Page 80 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL
The crowd begins to thin after that, breaking apart into smaller groups, dispersing slowly back to shops and homes. Not everyone is convinced—I can see it in their sidelong glances, their hushed conversations—but the immediate tension has defused.
For now.
Logan waits until most of the crowd has dispersed before pulling me aside, behind the bookstore where stone walls shield us from curious eyes.
"That was risky," he says, voice low, controlled.
"So was lying to this town," I shoot back. "But you didn't flinch."
"Because I had to."
"So do I."
His jaw is tight, the muscle still jumping beneath stubbled skin. Not because I spoke.
But because he knows I had to.
We stand in the alley behind the bookstore—just out of sight, just close enough to feel the heat of adrenaline still radiating between us. The air smells like wet stone and paper dust from the bookshop's ventilation system.
"We can't afford fractures," Logan says.
"We already have them," I fire back, shifting my weight to ease the throbbing in my thigh. "People are scared. They're going to fill in the blanks if we don't."
"What do you want me to do? Tell them Iron Hollow's under threat from a sniper ghost tied to an erased military black site?"
"I want you to stop protecting them with silence."
He turns to face me fully, eyes storm-dark, unreadable.
"And I want you to stop using the truth like a scalpel."
That hits.
Because it's not wrong.
Truth has always been my weapon—sharp, precise, cutting through lies and half-truths to expose what's underneath. I wield it without mercy, without regard for the wounds it leaves behind. Because that's what I've always believed: that truth is worth the pain it causes.
But standing here, in this quiet alley, with a bullet wound in my leg and a town full of frightened people just around the corner, I wonder if Logan's right. If sometimes, the truth cuts too deep.
I exhale, grounding myself. The tension in my voice softens—just enough.
"They deserve better, Logan."
"So do we."
A beat.
It lands harder than either of us expects.
Because he's right. We do deserve better. Better than running. Better than hiding. Better than waiting for the next bullet to find its mark.
Better than being pawns in Granger's game.
I nod once, acknowledging the truth in his words.
Then I turn and limp back toward the bookstore, noticing Rosa Calderón approaching, her daughter trailing a few steps behind.
"You should get that leg looked at properly," she says without preamble, eyeing the bandage visible through my torn jeans.
