Page 85 of Rescued By the Alpha SEAL
The thought makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with my injury.
Logan takes a turn sharper than necessary, and I bite back a hiss as the movement jars my leg. His eyes flick to me immediately—checking, assessing, probably cataloging every grimace for future reference.
"I'm fine," I say before he can ask.
He doesn't respond, but his grip on the wheel tightens incrementally.
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but charged with everything we're not saying.
The trees blur past the windows, their shadows growing longer as afternoon bleeds toward evening. My head feels heavy, thoughts swimming through the haze of adrenaline crash and the mild painkillers Eli gave me.
When we finally pull up to the cabin, Logan kills the engine but doesn't move immediately. He just sits there, staring through the windshield like he's mapping exit strategies or calculating threat vectors.
"Logan," I say softly.
He blinks, coming back to himself. Without a word, he's out of the truck and around to my side before I can even reach for the handle.
The door opens and cold air rushes in, carrying the crisp scent of pine and approaching snow. I start to swing my legs out, gritting my teeth against the stab of pain.
"I can walk," I insist, even as my good leg trembles. "Just need something to lean on."
Logan gives me a look that could strip paint.
Then, without warning, he turns and crouches slightly in front of me. "Put your arms around my neck."
"What? No, I don't need?—"
"Sloane." Just my name, but weighted with everything he won't say out loud.
Let me do this. Let me help. Let me feel like I can protect you from something.
I swallow my pride and wrap my arms around his neck. He hooks his hands under my thighs—carefully avoiding the bandaged area—and lifts me against his back in one fluid motion.
The sudden closeness steals my breath. His body is solid warmth against mine, muscles shifting beneath his shirt as he adjusts his grip. I can feel his heartbeat through my palms where they rest against his chest. It's faster than his calm exterior would suggest.
He carries me to the cabin door with the same precise efficiency he brings to everything, but there's something else in his movements now.
Something almost... tender. Like he's hyperaware of every point where our bodies connect.
The key turns in the lock, and he shoulders the door open. But instead of setting me down immediately, he pauses. His breath catches, just slightly. His boot nudges the door shut.
Then he lowers me to my feet with excruciating gentleness. Before I can find my balance, he turns—and suddenly I'm pressed between his body and the closed door.
His hands plant on either side of my head. His face hovers inches from mine, close enough that I can feel his breath fan across my forehead. The last rays of sunlight streaming through the window paint shadows across his features, highlighting the raw emotion he usually keeps locked away.
"I couldn't—" His voice breaks. He swallows hard and tries again. "When I saw you go down..."
The confession hangs unfinished between us. I remain still, giving him space to find the words. His chest rises and falls rapidly, like he's been running instead of standing perfectly still.
"I was terrified," he finally whispers, the admission rough and raw. "If that bullet had been two inches to the left..."
Understanding floods through me. I reach up slowly and take his hands in mine, drawing them down to cup my face. His palms are calloused but warm against my skin.
"What do you feel?" I ask quietly.
His fingers tremble slightly. "Warmth."
"That's right." I press his hands more firmly against my cheeks. "Warmth. Because I'm alive. I'm right here."
