8. Logan
LOGAN
C aleb leans back in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he takes a swig from his beer. “Alright, everyone listen up! We have a new recruit in the house and I think it’s high time we toast to Sloane!”
He sets down his drink as he gets to his feet, gesturing dramatically with his arms. “As our traditional welcoming gift, I propose everyone takes a drink. Let’s tone it down before the sun gets to us again!” He grins, laughter bubbling up from the others.
Eli looks up from where he's seated, offering a small smile but not quite making eye contact. “A toast sounds good,” he murmurs, his voice calm and steady, as always.
Ryker leans against the wall, arms crossed, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Just make sure it’s something worth drinking to, Caleb. Can’t afford to have her think we’re all a bunch of amateurs.”
“Hey, I’ll have you know I’m a professional amateur!” Caleb fires back with a laugh. “Just watch and learn.”
Sloane chuckles, rolling her eyes playfully. “Just promise you won’t make me sing. I’d prefer to remain incognito tonight!"
“Deal!” Caleb responds, genuinely pleased with the exchange. “But no promises on my ‘award-winning’ performance by the end of the night.”
Asa, who had been quietly observing, finally chimes in, a faint smirk on his lips behind his glasses. “Karaoke? Count me out. I would rather not contribute to the night’s potential trauma.”
Caleb laughs, giving Asa a mock salute. “You’re no fun, Asa! But if anyone can save the karaoke night, it’ll be me—just you wait!”
Knox, who has been mostly silent, merely nods in agreement with Eli, the faintest hint of amusement in his stoic demeanor.
Caleb pours shots for everyone, and the atmosphere fills with a mix of warmth and excitement. “Here’s to fresh starts!” he declares, holding his glass high. “And to Sloane, may you never find yourself on the wrong end of a goat chase or caught up with anyone crazier than us!”
As laughter and camaraderie envelop the room, I lean against the chair, watching them, a half-empty glass in my hand.
The alcohol burns as it slides down my throat, a welcome distraction from the memories lurking just beneath the surface.
My gaze keeps drifting to Sloane, despite my best efforts to focus elsewhere. Her laughter, her presence, it all pulls me in a way I’m not ready to admit.
“Come on, Boss! Join us!” Caleb calls out, his blond hair catching the light.
He’s got that signature cocky grin, the one that always lightens the atmosphere. “We’re celebrating not freezing to death on our first night with the new recruit!”
I shake my head, the warmth of their shared joy contrasting sharply with the chill that lingers in my bones. “I’m not much for celebrating.”
“Liar,” he shoots back. “You’d miss the chance to toast to Sloane Carter?”
Sloane chuckles softly, taking a sip of her drink while meeting my gaze. It’s an invitation, a challenge; I can feel the weight of her presence, an intensity that stirs memories, half-forgotten and raw.
After one more drink and playful teasing, the room starts to blur, the laughter turning into a warm haze mingling with the whiskey.
I know I should stay, but the energy inside feels overwhelming, suffocating under the weight of the past. I need to breathe.
I push off the chair and head toward the door.
“Where you going, tough guy?” Caleb calls after me, his concern hidden behind a teasing tone. But I don’t look back.
"Just getting some air."
I step outside, the chill of night air hitting my skin, grounding me.
The woods around Iron Hollow whisper secrets; shadows shift in the moonlight.
I can almost hear the echoes of the past—the mission that went wrong, the faces I couldn’t save. I rub my knuckles absentmindedly, feeling the rawness of my skin, reminding me of my last training session.
A soft footfall behind me makes me turn. It’s Sloane, her silhouette framed by the dim light from inside. She steps closer, her hazel eyes flicking to my face.
For a moment, I’m taken aback by the way the light catches in her hair, giving it an almost ethereal glow.
“You didn’t have to run away, you know. They were just having fun.”
I shrug, trying to sound indifferent. “They don’t need me there.”
“Sure they do.” She steps beside me, watching the darkness of the woods. “You act like you’re a ghost among them, but they’re glad you’re here. Even if you can’t see it.”
I keep my gaze fixed on the treeline, avoiding her penetrating stare. “I’m better off out here.”
“Is that how you really feel?” she shifts nearer, her shoulder brushing against mine, her voice low, just above a whisper. “Or is that what you tell yourself?”
I can’t answer her.
