Page 25 of Logan
If he’s arrested because of me, what will happen? To him? To me? I stumble into the kitchen and drink some water, trying to calm my nerves.
I’m in a safe place. I’m fine. Slowly, my breathing evens out.
I wait for an hour, pacing and wringing my hands, then stand by the window, licking my dry lips, peering out at the street, hoping to spot Logan’s familiar figure approaching the building. What if something happened to him?
I pick up my phone, my fingers hovering over the keys. I shouldn’t call him. He’s a grown man. He’s also my boss, for Heaven’s sake. He knows what he’s doing, or at least I hope so.
The door swings open, and a wave of relief washes over me at the sight of him standing there. He seems unharmed, his usual stoic expression firmly in place.
No visible injuries. His hair is tousled, a departure from his usual impeccably groomed appearance. And damn, he looks even sexier in this raw, imperfect state. Then my gaze falls on the bloodstains marring his shirt.
“Are you hurt?” I hurry to him, raising my hand, then retracting it almost as quickly.
“It’s not my blood,” he says.
“But your hand...” I reach for his palm, tracing my fingers over his knuckles. A surge of heat floods through me, but I dismiss it as mere adrenaline.
“It’s nothing,” he says, pulling his hand away.
“What happened?”
He hands me my wallet. “Is that yours?”
I take it and nod.
“He won’t be touching you or any other woman anytime soon.”
Panic fills me. “Shit. Is he dead?”
Logan shakes his head. “No. Although he deserved to die. He will be in pain for the foreseeable future, though.”
“I don’t want you to get in trouble because of me.”
“I protect what’s mine.”
My legs give way beneath me, and I sink onto the couch. His?
He called me his.
I know he means I work for him—I’m his employee—but no one has ever called me his, not even Johnny, and I thought he loved me. And no one has ever protected me like this before.
I look at Logan with wide eyes. He did all that for me. He went and beat a man just for me. And he got my wallet back for me.
We don’t even know each other. This is a scene from a book. It can’t be happening to me. I’m hallucinating. That’s what this is.
I should be horrified that he went and beat a man because of me. But I’m not. I’m not even sorry. Is there something wrong with me if I take pleasure in a man being beaten because of me?
“Lie down,” Logan says, pulling me from my thoughts.
“Wh–what?”
“Your back needs to be taken care of, and you won’t be able to do it yourself. Lie down, I’ll get the first aid kit.”
I’m already lost in fantasies, and he’s merely concernedabout my scratches. I settle on my stomach, and he returns with a small bag.
“This might sting a bit, so I apologize in advance.”
He moves the thin straps of the dress, and I shiver. He doesn’t say anything, but the last thing on my mind is the scratches on my back. He disinfects the scratches and applies a soothing ointment, his gentle touch eliciting erotic thoughts in my fantasy-infused brain, and I bite my lips to stifle any sounds.
