42. Logan
LOGAN
T he drive back to The Forge is silent.
Snow drifts lazily past our headlights, each flake catching the dim glow before disappearing into darkness. My hands grip the steering wheel too tight, knuckles white beneath dried blood. Every bump in the road jars my bruised ribs.
Beside me, Sloane stares ahead, lost in thought. Her face is pale in the dashboard light, hollowed by exhaustion and shadows. She hasn't spoken since we left Granger's grave.
Granger.
The name sits like lead in my throat. Hours ago, he was breathing. Hours ago, he was our enemy. Now he's just another ghost added to my collection—buried beneath pine needles and fresh snow.
I try not to think about the sound his bones made when we broke them. Try not to remember the way his body went slack, the light fading from eyes I used to trust.
But the memories play on repeat, merciless and sharp.
You did what had to be done.
The voice in my head sounds like Knox—steady, certain. But certainty feels like a luxury I can't afford right now. Not when my hands still smell like gunpowder and old blood.
The Forge appears through the trees like a fortress rising from darkness. Steel and stone against the night sky, windows glowing warm despite everything. Home , some part of me whispers. But even that feels complicated now.
Knox parks near the main entrance, killing the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves. The silence stretches, marked only by our breathing and the soft tick of the cooling engine.
"Logan…" Sloane starts, her voice rough from disuse.
I cut her off. "Medical first."
She looks like she wants to argue, but something in my face must stop her. She nods once, movements careful as she opens her door.
The walk to the infirmary feels longer than usual. Every step echoes in the empty hallway.
At this hour, most of the team has dispersed to private corners—licking wounds, drowning ghosts, processing the weight of what we did.
What I did.
The medical room is exactly as we left it this morning—stark white walls, metal cabinets, the perpetual scent of antiseptic. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and unforgiving. They catch every scrape, every bruise, every spot of blood on our skin.
Eli's already waiting, his face carefully neutral as he gestures to the exam table. "Shirt off," he says to me. Not a request.
I comply without argument, wincing as the fabric pulls at dried blood. The movement sends fresh pain shooting through my ribs. Sloane's sharp intake of breath tells me it looks as bad as it feels.
Eli works in silence, cleaning wounds with practiced efficiency. His touch is clinical but gentle as he probes my ribs, checking for breaks. I focus on my breathing—slow, controlled, hiding the pain that flares with each press of his fingers.
"Three cracked," he finally says. "Maybe four. You're lucky they didn't puncture anything."
Lucky. Right.
He moves to my hands next, tsking at the torn skin from where I forced the zip ties. The antiseptic stings, but I welcome it. Physical pain is easier to process than the mess in my head.
"These'll need stitches," he mutters, already threading a needle.
I watch him work, remembering other nights like this.
Other wounds.
Other battles that left marks we still carry. Eli's always been our anchor—the one who puts us back together when the world tries to break us apart.
"You're going to need to take it easy for a few weeks," he says as he ties off the last stitch. "No heavy lifting. No training. And for God's sake, no more fighting."
The attempt at humor falls flat, but I appreciate it anyway.
He turns to Sloane next, patching up her smaller wounds with the same careful attention. She submits to his examination without protest, but I catch the way she flinches when his fingers ghost over particularly tender spots.
"The leg wound is holding," he says after checking her bandages. "But watch for infection. And try to stay off it as much as possible for the next few days."
Sloane nods, not meeting his eyes. The guilt radiating off her is almost tangible.
Eli packs away his supplies, movements deliberate and measured. "I'll leave you two to talk," he says quietly. "But Logan—take the painkillers. You're no good to anyone if you can't breathe properly."
He sets two white pills on the counter before slipping out, closing the door with a soft click that feels oddly final.
The silence descends again, heavier this time.
I stand, ignoring the protest from my ribs, and move to check Sloane's injuries myself.
Need to see with my own hands that she's really here. Really safe.
My touch is gentle as I examine the bruises on her wrists from the restraints, the scrapes on her arms, the small cut above her eyebrow. Each mark is a reminder of how close we came to losing her.
The anger I've been holding back finally breaks through.
"What the hell were you thinking?"
My voice comes out rougher than intended. She starts to pull away, but I keep hold of her wrist—not tight, just present.