The weight of the silence stretches between us like a taut wire, pulsing with untold truths.
The warmth from her shoulder sparks something primal inside me, jolting awake parts of myself I'd buried years ago.
The familiar scent of her—pine needles and gunpowder—threatens to crack my carefully constructed walls.
Every instinct screams to pull away, to maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
I force myself to remain focused on the mission.
"You know the deal," I step away from her contact, keeping my voice even and low. "You stay, you talk."
She exhales, running her fingers through her hair, a flicker of vulnerability breaking through her composed expression.
"Okay. You want the truth? Which part? The one that'll piss you off or the one that'll make you hate me?"
“Start somewhere,” I say carefully, feeling that familiar pulse of anxiety ripple beneath my skin.
"I'm a journalist," she admits, and it sounds like a confession. “Or I was, before everything collapsed.”
That hits me harder than expected—her ambition, her drive to dig deeper, a reflection of my own past decisions. “What happened?”
“I dug too deep into a story,” she explains. “Connected to the wrong people. What started as a lead turned into a leak. Then a target on my back.”
My muscles tense.
I sense the danger woven through her words, the threat she carries, but she stops short of naming names, leaving me with just the outline of her trauma.
“You’re not telling me everything,” I point out, my voice a low rumble.
I step closer, my breath ghosting across her face. Her pulse jumps at her throat. A tiny tell, but I catch it. Her eyes darken, pupils dilating as she tilts her chin up in defiance. The scent of her—coffee and rain and something uniquely her —hits me like a physical force.
My own heart betrays me, hammering against my ribs. I lock my muscles to stop from swaying closer, from closing that final dangerous inch between us.
Distance. Control. Focus.
But the electricity crackling in that narrow space makes focusing damn near impossible.
I grip her arms as she tries to shove me back, the heat of her skin burning through the fabric between us.
This started as a warning, a show of force.
Now her nearness clouds my judgment, makes me forget why I need to keep my distance.
Her warmth seeps into my hands, and I can't make myself let go.
I close the distance, pressing my lips to hers.
It's not gentle; it's hungry and demanding.
Her lips are soft, yielding, and she tastes like a mixture of fire and desperation. I deepen the kiss, my tongue sliding against hers, exploring every contour.
She gasps, her hands reaching up to grip my shoulders, nails digging in as she matches my intensity.
Her body presses against mine, every curve fitting perfectly against my hard edges.
I release her arms, my hands moving to her waist, then up her back, pulling her even closer. Her fingers tangle in my hair, pulling gently, and a low groan escapes me.
I can feel her heart pounding against my chest, echoing the rhythm of my own. Her tongue meets mine, bold and demanding, and I lose myself in the sensation.
Her hands move to cup my face, her thumbs brushing lightly against my jaw.
The touch is surprisingly tender, a contrast to the ferocity of our kiss. I lean into her touch, letting the warmth of her hands soothe the raw edge of my need.
We break apart, our breaths ragged and uneven.
Her lips are swollen, and her eyes are filled with a mixture of shock and longing. I can see the war raging in her gaze, the struggle between desire and caution.
"We shouldn't," she whispers, but her voice is filled with uncertainty.
I realize that this kiss has changed something between us.
I watch her pull back, her lips still parted, cheeks flushed with heat.
Her hair falls wild around her face, tangled from where my fingers threaded through it moments ago.
But it's her eyes that catch me—bright, almost feverish, pupils blown wide with something between desire and defiance.
Dangerous. All of it.
She straightens her spine, jaw tightening as she wrestles control back into place.
"About our deal," she says, voice rougher than usual. "The truth for protection, right?"
I nod once, not trusting my own voice yet.
"Before my contact died, he said something. One word." She pauses, studying my face with that razor-sharp focus. "Blackout."
The air thickens between us. I’m surprised but keep my expression neutral, almost too well-practiced. Yet, Sloane notices the shift; her eyes narrow slightly as she watches me.
“You know it,” she accuses, voice sharp. “You know exactly what that means.”
Damn it. That single word sends a jolt through me, a flood of memories crashing against my carefully constructed walls. Thoughts spiral, wrestling with each other.
How could she know that? What’s she truly after?
I can feel that familiar tension coiling in my gut, the dread of being linked to that mission—the one that haunts my nights.
This could lead to disaster.