Page 56 of Logan
I do not know how much longer I can stay conscious.
***
I do not know how much time has passed. My sense of it is warped, stretched thin between the pounding in my skull and the fight to stay conscious. Every second feels both endlessand slippery, like it is trying to escape me. I have been fighting off the urge to pass out, clinging to scraps of awareness, and it has been long enough that I know Logan has to be worried by now.
What if they are having church? What if the brothers are tied up with other business, buried in something that keeps them from noticing I never came back? My stomach twists. Anytime I am away from him, we always check in with each other. It is our rule, unspoken but understood. He has to know that something is wrong. He has to.
But what if he can’t get to me in time?
The thought slithers into my mind, cold and poisonous. I push it away and focus on the sound of my own breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Just stay awake. Just stay here.
A sudden, harsh grip clamps around my ankle. The contact is so jarring I scream before I even look down. My gaze snaps to the floor and my blood runs cold.
Anthony is crawling up from where he fell, his movements sluggish but purposeful. Blood streaks down the side of his face, dripping past his ear and onto the collar of his once-pristine shirt. It beads and trails down his neck, staining the skin. His eyes are burning with something feral.
“You. Fucking. Bitch.”
The words are spat at me like venom. Each one lands heavy and deliberate, loaded with rage.
He drags himself to his feet, swaying for half a second before locking his knees. His chest heaves, the rise and fall sharp and fast. There is no humanity in his expression now. Just an ugly, hungry anger that turns my stomach.
“I’m going to enjoy fucking you,” he says, his voice low and guttural, “and then choking the life out of your worthless body.”
That hunger is back in his eyes. The same look that haunted me for years, the one I swore I would never see again. My limbs feel like they are filling with lead, the last bit of strength draining away in a cruel rush.
His hand is on me again, forcing my legs apart. My muscles strain to resist, but my body is slow to respond, my head still ringing from the last blow. The cuffs bite into my wrist when I pull back, metal cutting into skin.
Then—
BOOM.
The door explodes inward with a deafening crash. The sound hits like a blast wave, rattling the bedframe and making the walls tremble. Light floods into the room from the hallway, harsh and sudden, slicing through the shadows like a blade.
“Get your fucking hands off her!”
Logan.
His voice cracks through the air like thunder, so fierce and commanding it sends something in my chest breaking wide open. Relief floods me so fast it almost hurts.
Anthony spins toward the sound, caught mid-act, his hand still on me. There is a flicker of surprise in his expression, but it is too late.
Logan is already moving.
I don’t see how he crosses the room so fast, only the blur of his body and the force of his rage. The flash of his fists. The guttural roar tearing from his throat.
The impact is brutal. I hear the sharp crack of bone breaking, the deep, animal scream that rips from Anthony’s mouth. Logan drives into him again and again, each strike fueled by something primal.
He is a storm unleashed.
And he is here.
The realization hits with a force all its own.
My body folds in on itself, curling tight as the sobs break free. I am shaking so hard I cannot tell where the trembling starts or ends. It is over.
Because he found me.
Because I am not alone.
