Page 58 of Logan
The door gives way under my boot so easily it feels like it was begging to break, the wood splintering around the lock in a single, brutal hit.
The second I am inside, the smell slams into me. Stale sweat. Fear. Cheap aftershave that burns my nose. And something sharper underneath, like the metallic tang of blood that has not yet dried. My pulse hammers against my skull, and then my eyes find her.
Mac.
She is on the bed. Bare. Handcuffed to the frame. A bruise blooms across her cheek, angry and fresh. Her hair is a tangled halo around her face, her breathing uneven. Her eyeslock on mine wide, wet, and terrified, and that is all I see. Not her exposed skin. Not the humiliation Anthony tried to paint across her body.
Just her.
My girl.
Fighting to stay whole.
And then I see him.
Anthony is standing over her, belt undone, frozen mid-motion like some sick animal caught in a trap. His face goes from shock to rage to something worse, some kind of warped confidence, like he thinks there is still a chance he can finish what he started.
Wrong.
I move without thinking. The distance between us disappears in an instant. My fist connects with his jaw so hard I feel the bone shift under my knuckles, the sound of the impact deep and satisfying. His head snaps sideways, body folding as if the strength is ripped from it.
He tries to swing back, but he is sloppy, off balance. My vision has tunneled until he is the only thing I see.
This is not a fight.
It is an execution.
I hit him again. And again. Each blow is a release of the fire I have been holding in since I realized she was gone. His blood spatters across the wall, across my arm. My breath is coming in broken, ragged bursts, but I do not stop until he is on the floor, bloodied, barely conscious.
The belt in his hand is stripped away, tossed across the room like the useless thing it is. My knuckles ache, but the pain is far away.
When I finally tear my eyes from him, they go straight to her.
She is curled as much as the cuffs allow, arms stretched above her head, ribs heaving like she has been drowning and only now found air. Her skin is pale except where bruises are already blooming.
“I’ve got you,” I say, my voice dropping low as I move to her side. I drop to my knees beside the bed so I am level with her. “Mac. I’m here. It’s me.”
Her lips move but no sound comes out. She is trembling so violently that the cuffs rattle against the bedpost. Her eyes are locked on mine like she is afraid I am some trick her mind is playing.
My fingers trace the cold metal of the handcuffs before I yell over my shoulder, “Find the fucking key!”
Cain is there in seconds, moving with a quiet efficiency that tells me he is just as ready to kill as I am. The second the cuffs are undone, I notice the angry red welts already forming on her wrists. The marks look raw, like they have been pulling at her skin the entire time she fought.
As soon as she is free, she backs away from me, pressing herself against the corner of the bed like she is trying to fold into the wall itself. My heart cracks at the sight, but I keep my voice soft, swallowing the roaring storm inside me.
“Mac. Baby, it’s me. I’m here.”
She looks at me for a moment, eyes searching my face, before she lunges forward into my arms. The sob thatbreaks from her chest is jagged and unrestrained, her entire body wracked with tremors. I wrap her up, pulling the blanket from the bed and wrapping it around her. I do not care that it smells like mildew and fear. I do not care about anything except covering her, protecting her, holding her together until she can breathe again.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper into her hair, my lips brushing her skin with every word. “I should’ve been faster. I should’ve never let you go alone.”
She shakes her head against me, gripping the fabric of my cut like it is the only thing tethering her to this moment. “You came. You came.”
And God help me, I almost lose it right there.
Because I do not care what happens to me after this.
I would burn this whole fucking world down before I let anyone hurt her again.
