Chapter 23 Logan
LOGAN
The front door slams with enough force to rattle the picture frames in the hallway, and I can hear Savannah's heels clicking against the hardwood with sharp, agitated steps.
Her scent reaches me before she appears in the living room doorway - vanilla bourbon tinged with exhaustion and frustration, carrying an edge that makes my alpha instincts prickle with concern.
I'm sitting on the leather couch in our living room, case files spread across the coffee table, the late afternoon sun streaming through the tall windows and casting long shadows across the hardwood floors.
The house feels too quiet without Griff's heavy footsteps or Xavier's classical music drifting from upstairs.
"Where's everyone?" Savannah asks as she steps into view, dropping her purse by the door.
Her usually perfect hair is slightly mussed, and she kicks off her black heels like they've personally offended her, leaving them scattered on the Persian rug.
"Xavier's at the hospital pulling a double shift," I say, setting down the brief I'd been reviewing to give her my full attention. "And Griff's upstairs sleeping off whatever crawled up his ass today."
"He's not the only one." She runs both hands through her hair, messing it up further, then moves to the windows overlooking our back yard.
We won’t be interrupted with wedding planning, it’ll be just her and I with eight years of unfinished business stretching between us.
"Want to tell me about it?" I ask, shifting the files to one side and patting the couch cushion beside me.
She considers the offer, those brown eyes studying my face like she's trying to determine whether I'm asking out of genuine concern or just making conversation. Whatever she sees there must satisfy her, because she moves away from the window, crossing the room with deliberate steps.
Her curves move beautifully beneath the soft blue dress that hugs her full figure. She's always been gorgeous - lush and soft in all the right places, the kind of woman who makes a man want to worship every inch of her body.
"Emma's been calling every hour with wedding emergencies that aren't emergencies," Savannah says, settling onto the opposite end of the couch with a heavy sigh. She tucks her legs under her, the movement causing her dress to ride up slightly, revealing the smooth expanse of her thighs.
I watch her massage her temples with her fingertips, a gesture I remember from our college days when she'd get overwhelmed with coursework. "What else?"
"The florist double-booked the church and acted like it was our fault when we pointed it out. And Dax..." She trails off, shaking her head as she reaches for one of the throw pillows and hugs it against her chest.
"What about him?"
"Dax decided today was the perfect time to have second thoughts about the whole wedding.
" Her voice takes on a bitter edge as she continues.
"Called Emma in tears saying maybe they're rushing things, and should postpone until next year.
Because of this crazy guest list and he's worried about finances. We all are. Apart from Emma."
The protective anger that flares in my chest surprises me with its intensity. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, close enough to catch the way her scent shifts with her emotional state. "What else?"
"What makes you think there's more?"
"Because I know you." I shift closer on the couch, close enough that my knee almost brushes hers. "You don't get this wound up over other people's drama unless there's something personal eating at you too."
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers worrying the fringe on the throw pillow in a nervous gesture that takes me back to nights when we'd sit on this same couch, talking through whatever was bothering her.
"Logan," she says softly, and I can see her pulse jumping in her throat. "I need to ask you something."
"Anything."
"The bite mark on my neck." Her hand moves unconsciously to the spot where my teeth left their permanent mark three days ago. "You claimed me..."
My stomach drops. The guilt I've been carrying since that night crashes over me like a tidal wave. "Savannah..."
"I'm not angry," she says quickly. "I wanted it. God, I wanted it so much. But I need to know why you didn't talk to Griff and Xavier first."
"Because I was terrified they'd say no. Because I was selfish and desperate and couldn't bear the thought of waiting another second to make you mine."
Her eyes soften. "Logan..."
"I'm sorry." The words tear out of my chest. "I should have talked to them, and made sure we were all on the same page before I marked you permanently. I fucked up, and I've been hating myself for it ever since."
"Do you regret it?"
"Never." The answer comes immediately, fierce and certain. "I regret how I did it, but I'll never regret claiming you. You're mine, Savannah. You've always been mine."
She sets the pillow aside and moves closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from her soft body. "Do you remember how we used to deal with stress?"
My mouth goes dry. "Savannah..."
"We'd put on music and dance until everything else faded away." Her voice is barely above a whisper, but it hits me like a physical blow. "Do you remember?"
Friday nights we'd lose ourselves in movement and music until the world outside ceased to exist. Some of my best memories from our relationship involve her in my arms, both of us moving to songs that became the soundtrack to our love story.
"I remember," I say carefully, hyperaware of how close she's sitting, how her vanilla bourbon scent is making my head spin.
"I haven't danced since we broke up." The admission is barely audible, but it hits me like a sledgehammer to the chest. "I tried a few times. Went to clubs with friends in Denver, let guys buy me drinks and ask me to dance."
The image of her dancing with other men sends possessive jealousy clawing through my chest. My hands clench into fists at my sides as I fight the urge to pull her against me.
"But it never felt right," she continues, scooting even closer until we're almost touching. "It always felt like I was betraying something sacred."
"I missed it." She looks directly at me now, her brown eyes shifting from green to gold in the afternoon light. "I missed you."
"Keep saying it," I tell her, covering her hand with mine.
I jump up, and then take her hand in mine, so she stands up next to me.
Eight years of hurt and anger and carefully constructed distance warring with the pull that's always existed between us, the magnetic force that used to make resisting each other impossible.
"How did you really feel?" She reaches out tentatively, her fingertips just brushing the front of my shirt.
