9. Sloane
SLOANE
" Y ou know it." My voice sharpens, a blade forged in urgency. "You know exactly what that means."
I watch Logan stiffen, his body language shifting imperceptibly. He stands, a solid wall of muscle and resolve that makes it hard to remember he's human beneath that armor. A man who just moments ago kissed me with a fire that still burns my lips.
It's almost surreal, the way he can switch from the warmth of that intimate moment to the cold, distant soldier standing before me.
"We're done," he replies, his voice low and gravelly, as though the words taste bitter.
"The hell we are." I'm on my feet before he even gets a chance to walk away. I can’t let him escape into the silence that cloaks him like a shroud. Not after what he has done to me.
"I saw you flinch when I said it," I press, my heart racing. The pulse of truth hangs heavy between us, and I can’t ignore the flicker of acknowledgment in his storm-gray eyes. "So what is it, Logan?"
Silence drapes over us, thick and suffocating.
His gaze avoids mine, choosing instead to study the floor as if the wood could offer him some sanctuary from the truths spilling from my lips.
"I think you've got more secrets than I do," I continue, feeling the fire in my chest burn brighter. "I think this whole place is built on the fallout."
I see it in the way he moves, a slow turn that radiates danger.
There's a raw intensity in his presence that sends a thrill of both fear and exhilaration spiraling through me.
It’s impossible to ignore that I’ve got his attention, even if it comes wrapped in anger and tension.
"You don't get to talk about this place like you understand it," he counters, his voice clipped and controlled, yet there’s an edge that tells me he’s barely holding back.
"You think dragging me out of the snow earns you silence?" I challenge him, stepping closer, pushing against the wall he’s built around himself.
“No. I think protecting the people who still believe in something matters more than chasing ghosts.” His words ring with conviction, shrouded in layers of meaning that taunt me.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm, and I can see the tension in those lean muscles, the coiled energy ready to spring.
The distance between us feels charged, my heart racing against the weight of our scrutiny. I want to reach out, to bridge the gap, because underneath all that bravado, I can sense his fear—fear of the past, fear of the truth, of what lays buried beneath his unwavering surface.
My heart hardens in defiance. “Is that why you lied to them about me? 'Personal project'? I’m not the only one hiding."
His silence is deafening, a confession without words. I’m already too close, too drawn in by the gravity of his presence.
Then, just like that, he breaks from my gaze.
“I’m taking a walk,” he says abruptly, decisively, turning away as if that simple statement can sever whatever connection we've just forged.
“Logan—” I start, but he’s already gone, leaving only the echo of his retreat.
I stand alone for a moment, heart pounding in the stillness.
The warmth of his body lingers in the air, and I’m left with a storm of questions and frustrations swirling inside me.
What is it about him that draws me in, that makes me question everything I thought I knew?
Finally, I take a breath, steadying myself.
I can’t be here, locked in this moment of uncertainty. I head back to the others, where the guys are still drinking, laughter spilling out like a vibrant wave.
Caleb spots me first, his dimples flashing as he raises a glass.
“Hey! Look who decided to melt into the warmth!” he shouts, the mock indignation ringing in his tone.
As I approach, I see Asa hunched over his laptop in the corner, headphones on, but I catch a hint of a smile behind his glasses as he looks up. “Did you survive your wilderness excursion with Grizzly Logan?”
“Don’t let him fool you,” Caleb adds with a teasing wink. “He’s all bark and no bite. Just don’t ask him about his childhood stuffed animal.”
“Very funny,” I reply, trying to sidestep the tease.
“You missed out on a great bonding session,” Elias says, leaning back in his chair with a relaxed smirk. “Knox nearly killed us with his alcohol-mixing attempt.”
Knox rolls his eyes, but there’s an undeniable twinkle of humor. “You didn’t have to drink it. It was a tactical decision, Eli.”
“But in all seriousness,” I say, coming into the room, “what’s Logan to you guys, anyway? What’s he like around you guys?”
Caleb raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “What? You like Logan Bishop?!”
I roll my eyes, trying to downplay the prickling heat on my cheeks. “No, I’m serious. What’s he like? It feels like he has this whole... weight.”
