimly lit hallway. “Scar was just introducing you to his partner, Delilah.”
I blink quickly, and when I whip my head right, two people stand before me. And I was clearly too transfixed to realise.
Delilah is a slender woman decked out in a crimson-coloured dress, figure-hugging and reaching just below the knees. She looks tall, but it’s difficult to tell with the stilts she’s strutting around on. A quick glance across to Logan’s uncle confirms she’s much younger than him.
“It’s lovely to meet you, Cordelia,” she coos. As she extends her elegant fingers in greeting, the oodles of gold bracelets adorning her wrist clink together to create a soft, melodic jingle. She pulls it back before I can reciprocate. “Oh, I must get back to dinner.”
I jump, a little startled by the sudden change, but watch as she hurries back down the hall, heels clicking, chestnut hair swinging. Not the most appropriate attire to be cooking a roast in.
An amused laugh fills the narrow space, which doesn’t belong to Logan.
“I told her we’d get food in, but she insisted on cooking,” Scar tells us, rolling his inky eyes towards the ceiling.
“Anyway, where were we? Welcome to my home, Cordelia. You’ve been here before, si?
” his eyes dart sideways to Logan. “But not for a formal occasion. I can assure you my house is not usually left in such a state of ruin.”
At this point, the man opens his arms wide, flashing a dark grin on his thin lips.
I stand there, confused, until a nudge in the spine urges me to step into the open space.
Scar’s embrace is, as expected, intense; like everything else about him.
And he keeps me there for way longer than necessary.
When he eventually lets me go, it feels as if all the air has been squeezed from my lungs.
I nod, taking a step back. Logan catches me, his strong grip a soothing balm to my racing pulse.
“Go on through to the dining room. Everyone is here. We’ll be through shortly.”
With that, he disappears down the hall in the same direction as Delilah.
“Well done. You survived.”
Logan’s smirk gets him a swat directed at his head.
Laughing, he grabs my hand and tugs me further down the hallway.
There’s so many doors leading off to separate rooms. How does he remember where everything is?
I came here for the party, but I was heavily under the influence of alcohol, and the memory is a bit of a blur. Well, except for the sex.
As we approach the end of the hallway, voices emerge, growing louder the closer we get to the door. A cacophony of shrieks and laughter, and I’m almost positive I can hear–
“Papa!” I exclaim, as our eyes meet across the table.
“Bonjour, Buttercup,” he says, a charming smile lighting up his face.
My cheeks redden at the endearment, aware of the room full of people.
And it really is full. The dining table stretches the full length of the room.
Laid out with meticulous order, from the fine silver cutlery to the sparkling wine glasses.
The centrepiece, a fishbowl full of fresh flowers and fairy lights, is the icing on the cake and sets the lavish tone.
Logan leads me to the vacant chairs, and I sit down next to Papa. He leans over and we meet in the middle for a much-needed hug.
“How’s my, princesse?” he asks gently, keeping the words private between the two of us.
Eyes cast down, I stare at my hands resting on my tummy. “I’m okay, papa. It’s been…difficult.”
A calloused hand slips under my chin, lifting my head so he can see my face. “I’m so sorry I haven’t been there for you, ma belle petite fille. But I have been keeping watch from afar.”
His eyes shift to the man in question, who grins back, intertwining his fingers with mine under the table. Papa’s been in contact with Logan?
“Every day,” Logan confirms, giving my hand a little squeeze before returning to his debate with Clarke and Ezio. Something to do with whether a hot dog qualifies as a sandwich. Idiots.
My eyes shut to avoid becoming a blubbering mess, but a whimper manages to escape the confines of my throat.
I swallow it down, just as Scar and Delilah make their entrance, with a petite brunette trailing behind them.
Clarke’s dark eyes bug out of his skull when he catches sight of her.
Logan elbows him in the stomach, warning him to stop staring at her like she’s a piece of meat.
The young girl is introduced as Taliya, Delilah’s delightful daughter from her previous marriage. Still sweet and innocent at sixteen, though I doubt that will last long. She’ll have the boys swarming her soon, and that’s if the bloodhound across the table doesn’t get to her first.
There’s fourteen of us at the table altogether.
Logan’s father, Matthew, has his arm around his new partner’s waist. Scarlet sits beside Ezio, sipping rose from her wine glass.
The couple opposite us is Ezio’s brother, Leone, who bears a striking resemblance to his older brother.
To his right; his partner, Everly. She seems nice.
Leone and Ezio’s father, Vincenzo, on his left, and Marco, the burly bodyguard, sits at the head of the table opposite Scar, with Delilah and Taliya close by.
Phew. How on earth am I going to remember all these names? Just try to survive the evening, I keep telling myself.