Page 68 of Logan
That gets a small smile. The kind that tugs at her lips but does not quite reach her eyes. “No,” she says, voice quiet but steady. “I need to see it. I need to be the one who walks out this time.”
I nod slowly, steadying myself with her. “Then I’m right behind you.”
We cross the parking lot together. Her hand in mine, and I’m not letting go unless she makes me. The air feels thicker here, heavy with old memories and worse ghosts, but I hold my head high because she does. My boots hit the cracked pavementin rhythm with hers, each step echoing louder in my head than the traffic rolling past.
We walk through the lobby which is dead quiet now. Dust coats the counter in a dull film. Chairs sit at awkward angles, as if people once left in a rush and never returned. The air smells faintly of mildew and stale carpet, a sharp contrast to the sunlit world outside.
I let her lead. She stops at the hallway.
That hallway.
The place where everything went wrong. I feel her stiffen beside me, the change in her body immediate, like a tremor under my hand. Her breathing hitches just once, almost too soft to hear, but I catch it. I always catch it.
I come up beside her, keeping my voice low. “You were stronger than him that day.”
She looks at me, eyes glassy but hard. “I wasn’t. I was terrified.”
“I know,” I say, no hesitation in the truth. “And you still fought. You still survived. You didn’t break, Mac.”
She laughs, bitter and sharp, the sound bouncing off the empty walls. “It didn’t feel like surviving.”
I step in front of her, gently turning her to face me. The dim light from the buzzing fluorescent above catches the tear she is fighting. “I’m not talking about the night itself. I’m talking about the days after. The weeks. The way you got back on the bike with me. The way you woke up screaming but still came to the club. The way you put your chin up when people looked at you like you were something fragile. That’s what surviving looks like.”
She blinks, and one tear slips out. I catch it with my thumb before it falls. My chest aches with the urge to take all of this from her, but I know I can’t. This is hers to own, not mine to erase.
“You’re my old lady,” I tell her, my voice thick now. “You wear my patch. But that’s not what makes you a queen, Mac.”
She frowns, brows pulling tight.
“You’re a queen because you walked through hell and didn’t let it make you cruel. You didn’t let it turn you cold. You’re standing here, in front of the place that tried to destroy you, and you’re not hiding. That’s royalty. That’s what real strength looks like.”
Her lips tremble, her eyes shining with tears she refuses to let spill all at once. She looks at me as if she is trying to decide whether to believe me.
I touch her cheek, my thumb brushing the damp trail there. “This place doesn’t get to own your story. You do.”
Mac turns then, facing the hallway again. Her hand tightens around mine until her knuckles press white. And she starts walking.
One step.
Then another.
The sound of our boots echoes off the walls, too loud in the silence. My heart hammers, not from fear of the building, but from awe at the woman walking beside me.
We reach the room. She pauses, her eyes flicking to the door. For a moment, I think she might go in, but she doesn’t.
Instead, she says, “He doesn’t live in there anymore. He doesn’t get to own my memories. I do.”
Then she turns around, chin high, shoulders squared, and walks back down the hall like she owns the whole damn building. And in my eyes, she does.
I follow her out, heart thundering in my chest, adrenaline and pride mixing until I can hardly tell them apart. When we reach the sunlight again, I wrap my arms around her from behind, pulling her close, pressing my mouth to her temple where her pulse beats steady.
“My queen,” I whisper against her skin. “You wore the crown the second you got back up.”
She turns in my arms and looks at me, and the smile she gives me now…is real. Bright and unbroken.
“I think I’m ready to go home,” she says.
I nod. “Yeah, baby. Let’s ride.”
