Page 92 of Duty Devoted

“Carter was… He was a good kid. Twenty-four, from some small town in Iowa. Always talking about his girl back home, how he was going to propose when we got back.” Logan’s hands rested on his knees, and I could see the subtle tremor in them. “He took a round to the neck. Carotid artery.”

The clinical part of my brain immediately cataloged what that meant—massive hemorrhaging, blood loss measured in seconds not minutes, minimal chance of survival even in a fully equipped trauma center.

“I got to him first. Applied pressure, tried to…” He stopped, swallowed hard. “There was so much blood. It kept slipping through my fingers, no matter how hard I pressed. The corpsman was working on another guy, and by the time he got to us…”

“James was gone.”

Logan nodded, still staring at his hands. “Died while I was holding him. While I was failing to save him. Had my fingers inside his fucking neck.”

“Logan—”

“I’ve always wondered,” he continued as if I hadn’t spoken. “If I’d done something different. Applied pressure at a differentangle, used a different technique. If I’d been faster, better, maybe?—”

“Stop.” The word came out sharper than I intended. But I had to stop him from spiraling. “Do you have access to his medical files? The incident report?”

He looked up at me then, confusion clear on his face. “What?”

“His files. The medical examiner’s report, the after-action review. Can you get them?”

“Jace could probably… Why?”

“I’ll review them for you. Every detail, every medical notation.” I met his gaze steadily. “And I’ll tell you the truth. Not some comforting lie for the sake of your feelings, but the actual medical reality of what happened.”

Something shifted in his expression, a vulnerability I rarely saw. “You’d do that?”

“Of course. But Logan, I can tell you without even looking that most injuries like that…” I chose my words carefully. “Even in a fully equipped OR with a trauma team standing by, the survival rate for carotid artery injuries is probably less than twenty percent. In the field, under fire? The fact that you tried, that you didn’t leave him to die alone—that matters.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “I know Jace can get the files. They’re classified, but he has ways.”

“Good. We’ll look at them together.”

“Together,” he repeated, like he was testing the word.

The silence that fell between us now felt different. Less charged, more…possible. We sat in that renewed silence for a long moment.

“What have you been doing?” I asked finally. “Since Puerto Rico?”

“Working.” He let out a bitter laugh. “Multiple back-to-back deployments. Myanmar, Somalia, Ukraine. Anywhere that would keep me moving.”

“All in two months?”

“Turns out you can’t outrun your own head, no matter how many miles you cover.” He rubbed his face, exhaustion clear in every line. “The team staged an intervention. Told me I was trying to commit suicide by mission.”

“Were you?”

“Maybe. Not consciously, but…” He shrugged. “Staying in motion meant not thinking. Not feeling. Not remembering how you looked that morning, peaceful and trusting and everything I didn’t deserve.”

I didn’t know what to do with the ache twisting in my chest. The part of me that wanted to believe him. Thatstillwanted him.

I swallowed hard. “So, what changed? Why are you here now?”

“Your parents called Citadel. Said you’d been mugged.” His hands clenched again. “All I could think was that you’d been hurt while I was halfway around the world playing hero for strangers.”

“And you volunteered to be my security.”

“Jace was going to do it. Offered to help you find someone local, get you settled.” Something dark flashed across his face. “The thought of him or anyone else protecting you… I was on the next flight here.”

Despite everything, warmth bloomed in my chest. “Logan?—”