Page 62 of Logan
Driven by hate, consumed by fear
Let the bodies hit the floor
‘Bodies’ - Drowning Pool
I sit on the edge of the bed.
The mattress dips under my weight, the springs giving a soft groan in the stillness. My boots are planted on the floor, shoulders hunched forward, as if leaning any closer to her will somehow keep her here.
Mac is asleep, finally.
Doc gave her something mild, just enough to help her body settle after everything. She’s curled on her side under the blanket, the fabric tucked under her chin like she’s trying to hold onto whatever warmth she can find. Her breathing is shallow but steady, a rhythm I keep finding myself matching withoutrealizing it. Every inhale and exhale from her is proof that she’s here, in this bed, in this room, and not in that hellhole.
Her face is bruised in ways that make my stomach knot. A faint, ugly purple is forming along her cheekbone, the skin just under her eye swollen. Her lips are cracked, the edges dark from where he hit her. Her wrists are ringed in red from the cuffs, the angry marks standing out against her skin. Doc said she has a concussion, along with other bruises scattered across her body.
But she’s here.
She’s alive.
And I can’t stop staring at her.
I rub my hands together slowly, feeling the sting along my knuckles. The skin there is split in places, scraped raw. I can’t tell if it’s from the fight or from clenching my fists so tight afterward. Every muscle in my body feels strung too tight, like I could snap if I so much as breathed wrong. My head keeps replaying the moment I saw her on that bed. It loops over and over, like some sick film I can’t turn off.
I should’ve gotten there sooner.
I lean forward, elbows braced on my knees, head in my hands. My jaw aches from grinding it. My ribs are sore, probably cracked one on the doorframe when I kicked it in, but the pain is nothing compared to the pressure in my chest.
But I don’t care.
None of it matters.
What matters is I let her go.
I told her to stay. I knew she wasn’t ready. I knew he was still out there. And I still let her walk into that interview alone.
I hear her scream in my head, sharp and panicked, the kind that cuts straight through bone. I see her wrists yanked tight against the headboard, her body exposed and vulnerable, stripped of the power she’s fought so hard to reclaim. And him. Standing over her like he had the right to take whatever he wanted.
Rage surges up, hot and choking, until my hands curl into fists again. I press the heels of my palms to my eyes, trying to blot it all out, but it doesn’t go. It won’t go.
Because I failed her.
And I don’t know if she’ll ever be able to look at me again without remembering that I was too late.
A soft rustle breaks the silence.
I look up.
Mac’s eyes are open, just barely. Her lashes flutter with the effort of keeping them that way. Her voice is rough, the sound scraping against my chest. “Logan?”
I’m at her side in two steps, crouching down the way I did in that room except this time, she’s safe. There’s no lock on the door. No chains.
“I’m here,” I say, my voice low and hoarse.
She shifts slightly, wincing at the movement. Her hand, small and trembling, reaches for mine and squeezes.
“You didn’t fail me,” she whispers.
The words land hard. I swallow past the lump in my throat. “You don’t know that.”