"Running off alone? No backup? No way to contact us? Do you have any idea what could have happened?"
"Logan—"
"He could have killed you," I continue, the words spilling out now. "If we hadn't found you in time—if something had gone wrong?—"
"I thought I could handle it," she says softly.
"Handle it?" I release her wrist, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "This isn't about handling it, Sloane. This is about trust. About being part of a team. You can't just?—"
"I was trying to protect you!"
The words explode from her like she's been holding them back for hours. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears.
"After what happened with Lucia, I couldn't... I couldn't watch anyone else get hurt because of me. I thought if I gave him what he wanted?—"
"What he wanted was to destroy everything," I cut in. "Not just the evidence. Not just the truth. He wanted to burn it all down, and you handed yourself over like kindling."
She flinches at that, but I can't stop now.
"Do you know what it felt like? Waking up to find you gone? Knowing you walked right into his hands?"
My voice cracks on the last word. The fear I've been pushing down all day rises like bile in my throat.
"I thought—" I have to pause, steady myself. "I thought I was going to be too late. Again."
Understanding dawns in her eyes. "Logan..."
"I've lost too many people by being too late," I say quietly. "I couldn't... not you too."
The admission costs me something, but I'm too tired to care.
Too raw to maintain the walls I usually keep between myself and vulnerability.
Sloane stands, moving into my space. Her hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing over day-old stubble. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts.
"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I didn't... I wasn't thinking clearly. I just wanted to keep you safe. All of you."
"We're stronger together," I tell her, covering her hand with mine. "That's the whole point of The Forge. We protect each other. We fight together. We survive together."
She nods, tears finally spilling over. "I know that now. I do. I just... I've spent so long running. So long trying to handle everything alone. I forgot what it meant to really trust someone."
"Trust goes both ways," I say. "You have to let us in. Let me in."
"I trust you," she says immediately. "More than I've trusted anyone in a long time."
"Then promise me," I say, voice low and intent. "Promise me you won't do something like this again. No more lone wolf missions. No more sacrificial plays."
She meets my gaze steadily. "I promise."
I search her face, looking for any trace of hesitation. Finding none, I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"Good," I murmur. "Because I can't lose you, Sloane. I won't."
The words feel like they're being pulled from somewhere deep inside me—a truth I've been fighting since she first showed up at my cabin door.
Since she started carving out space in my carefully controlled world.
Her breath catches. "Logan..."
I don't let her finish. Can't bear to hear whatever she might say next.
Instead, I close the distance between us, capturing her lips with mine.
The kiss is different from our others—not desperate or heated, but something deeper.
Something that tastes like promises and possibilities. Like finally coming home after being lost too long.
Her arms wind around my neck as she presses closer, careful of my injuries but unwilling to let go. I wrap her in my embrace, ignoring the protest from my ribs. Physical pain means nothing compared to the thought of not holding her right now.
When we finally break apart, she rests her forehead against mine. Our breath mingles in the small space between us.
"Stay," I whisper. Not an order. A request.
She smiles—small but real. "I will."
I kiss her again because I can't not. Because she's alive and here and mine. Because sometimes actions say what words can't.
She melts into me like she belongs there. Maybe she does. Maybe we both do.
The ghosts will still be there tomorrow. The wounds will still need time to heal. But right now, in this quiet room with its humming lights and antiseptic smell, none of that matters.
What matters is her heartbeat against my chest. Her breath against my skin. The way she fits in my arms like she was meant to be there all along.
What matters is that we chose this—chose each other—despite everything trying to tear us apart.
Her fingers trace patterns on my chest, gentle over the bruises. "We should probably get some rest," she murmurs.
I nod, but don't release her. Not yet.
"In a minute," I say.
She understands. Settles closer, head tucked under my chin.
We stay like that, holding each other in the quiet, until the painkillers Eli left start to kick in.
Until the adrenaline finally fades.
Until the world narrows down to just this—her warmth, my breath, our hearts beating in sync.
Tomorrow we'll deal with the aftermath. Tomorrow we'll face whatever comes next.
But today?
Today we rest. We heal. We remember what we fought for.
And when sleep finally claims us, we'll do that together too.
Because that's what home means now.
Not just a place.
Not just safety.
But this—us—together.
Finally where we belong.