Asa leans back, and the playful banter quiets. “He’s the anchor. Always steady, always ready. Logan keeps us grounded, especially when things get heavy.”
“Exactly,” Elias adds, knuckles cracking absent-mindedly. “He’s the one looking out for us, keeping us from losing our heads when shit gets wild.”
Knox nods in agreement. “There’s a calm in him we all rely on. He’s basically responsible for everything.”
“That’s a lot of pressure,” I say, crossing my arms, feeling the edges of their seriousness weigh on me. “Doesn’t he ever share anything? It’s like he’s built this wall no one can breach.”
Ryker, who’s leaned against the wall, then speaks up, his tone gruff. “That’s just Logan. That man doesn’t show weakness.”
Caleb leans back, a more serious expression replacing his usual humor. “He doesn’t want anyone to feel like a burden. He carries it all silently.”
The room is heavy now, each of their eyes reflecting concern as they look at me. “But what if he can’t carry it anymore?” I ask, a knot tightening in my stomach. “He’s so focused on everyone else?—"
But before I can continue, the door swings open, and Logan steps back in. The light from the hallway casts shadows that sharpen his features, and my heart quickens.
“Sloane,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact, pulling me back to the present. “We need to head back to the cabin.”
I meet his gaze, and a rush of unspoken understanding flits between us, a painful reminder of the conversation we’d just had. “Right. Coming,” I reply, trying to mask the turbulence of emotions swirling inside me.
As I follow Logan out, I throw a glance back at the others, their familiar warmth knitting around me again, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m teetering on the edge of their world—full of unspoken truths and the weight of loyalty.
The night air greets us, cool and silent, but within me, a tempest brews—questions left unanswered, secrets half-revealed, pulling me deeper into the enigma that is Logan Bishop.
I barely sleep.
Every time I close my eyes, I replay last night’s conversation on a loop.
The emotion hanging in the air between us—heavy, intense.
The way Logan's storm-gray eyes darkened with unspoken words, the weight of everything we left unsaid.
Stop it, Sloane.
I shake my head, frustration coiling in my chest. I can’t afford distractions, not when there’s so much at stake, and I’m still figuring out how to breathe in this new place.
Morning arrives with a quiet that aches.
I pull on yesterday's clothes with mechanical efficiency, trying to shake off the remnants of last night.
Logan's nowhere in sight, and that’s for the best. I need space—distance to remind myself why I came here and what I need to do.
I'm not the kind of woman who gets sidetracked by a pair of storm-gray eyes.
I grab my bag, its familiar weight grounding me. The thumb drive inside—partially corrupted—reminds me of who I am. What I do.
As I step outside into the cold morning air, I head for Tran's Tech just a quick stop for a burner phone—and maybe a moment of normalcy.
The bell jingles as I enter the shop, and the warmth wraps around me, mingling with the faint smell of solder and coffee. It’s cozy, cluttered with wires and a jumble of electronics that seem both chaotic and inviting.
Behind the counter, a man in his thirties looks up, dark hair pulled into a short ponytail, and glasses perched on his forehead. He grins at me, bright and welcoming.
“Welcome to tech purgatory!” he exclaims, his voice full of energy. “Where electronics come to either be saved or properly mourned. I’m Leo Tran, your friendly neighborhood tech guy.”
“Sloane,” I reply, taking a moment to scan the shelves, soaking in the atmosphere.
“Nice to meet you, Sloane!” he replies. “Are you visiting someone in town? We don’t usually get many new faces.”
“Yeah, just spending some time in the area,” I say, keeping it light. “I need a burner phone. Something basic but secure.”
Leo's brow lifts, intrigued. “Secure, huh? Sounds like you might need a little drama in your life. Don’t worry; we have just the thing for that.”
He quickly retrieves a sleek black phone, unmarked except for a single blue dot on the back.
“This beauty has signal scrambling, GPS spoofing, and—” he taps the blue dot, “a panic button that wipes everything if you enter the wrong passcode three times. Perfect for avoiding unwanted company.”
“Sounds perfect. What’s the catch?”
“Just your friendly newcomer discount. You look like someone worth keeping around.” He winks, and the levity eases the tension in my shoulders.
“Great. I’ll take it,” I say, appreciating the light-hearted banter.
