Page 23 of Logan
“Are you a duke, by any chance?” I ask, my voice barely audible over the lively chatter of the London pub. The clinking of glasses and occasional bursts of laughter create a vibrant ambiance around us. It would be nice to tell Emery I caught a duke. It’s like being part of a Bridgerton book.
“No, but I have a relative who got the title of sir if that helps.”
We continue to chat. Matthew’s flirtation becomes bolder, and his hand finds its way to my thigh.
“Maybe you want to move to a more private place?” he says, his gaze suggesting more than just conversation.
My heart races at the invitation. This is what I came for, right? To let loose and take a chance.
Be brave, Sloane.
I nod and plaster a smile on my face, though a nagging voice in my head echoes Emery’s cautionary words. Perhaps I should text her the address, just in case she needs to locate my body later.
We step out onto the sidewalk, the sounds of the cityblending with the faint music from the pub behind us and walk for a bit. “So, where do you live?” I ask, trying to mask my nerves.
“I thought we would go to your place,” Matthew suggests with a smirk.
My cheeks flush. There’s no way I’m bringing a man back to Logan Valeur’s apartment. I’d sooner face a firing squad. “No, I can’t,” I reply.
“Well, we can’t go to mine either. My wife won’t like it,” he quips, his tone oddly casual as if discussing the weather.
Wait. What? “You’re married?” I blurt out, my eyes widening.
“I thought it was obvious. I showed you the ring. I’m not trying to hide it,” he explains, waving his hand in front of me.
Shit. I thought he was flaunting his watch, but there it is—the telltale wedding band. I feel a pang of sympathy for his wife, who likely believes he’s working late while he’s out here whoring. “I didn’t realize you were married. Sorry, but I don’t sleep with married men.”
His expression darkens, his jaw clenching. “You can’t play with men like that. I spent the whole evening with you, bought you drinks. You owe me,” he asserts, his tone turning demanding.
“Owe you?” I take a step back. “Okay, I’ll give you the money back. How much did you pay for the drinks?” I reach into my handbag, my fingers trembling as I fish out some bills. “Is fifty pounds enough?” I hold the money out to him.
“And what about the time I invested?” He snatches my wallet, shoving me roughly against the wall behind me.
The impact knocks the breath from my lungs as the rough plaster scrapes against my bare skin.
“You think this is a game?” His grip tightens around my throat, his eyes narrowing. “You think you can promise a man something and not follow through? I wasted the whole evening on you when I could have invested it in someone else.”
Trapped against the unforgiving wall, panic surges through me. My heart thunders in my chest, threatening to burst from my ribcage.
Summoning all my strength, I send a knee aimed at his groin.
“Fuck.” He doubles over in pain, clutching his crotch, and I seize the opportunity to flee, running as fast as my legs will carry me.
Only after I’ve passed two blocks do I stop, panting heavily. My back feels like it’s on fire, but I can’t see the damage. I scan my surroundings, trying to orient myself. Across the road, there’s a tube station. I hurry toward it, my heart still racing while reaching into my bag.
“Fuck,” I whisper with a gasp.
He has my wallet!
All my money, my credit cards—everything. But there’s no way I’m going back there to confront him. It’s a lost cause.
Thank God I still have my phone.
I bump it at the entrance, and the doors open with a swoosh.
The train is nearly empty at this hour, offering a moment of respite. I sink into a seat and attempt to gather my wits.
I struggle to draw air into my constricted lungs.
