Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Sophie
I wake to the late-afternoon light pouring through Logan’s bedroom windows. I’ve slept for four solid hours, something I haven’t done since I was twenty-six and still na?ve enough to believe alley deals could end without blood or sirens.
The cabin is quiet. Logan isn’t in bed.
For once, I don’t feel the old urge to catalog every sound or shadow. I simply lie there, warm and heavy-limbed, letting myself exist in the safety he’s wrapped around me. The sheets still carry his scent, and the quiet feels like a gift instead of a threat.
Eventually, I get up, pull on one of his flannel shirts, and pad barefoot through the cabin, enjoying the soft fabric brushing my thighs.
He sits on the back porch with a glass of water, staring at the tree line that’s darkening into evening. Same shirt he wore when I fell asleep. The sight is soft and devastating to my heart. Logan King hasn’t changed clothes because he still hasn’t let himself relax. He’s been on watch.
Over me.
I open the back door. Cool mountain air brushes my bare legs. “How long have you been out here?”
He makes room for me on the bench without a word. I sit. He reaches for the quilt on the chair beside him and drapes it over my shoulders, tucking the edges gently around me like it’s second nature. His warm fingers linger.
“A while,” he says.
I nudge his knee with mine. “Logan…”
“Two hours. Almost three.” He takes a slow sip of water. “Reeves called twice. Volkov is processed. The federal transfer goes through tonight. No bail. He’ll sit in pre-trial until they move him.”
His words settle over me like the blanket he just wrapped around me. Chaz Volkov is no longer my problem. The relief is so deep it almost makes me dizzy. The weight I’ve carried for so long has finally lifted.
“Eli came by.” A faint smile touches Logan’s lips. “He left soup. And enough bread to feed the county.”
I laugh. “Of course he did.”
“Mason called, too. Wants to know if you’re coming to Sunday dinner.”
I should. Family has always been important, but right now the thought of their questions and worry feels too heavy. “Tell him next Sunday. I need… this. Us. A little longer.”
Logan nods like he already knew that would be my answer. The porch falls quiet again except for the river murmuring down the slope. The wind carries the sharp scent of pine and the distant sweetness of spring melt. A hawk circles once overhead before disappearing beyond the ridge.
I lean into Logan’s side, breathing in the steady warmth of him, and for the first time in weeks—maybe months—my mind is silent. No cataloguing exits. No calculating escape routes. Just peace.
“The town council called while you were napping,” he says after a while. “Unanimous vote. I’m sheriff until the next election cycle.”
Pride swells in my chest. “You earned that. Every piece of it.”
He sets the glass down. “I kept Dale’s mug. Didn’t feel right to throw it away before. Today, after Reeves’ second call, I decided to finally toss it the next time I’m in the office.”
My throat tightens. I slide my hand over his on the bench and squeeze, feeling the strength in his fingers as they curl gently around mine. The last of the daylight slips behind the ridge, painting the sky in deep golds and purples that make everything feel softer, more hopeful.
I rest my head on his shoulder. “Come inside.”
Logan follows without hesitation.
I lead him down the hallway with my hand at the back of his neck.
His warm palm rests at the small of my back.
He lets me set the pace. I feel it in his body’s reaction to my touch and in how his breath catches when I kiss the line of his jaw.
That sends heat curling through me, a reminder of everything we shared the other night.
In the low light of his bedroom, I unbutton his shirt slowly, memorizing every inch of the skin I reveal.
Eyes dark and patient, he watches me. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to.” I push the fabric off his broad shoulders. The scars I barely noticed the other night are impossible to miss now: one long, pale line under his ribs, a smaller ragged one at his shoulder, and the purplish-black bruise across his sternum from Volkov’s bullet.
I skim his bruise first, feeling the heat from his skin. He doesn’t flinch. Then I kiss the scar on his shoulder. His hand on my waist stops moving. His breath catches once, then comes back uneven.
