23. Sloane
SLOANE
I wake to the feeling of Logan's heartbeat against my cheek, strong and steady beneath my ear.
His chest rises and falls in a gentle rhythm, the warmth of his skin seeping into mine where we're pressed together on the couch.
My body feels deliciously sore, muscles aching in all the right places from our passionate encounter.
Memories of last night flood back—his touch, his taste, the way he made me feel completely and utterly his .
A smile tugs at my lips as I remember how perfectly we fit together, how he seemed to know exactly what I needed before I even knew myself.
Logan's arm tightens around my waist, and I feel him stir beneath me. "Morning," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my bare skin, sending pleasant shivers down my spine.
I lift my head to look at him, taking in the sight of him in the soft morning light filtering through the windows.
His dark hair is tousled, jaw shadowed with stubble, and those storm-gray eyes are warm and tender as they meet mine. Something in my chest tightens at the vulnerability I see there.
"Hi," I whisper back, unable to stop the smile spreading across my face.
This feels... different. Special. Like we've crossed some invisible line and everything has shifted.
He reaches up to brush a strand of hair from my face, his touch impossibly gentle. "Sleep okay?"
I nod, leaning into his touch. "Better than I have in months."
His thumb traces my bottom lip, and the tender gesture makes my heart flutter. "Shower?" he asks softly.
"Mmm," I hum in agreement. "Though I might need help standing. Someone wore me out last night."
A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. "I'll take full responsibility for that." In one fluid motion, he sits up, keeping me cradled against him. "Come on. Let me take care of you."
He carries me to the bathroom, my legs wrapped around his waist, and sets me down on the counter.
The marble is cold against my bare skin, making me shiver. Logan turns on the shower, steam quickly filling the small space.
While we wait for the water to heat, he kisses me—slow, deep, and thorough.
No urgency now, just pure connection. His hands frame my face like I'm something precious, something worth protecting.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with emotion. "Ready?"
I nod, letting him help me down from the counter. We step under the spray together, and I sigh as the hot water cascades over my shoulders.
Logan reaches for the shampoo, and I close my eyes as his strong fingers work it through my hair.
"You're good at this," I murmur, melting into his touch.
"I'm good at lots of things," he replies, and I can hear the smile in his voice.
He takes his time washing my hair, massaging my scalp with just the right pressure.
It feels incredibly intimate—this quiet moment of care between us. When he's done, he tilts my head back to rinse, his hands ensuring no soap gets in my eyes.
I return the favor, standing on tiptoes to reach his hair properly. He has to bend down slightly, and the position brings our bodies flush together.
Steam swirls around us as I work the shampoo into a lather, enjoying the way his eyes close in pleasure at my touch.
"Your turn," I say softly, reaching for the body wash. I pour some into my palm and begin spreading it across his chest, mapping the planes of muscle, tracing old scars with gentle fingers.
He stays perfectly still, letting me explore.
His hands mirror my movements, soap-slick palms gliding over my skin. We wash each other slowly, reverently, learning curves and angles in the soft morning light.
It's not sexual—or at least, not entirely. It's about connection. Trust. Care.
When we're done, he wraps me in a fluffy towel, using another to gently dry my hair. I lean into his touch, feeling utterly cherished.
"How are you feeling?" he asks quietly, his hands stilling on my shoulders.
I turn to face him, meeting his gaze directly. "Good. Really good." I take a deep breath, gathering my thoughts. "I know things are complicated—with Granger, with everything. But this? Us? I'm sure about this."
The smile that spreads across his face is like sunrise breaking through clouds. He leans down to kiss me softly, and I can feel his relief in the gesture.
We dress quickly after that, knowing we need to get to The Forge. Logan tosses me one of his henleys, and I pull it on, breathing in his scent. The fabric drowns me, but I don't care.
The drive to The Forge is quiet, but comfortable. Logan's hand rests on my thigh, thumb stroking absently. The morning sun paints the mountains gold, and for just a moment, everything feels possible.
But as we pull up to The Forge, reality settles back in. There's work to be done. A mission to plan. A threat to face.
I follow Logan into the building, padding barefoot toward the armory where voices drift from the main room.
Not panic—precision. Low, focused, controlled.
No one's yelling. No one's joking.
That's how I know it's serious.
I pause at the hallway, peering around the corner. The Forge team is gearing up with practiced efficiency.
Elias is packing a med kit, his movements quick and sure.
Asa's sliding a drone case shut, triple-checking the latches.
Ryker and Knox are checking rifles, their faces set in identical masks of concentration.
Caleb is securing straps on a thermal cloak and passing out radios with clipped, efficient instructions.
And Logan? He's at the center of it all. Speaking softly, but everyone's listening.
This is where he belongs—leading, protecting, guiding.
I stay hidden for a moment, not out of fear but uncertainty.
Since arriving at Iron Hollow, I've been the outsider. The woman with too many secrets and a target on her back. The one who got the door slammed in her face. The one who let danger follow her like a second shadow.
Will they accept me now? After everything?
Logan notices me first. He doesn't call me out or wave me forward. He just holds up a comm unit and waits, giving me the choice.
My feet move before my brain catches up. I take the comm, our fingers brushing in a way that sends warmth spreading through my chest.
"This one's encrypted," he explains. "Asa patched a line through town in case Granger jumps local channels."
"You think he will?" I ask, examining the device.
"He wants attention," Asa says from behind us. "We just haven't decided where he'll take it from."
I look around the table. Everyone's paused in their preparations, watching me. But it's different now. They're not dismissing me or judging me. They're waiting for me. Including me.
"We know he's watching us," I say, straightening my spine. "Let's make it cost him."
Knox nods—just slightly, but it's there. A crack in his armor. A tiny sliver of trust.
They're moving like I'm not just part of the mission anymore. I'm part of the pack .
The team splits into strike-ready formations with military precision.
Team Alpha—Logan, Ryker, and Asa—will track terrain bleed, set signal traps, and monitor drone footage from the ridge.
Team Bravo—Knox, Caleb, and Elias—will reinforce the southern blind spot and prep fallback cover at the Forge perimeter.
My role? Stay mobile. Keep scanning G's signal patterns for a break. Update map markers. Watch for psychological triggers.
"You're our chaos radar," Logan explains, his eyes holding mine. "He moves in patterns. You don't. Use that."
The words catch in my throat because it's not an order—it's trust . Something I haven't felt in so long it almost burns.
I've never felt more out of place. Or more seen .
These aren't just soldiers following orders. They're survivors of a system that tried to erase them. And they've let me in. Not because they forgive my secrets, but because they understand what it means to carry something heavy—and still choose to fight.
I strap on my pack, fingers brushing the edge of the comm unit. For the first time since this whole nightmare began, I don't feel like I'm running.
I feel like I'm moving forward .
We're about to split off when Elias's radio crackles to life, the sound sharp in the focused silence.
"You picking that up?" Asa asks, head tilting.
The room stills. We all freeze, listening.
Elias frowns, adjusting the dial. A new frequency cuts in, the sound patchy and warped but clear enough to make out the words:
"Iron Hollow Books. Package delivered."
"What package?" Ryker mutters, brow furrowing.
A pause stretches between heartbeats. Then?—
"Tick tock, Bishop. Let's see how you protect them."
The transmission cuts off abruptly, leaving us in ringing silence.
My blood runs cold as understanding hits. This isn't a threat.
It's a move .
And the town? Our quiet, protected sanctuary?
Just became the new front line.