Page 91 of Duty Devoted

Something flickered across his face. “No.”

“Was I assigned to you?”

“No. I volunteered.”

“Volunteered.” The words should’ve made me feel better, but instead they just made me unreasonably angry. I began pacing back and forth in the small space. “Of course you did. Can’t leave a job unfinished, right? Had to make sure the asset was properly secured?”

“That’s not—” He stopped himself, took a breath. “That’s not what you were. What you are.”

“Really? Because you seemed pretty clear about it that morning in Puerto Rico. Mission accomplished, time to move on to the next one.”

“Lauren—”

“No.” I spun back to face him, all the hurt and anger I’d been suppressing for four days—hell, for two months—boiling over. “You don’t get toLaurenme. You left. Without a word, without even a goodbye. I woke up alone in that hotel room like I was just another notch on your deployment record.”

“I’m sorry.”

The words hung between us, simple and inadequate.

“You’re sorry?” I laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Two months, Logan. Two months of silence. And now you’re sorry?”

He moved then, just a step closer, and I saw something crack in that professional facade he’d been maintaining. “I saw the bruises.”

“What?”

“On your arm. That morning.” His voice had gone rough, raw in a way I’d rarely heard. “Five perfect finger marks where I’d grabbed you. Where I’d held on too tight.”

I glanced down at my arm instinctively, though any bruises had long since faded. The memory surfaced—his grip when he’d used me as a shield at the dock, or maybe during those desperate moments in the safe house when trauma and need had tangled together.

Either way, I hadn’t noticed or remembered them.

“I woke up and saw what I’d done to you,” he continued, each word seeming to cost him. “Saw the evidence that I’d hurt you, marked you, and I… I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think past the fact that I’d done exactly what I swore I’d never do.”

Understanding dawned slowly, pieces clicking into place. “Your PTSD.”

“I sat there staring at those bruises, and all I could see was every person I’d failed to protect. Every person I’d hurt trying to help.” His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. “I thought… I thought I was keeping you safe by leaving. Protecting you from what I am.”

“What you are?” The anger was fading, replaced by something more complicated. “No, don’t answer that.”

Because I knew whatever response he gave me would be derogatory and unnecessarily critical.

“Logan, what you are is a man dealing with trauma. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have realized?—”

“Don’t.” He cut me off, shaking his head. “Don’t make excuses for me. I fucked up. I let my demons make the choice, and I hurt you worse than any bruise ever could.”

I studied him, really looked at him for the first time since he’d shown up at my door. The shadows under his eyes were darker, the lines around them deeper. He’d lost weight, his shirt hanging a little too loose on his frame.

“Tell me about James Carter.”

The change of subject made him blink. “What?”

“That night in the safe house, when you were stitching me up. You mentioned him. James Carter. Tell me what happened.”

Logan’s whole body went still, that careful control snapping back into place. For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer. Then he moved to the wall opposite me, sliding down until he was sitting on the elevator floor. After a heartbeat of hesitation, I did the same.

“Afghanistan. Third tour.” His voice had gone flat, robotic. “We were on patrol when we got hit. IED first, then small arms fire from three directions. Textbook ambush.”

I stayed quiet, letting him set the pace.