Page 81 of Keeping Kasey
Consoli will find out you’re a traitor, and he’ll kill you.
Implying an assault isn’t the most morally appropriate option, but it’s easier than telling Logan the far more confusing and potentially damning truth. I have no idea what Brandonthinks he knows about me, but I trust my gut enough to know I need to look into it before I tell Logan.
My guilt is far outweighed by the feeling of complete serenity when Logan’s arms are wrapped around me.
The side of Logan I’ve seen since he walked into my hospital room is both disconcerting and utterly irresistible. This gentle, attentive, protective version of him sharply contrasts the egotistical, controlling man he usually is.
The mix of these two personalities is alluring, and I let myself fall headfirst into him.
It took every ounce of the remaining strength I had to lie to the one person capable of offering me comfort. So now, with nothing left but the raw emotions I spend my life hiding, I find peace in Logan. I forget the paranoia and take comfort in his touch—his presence.
I don’t argue when he has the doctor do one last exam before discharging me. I don’t argue when he insists on using a wheelchair to get me to his car. I don’t argue when he drives me to a nearby hotel, one hand on my thigh the entire drive. And I don’t argue when he carries me bridal-style through the hotel lobby and up to my room.
For the first time in my life, I let someone take care of me.
After a shower that Logan prepares—and joins me for—I’m brushing out my hair when his eyes drop to my foot.
“You didn’t tell me about this.”
A bolt of pain travels up my leg at the memory of kicking the leg of the desk, and I wince. “It’s just a bruise.”
He takes me by the hand to sit on the bed, then does something that renders me speechless for the second time today.
He kneels.
The regal, formidable boss of the Consoli mafia familykneels.
For me.
He takes my foot, gently brushing his fingers over the bruise.
“I’m not your responsibility, you know,” I whisper. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
When Logan’s eyes meet mine, my chest constricts at the affection that shines so openly. There isn’t an ounce of wavering, even when his lips tug into a small smile and he says, “Iwantto take care of you.”
My breath catches, and the lump in my throat thickens too much to speak, so I silently pull him to his feet, wrap my arms around his waist, and mold my body to his.
If he’s caught off guard, he doesn’t show it. His arms instinctively pull me to him, and though we’ve slept together so many times, there’s something deeply intimate about how we fit together in this moment.
I blame today’s trauma for the tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
Usually, I’d be mortified by the idea of anyone witnessing my tears—or any expression of weakness—but right now, I feel safe. It’s a level of comfort I can’t remember ever feeling before, and it isn’t only about my physical security. I know with absolute certainty that if a tear were to escape, Logan would simply wipe it away and hold me tighter.
Less than an hour later—after I was forced to ice and elevate my foot—we’re lying between the soft sheets of the hotel bed. I fit into Logan’s side, and one of his arms holds me to him. The position is so cozy that I’m tempted to fall asleep.
But I can’t.
In addition to the guilt I feel from lying to Logan, there’s one other part of today I can’t so easily move on from.
“I killed him,” I whisper, and it’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud.
Taking Brandon’s life was a necessity for Ford’s and my survival, but that doesn’t mean it was easy or that the image ofhis face right before I pulled the trigger won’t be embedded in my brain forever.
It already is.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
