Page 69 of Duty Devoted

“Clean and rebandaged. I’ll get it looked at again once I’m back in Chicago.” I pulled the robe tighter, suddenly self-conscious. “Shouldn’t scar too badly.”

“Good.” Another pause, heavier this time. “I should get to my room before I scare any more guests. A shower wouldn’t kill me.”

“Logan.” The words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Stay here.”

His eyes found mine, dark and unreadable. The silence stretched between us, filled with everything we hadn’t said. Everything we might never say.

“You might as well use the shower,” I continued, my voice steadier than my pulse. “The bathroom is absurd—multiple showerheads, heated floors, towels thick as blankets. We can order some room service.”

“If you’re sure,” he said finally.

“I’m sure. I want you here.”

He gave me a small nod before heading for the bathroom, movements stiff like exhaustion was finally catching up. I heard the water start and tried to give him privacy.

Tried.

I sat on the bed and stared at the room service menu without reading a single word. Flipped through TV channels—hurricane damage in Spanish, hurricane damage in English. Everything a reminder of what we’d survived.

I didn’t know how long Logan and I had together, whether we were going to try to continue any of this once we left here. All I knew was that I didn’t want to waste the time we did have watching the news.

Before I could talk myself out of it, stitches be damned, I shed the robe and walked into the bathroom.

Steam had fogged the glass walls of the shower, but I could see his silhouette under the spray. He had his back to me, hands braced against the tile, head bowed as water sluiced over hisshoulders. The pose spoke of exhaustion so profound it made my chest tight.

I opened the glass door and stepped in.

He turned without surprise—of course he’d heard me coming. Water ran down his chest, revealing what dirt and clothes had hidden. A map of violence written in scar tissue. Some old and faded, others still pink with newness. More damage than any one person should carry.

“Lauren—”

I pressed my fingers to his lips, feeling the warmth of his breath against my wet skin. “Let me take care of you.”

Something flickered across his face—resistance, maybe, or concern. But he nodded, and I reached for the hotel’s body wash that probably cost more than most people’s groceries.

I started at his shoulders, working the lather across muscles that stayed tense even now. The dirt and sweat of our ordeal washed away under my hands, revealing clean skin marked by brutality. My fingers found a puckered scar near his ribs.

“Kandahar,” he said before I could ask. “Through and through. Lucky shot—inch lower and it would’ve hit lung.”

Another across his shoulder blade, long and thin. “Knife?”

“Broken bottle, actually. Bar fight in Mogadishu that got out of hand.”

I worked my way down his body, cataloging damage like patient history. But this wasn’t clinical detachment. Each mark was a story of survival, a moment when death had reached for him and missed. My throat tightened as I found more—so many more. How many times had he come close to not coming back?

When I reached a starburst scar on his thigh, he caught my wrists with gentle pressure.

“Enough inventory,” he said, voice rough. “Come here.”

He pulled me up, and then his mouth was on mine, hungry and desperate. His hands tangled in my wet hair, angling my head as he pressed me back against the tile wall.

The cold shock of it made me gasp, and he swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss until I couldn’t think beyond the heat of his mouth and the solid weight of his body against mine. When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.

“Bed,” he said against my lips. “Need to do this right.”

We barely dried off, leaving wet footprints across marble. All I cared about was Logan’s hands on my waist, guiding me to sheets that felt like silk against my damp skin.

He paused at the bandage on my ribs, tracing its edges with fingertips that shook slightly.