"Like my world was ending. Like I was losing the most important thing in my life and I was too proud and too scared to admit it." I press her palm flat against my chest. "I've spent eight years regretting the things I didn't say, the chances I didn't take."
Her breath catches, and I can see the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. "Logan..."
"I don't want to make the same mistake twice. I want to make it up to you. All of it. Starting right now."
I release her hand and take a step back, extending my arm toward her with my heart hammering against my ribs. "Dance with me."
She stares at my outstretched hand for a long moment, and I can practically see the internal war playing out across her features. Logic versus longing. Self-preservation versus the need to reclaim something we lost.
Finally, she places her hand in mine, letting me pull her closer. "We don't have any music."
"We can fix that." I move to the sound system, scrolling through the playlist on my phone until I find what I'm looking for. The opening guitar riff of "Slow Hands" by Niall Horan fills the room, and I see Savannah's expression soften with recognition.
"You still have our playlist," she says as if she’s surprised that I hadn’t cut out any memory of us. I’d done her so badly. Made her feel as if the time we spent together meant nothing to us.
"I never deleted it." I return to her, close enough to see the way the music makes her body unconsciously sway. "I used to listen to it and remember what it felt like to hold you."
She steps into my arms like no time has passed at all, her soft curves fitting against my harder planes with the same perfect alignment I remember.
One hand rests on my shoulder while the other settles in my palm, and I can feel the slight tremor in her fingers that tells me she's as affected by this as I am.
We start slow, just swaying together as the contemporary beat wraps around us. Savannah's vanilla bourbon scent grows richer, warmer, mixing with my own cedar and rain until the combination is intoxicating.
I can feel every soft curve pressed against me - the fullness of her breasts, the gentle swell of her hips, the way her body moves with fluid grace that makes my blood heat.
"This feels..." she starts, then trails off as I guide her into a simple two-step.
"Right." She looks up at me, and the vulnerability in her expression makes my chest tight. "I forgot how perfectly we fit together."
"I never forgot." The admission slips out before I can stop it, raw and honest. "I've compared every woman I've dated to you. None of them ever measured up."
Her voice is breathless, and she's moving closer, close enough that I can feel her breath against my neck when she speaks. "I know it's not fair. I know we can't just pick up where we left off like nothing happened."
I dip her low, supporting her weight easily, marveling at how perfectly she trusts me to hold her. When I pull her back up, she's flushed and slightly breathless.
The song transitions to something slower, more sensual, and our movements adjust accordingly. She's pressed fully against me now, and I can feel every soft curve, every place where we connect sending electricity through my nervous system.
Her hand slides up my chest to cup the back of my neck, fingers playing with the hair there in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
"Logan," she says softly, looking up at me with an expression that makes my breath catch.
"Yeah?"
"I don't care if they walk in."
The words hit me like lightning. "Savannah..."
"I don't care if Griff or Xavier come downstairs and see us like this." Her voice is breathless but determined. "I don't care if they want to join us. This is my choice. My decision."
The power in her voice, the way she's taking control of this moment, sends heat straight through my bloodstream.
"You're in charge," I tell her, my voice rough with need. "Whatever you want, however you want it."
Instead of answering with words, she rises up on her toes and kisses me.
It's soft and tentative at first, just a brush of lips that could be explained away as friendly affection. But then she presses closer, her hand fisting in my shirt, and the kiss deepens into something hungry and desperate and eight years overdue.
She tastes like coffee and something uniquely her that I've never been able to forget. Her vanilla bourbon scent wraps around me like a drug, making my head spin and my control slip dangerously.
I pull her closer, one hand tangling in her hair while the other spans the curve of her lower back, feeling the soft warmth of her body through the thin fabric of her dress.
When my tongue sweeps into her mouth, she makes a sound that's half moan, half surrender, and it destroys whatever control I was trying to maintain.
She's soft and warm and perfect in my arms, all generous curves and heated skin, and I want to worship every inch of her.
When we finally break apart, both of us breathing hard, I don't go far. Can't go far. My forehead rests against hers, our breath mixing in the small space between us.
"That was..." she starts, her lips still close enough to brush against mine when she speaks.
"Inevitable." She laughs shakily, her fingers still twisted in my shirt. "I've been wanting to do that since the moment I got off the bus."
"Since I left, and realized what I was giving up, but I was too fucking proud to admit it."
I close my eyes against the intensity of emotion threatening to overwhelm me. "Savannah..."
"I know it's complicated. I know there are things we need to talk about." She cups my face in her hands, forcing me to look at her. "But right now, at this moment, I just want to be here with you."
My hands map the curves of her waist, the softness of her hips, the way her body responds to my touch. She's beautiful, every inch of her, and I want to show her exactly how perfect she is.
"You're so beautiful," I murmur against her lips. "So fucking perfect."
She melts against me, and I can feel the exact moment her control snaps. Her hands are everywhere - tangling in my hair, gripping my shoulders, pulling me closer like she can't get enough.
The music continues to play around us, but all I can focus on is the woman in my arms, the way she's kissing me like her life depends on it, the soft sounds she makes when I trail my lips down her neck to the bite mark that claims her as mine.
I kiss her again, slower this time, savoring the taste and feel of her after eight years of dreams and regrets. The music continues to play around us, and we start moving again, lost in each other and the rhythm and the possibility of second chances.
Outside, the world continues spinning, full of wedding planning stress and family drama and all the complications that come with trying to rebuild something that was broken.
But in this moment, in this room, with Savannah in my arms and our playlist filling the silence between us, everything feels possible again.