I pay and tuck the phone into my bag, feeling a renewed sense of control settle in, and I can’t help but smile. “Thanks, Leo. I’ll definitely be back for some tech wizardry.”
“Anytime! Always happy to welcome a new face!” he calls as I step outside into the chill.
With my new phone secured, I drive slowly through town, letting the scenery sink in.
As I navigate the familiar roads, something catches my eye. A quaint building, its warm glow spilling out into the street, reads Iron Hollow Books . The sign hanging crookedly on the door invites me in, and curiosity tugs at me.
I park my truck and step inside, the bell chiming softly above me. The coziness envelops me: sunlit spaces filled with dust motes, towering shelves, and the comforting scent of paper and vanilla.
A woman behind the counter looks up from her reading—a silver-streaked woman in her mid-50s, her smile warm and inviting.
“New face,” she says kindly, closing her book. “Are you visiting someone?”
“Just passing through,” I respond, taking in the inviting atmosphere.
“Well, I’m glad you stopped by! Most folks just rush past. My name’s Dana Fletcher. Let me know if you need help finding something.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Dana. I’m Sloane,” I reply, my pulse easing.
“Is this your first time in Iron Hollow?” she asks, her curiosity genuine.
“Yeah, I just moved to the area,” I say, my mind momentarily drifting.
Dana’s eyes light up. “Isn’t it beautiful here? I’ve lived in a few places, but Iron Hollow has its own magic.”
“I think I’m starting to see that,” I admit, glancing around at the stacks of books.
I notice a dog-eared paperback on the counter. The cover catches my attention—a guide to wilderness survival, fitting for my current setting.
“Are you into survivalist stuff?” Dana asks, noticing my interest.
“Just thought it might come in handy,” I reply lightly. “I’m a freelance journalist—mostly political corruption stories.”
“You sound like quite the brave soul,” she says, her smile widening with warmth. “There’s nothing like the thrill of chasing the truth.”
“Yeah, it can be a wild ride,” I agree, feeling a sense of camaraderie forming.
She gestures to a photo on the wall, featuring a younger version of herself with camera crews and protest signs. “I used to be an investigative journalist—five cities, two wars, and one government scandal that got me reassigned to obituaries.”
“Wow, that sounds fascinating,” I say, intrigued.
“Well, the adrenaline is addictive.” She sets the wilderness book aside. “But it’s important to remember how to navigate life after the spark fades. Stories matter, but you have to live with what happens after.”
“Yeah, I’m learning that.”
As I pour myself a cup from the dented carafe in the back corner, I can’t help but read the faded quote on the mug: The truth will set you free. But first it will piss you off.
Perfect irony for a journalist.
I leave the bookstore feeling strangely lighter yet more aware of the complexity that lies beneath the surface.
But I'm halfway to the truck when I see him.
Across the street?—
A man.
Standing too still. Not moving like a local. Face hidden beneath a beanie and mirrored lenses, but there's something about his posture that makes my blood run cold.
I know that stance.
Predator.
My breath seizes in my chest.
I turn—fast, steady—and walk the opposite way. Don't run. Never run. Running makes you prey. Makes you a target. I learned that lesson the hard way.
I duck into the narrow space between two buildings, counting my heartbeats. One. Two. Three.
When I glance back at the spot where he stood?—
He's gone.
Like he was never there.
I wait another thirty seconds, then step back onto the sidewalk. My eyes scan every shadow, every corner, but there's no sign of him.
The street continues its lazy winter rhythm. A woman walks her dog. A teenager shovels snow from a storefront entrance. Nothing out of place.
Except me.
I make it back to the truck without incident, keys already in hand, ready to drive, to move, to run again if I have to. I've done it before. I can do it again.
But as I reach for the door handle, I see it.
There's a folded note tucked under my windshield wiper.
I freeze, heart hammering in my ribs.
It could be nothing. A flyer for a local event. A parking ticket. A note from a friendly neighbor who recognized Logan's truck.
But I know better.
I pull it free, fingers numb with cold and fear. The paper is crisp, expensive. The kind that comes from a high-end stationery store, not a quick print shop.
I unfold it slowly, careful not to tear it.
"You're not hard to find. But you are running out of places to hide."
—G