Page 34 of A Dash of You

Logan drops Mark’s beaten body on the hard driveway. Without words, Mark practically scurries away. Not daring to look back.

Logan turns toward me, His chest rising and falling like a raging bull. I still haven’t moved—still seeking comfort in the dirt. Whether it’s out of shock or humiliation, I’m not sure.

Logan walks over, beginning to reach for me.

I raise a hand for him to stop. “Give me a minute, will you?” I politely ask, needing a moment to process what the hell just happened.

With my hands fisting the dirt and my knees digging into it, I cry. The adrenaline finally wears off, and I cry.

Motherfucker.

I only crave a normal life. To start over. Not this. Someone needs to throw me a fucking bone.

One tear falls, wetting a dot of soil beneath me. Then another and another.

Before I know it, I’m being lifted into a set of solid, powerful arms as my head lazily flops to Logan’s chest.

“What are you doing?” I ask, seeking solace from his embrace, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“You had your minute,” he says as he carries me, not to my place, but over to his.

He gets us both through the door after unlocking it, bringing me over to his sofa. When he gently sets me down and places a hand to my knee, my body reacts like it never has before, causing me to shiver.

“I’ll be right back.” He softly squeezes the same knee and goes upstairs.

Out of curiosity, I scan around his home. It’s the same layout as Lana’s. The kitchen and the living room are both openly connected. Simple décor of what a bachelor would have, but less frat boy. It feels… cozier than I’d have guessed. Logan is a reserved, keep to himself kind of man. So, I thought it’d be a lot colder.

He comes back, setting down a small bucket with soapy water, a washcloth, and bandages.

Oh my God.He’s taking care of me. My eyes dart to his chiseled jaw that hasn’t stopped clenching since he tore Mark off me.

I move in the slightest and wince, Logan catching sight of it.

There goes that jaw again.

He grabs a chair, dragging it in front of me, and sits down. When he gently lifts my right leg onto his lap, I flinch.

He finally looks at me. “Sorry. Is this all right?” he asks, his eyes flashing with concern.

I swallow. “Yes,” I whisper, staring at the man who is lightly dabbing and cleaning my wounds ever so kindly. I look at his blood-stained knuckles and don’t miss the way he slightly winces every time he dips them into the water.

“We should call the police.” He wrings out the washcloth, then lightly cares for another scratch. This one stings at first, but then it’s soothing. He stops and waits for me to give the approval to keep going. I nod and then he continues.

“No. No police.”

He pauses with the washcloth hovering over my scrape, locking eyes with mine. “Sora—”

“Please. Just let it go,” I beg him. The police can’t get involved. There’d be too many questions. A report will be filed, and it gives Jason another way to find me.

He doesn’t push nor ask why and I am grateful for that.

As he tends to my wounds, the attack replays in my mind, a sense of terror twisting and squeezing me like a boa constrictor.

“Are you okay?” He drops my leg and picks up the other. I don’t miss the way his fingers graze my skin, causing goosebumps to rise.

I let out a weird chuckle. It’s not sincere. This moment is far from funny, but either I laugh, or I cry.

Logan studies my unique outburst, dropping his gaze back down to my leg.

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