“Does it hurt?” I whisper.
“No.” His voice is rough. “No one’s ever done that before.”
The admission lands hard. I hate that no one has, but it also gives me something precious, a first with him. I kiss the scar at his ribs next. He makes a low, broken sound that shoots straight between my legs.
I look up at him, holding his gaze. “Tell me what you want.”
“You,” he says, wrecked. “But… can we go slow?”
The déjà vu washes over me, sweet and powerful. If I hadn’t already fallen completely in love with him, I would right now.
“Yes.” I smile against his skin. “I want to take my time with you tonight.”
I guide him onto the bed and spend long minutes exploring him. The spot below his ribs makes his abs jump. His breath catches when I circle his nipples with my tongue. He groans my name when I drag my mouth lower.
“Sophie…” My name sounds like both a prayer and a plea.
I undo his pants. He lifts his hips so I can pull his boxer briefs and his pants down. His thick, hard cock springs free, already leaking at the tip. The sight of him like this, letting me lead and trusting me, sends a rush of heat to my core.
I wrap my hand around him. The first slow lick along the underside makes his hips twitch. I swirl my tongue around the head, savoring the salty taste, then take him into my mouth.
“Fuck, Sophie…” A raw groan vibrates through him.
I gag a little going too deep. I pull back, cheeks hot. “Sorry.”
“You’re doing so good, baby.” He threads his fingers gently through my hair. “So damn good.”
His praise melts me. I try again, taking him deeper, sucking slower, working him with my hand. His grip tightens in my hair, but he never pushes and lets me learn.
“Sophie… up here. I need you. Now. Please.”
I climb up, wiping my mouth, smiling. “Only because you said please.”
He reaches for the condom, but I take it from him and roll it on slowly, stroking and teasing until his abs are rock-hard and his fists twist in the sheets. I’m soaked watching him unravel.
I strip off my clothes and straddle him. His warm, steady hands settle on my thighs, but he doesn’t rush me. His gaze stays locked on my face like I’m the only thing in his world.
I sink down onto him inch by inch. The stretch is still intense, but easier this time: fuller, deeper, better. I breathe through it until I’m seated completely, his cock buried to the hilt inside me.
“You okay?” I whisper.
“Never been better.” He groans. “You feel incredible.”
I rock. The angle hits that perfect spot, and pleasure sparks up my spine. Logan’s hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit with the same sure rhythm he used the first night. I ride him harder, chasing the heat building fast and bright.
“Beautiful,” he rasps, his voice strained. “So wet. So tight. You’re perfect like this, Sophie.”
His praise lights me on fire. I brace my hands on his chest and move faster. Sweat slicks our skin. The wet, rhythmic sound of bodies fills the room. His fingers circle my clit in sync with my hips.
“Logan… I’m—”
“Come for me, baby.”
I shatter hard, clenching around him, crying out against his throat. His arms lock around my back, and he pulls me flush as he follows me over with a raw, guttural groan, pulsing deep inside me while he buries his face in my hair.
“Mine.” The word is barely audible, spoken against my skin.
I stay right here, chest to chest, my heart beating against his bruise. Then I lift my head and look straight into his eyes. “Yours.”
His eyes widen, dark and fierce. Something tender and almost desperate breaks across his face.
I press my forehead to his. “You’re mine too.”
He cradles the back of my neck. “Yes.”
That single word sinks into me like warmth after years of cold. He shifts us carefully, slipping out of me. I make a small, reluctant sound at the loss. Logan disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth. He cleans me gently, softly kisses the inside of my bandaged wrist.
I sit up and kiss his dark bruise in return. He exhales shakily.
We lie back under the quilt, his arm under my head. The river runs beyond the tree line, the same river I’ve been hearing my whole life, but tonight the water sounds like peace.
“I’m yours.” His fingers stroke through my hair. “I’ve always been yours, Sophie.”
And now we both know it.