Page 30

Lauren

The coffee wasn’t perfect—it wasn’t Elena’s—but the rich, dark brew with just enough cream to turn it the color of caramel made it pretty damned close.

I wrapped both hands around the porcelain cup, letting the warmth seep into my fingers as I stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse suite.

San Juan stretched below me, a jumble of colonial architecture and modern high-rises that seemed impossibly civilized after the jungle.

My body felt strange in the plush hotel robe.

Too clean. Too soft. The thick cotton against my skin was nothing like the rough scrubs I’d worn for months, nothing like the mud-caked clothes I’d peeled off just hours ago.

I’d stood under the rainfall shower for nearly forty-five minutes, watching brown water swirl down the drain until it finally ran clear.

It wasn’t the best thing for my stitches, but I didn’t care.

I’d rebandaged it, and I would deal with that once I was back in Chicago.

This suite was obscene. Marble floors, a bathroom bigger than most houses in Corazón, a bed that could sleep six comfortably. My parents’ doing, of course. The concierge had practically genuflected when I’d given my name at the desk.

Getting here felt like fragments of a dream.

The explosion of Mateo’s boat lighting up the dark water.

Logan’s team whisking us from boat to helicopter to private plane, each transition handled with military precision.

I’d stopped thinking, stopped processing, just followed wherever Logan led.

For the first time in my adult life, I’d surrendered control completely to someone else.

And I’d been safe.

The phone’s ring jarred me from my thoughts. I answered immediately since Logan and his team were the only ones who knew I was here.

“Hello?”

“Lauren! Oh my God, sweetheart, are you all right?” Not the only ones.

My mother’s voice crackled through the connection, pitched high with worry.

“Mom, I’m fine?—”

“We heard three doctors got out, but you weren’t with them. Your father’s been calling everyone, the State Department, that Compass Medical director—he even threatened to fly down there himself.”

“I’m okay.” I kept my voice steady, even as my free hand unconsciously pressed against the bandage hidden beneath my robe. “There was some confusion with the evacuation, but I’m safe. I’m in San Juan.”

“San Juan?” My father’s voice now—they must have me on speaker. His tone carried that particular mix of relief and frustration I’d heard since childhood. “What are you doing in Puerto Rico? Why aren’t you with the others in Panama?”

Because I stayed behind to deliver a baby. Because I almost died in a hurricane. Because I’ve been running from a psychopath through the jungle. Because I watched men die.

“Logistics,” I said instead. “Different extraction routes. But I’m safe, and I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Lauren, we can send a jet?—”

“Commercial flight is already booked. I’ll see you for dinner tomorrow night.”

“At least let us upgrade you to first class. You must be exhausted?—”

“Already handled.” Another lie. I’d booked economy, needing to feel like a normal person for a few hours. “I should go. The connection isn’t great.”

“Lauren Victoria Valentino, don’t you dare hang up on us.” But my mother’s voice had softened, the way it did when relief finally won over worry. “We love you. Whatever happened down there, whatever you’re not telling us—we’re just glad you’re safe.”

My throat tightened. “I love you too. Both of you. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Ten minutes and a dozen more reassurances later, I finally ended the call. They meant well, but I couldn’t handle their worry right now. Not when I was barely holding myself together. Not when so much had happened in the past week and I needed to process it all myself.

All I knew was that for right now, I was safe. No running, no hurricane, no cartel.

But still, a knock at the door made me freeze and glance around for possible exit routes and potential weapons.

“It’s me.” Logan’s voice came through the door, and my shoulders dropped with relief.

I opened the door to find him hovering at the threshold, and my breath caught.

He looked exactly as he had on the boat— same torn shirt darkened with sweat and blood, same dirt-caked pants, same exhaustion carved into the lines of his face.

While I’d been luxuriating in thread counts I couldn’t calculate, he’d been working.

“Come in,” I said, stepping back.

He hesitated, actually hesitated, his eyes scanning the pristine suite before looking down at himself. “I’m filthy.”

“I’m sure these floors have seen worse.”

That earned me an almost-smile as he stepped inside, careful not to touch anything. The morning’s efficient killer had been replaced by someone almost uncertain, and it made my chest ache in ways I didn’t want to examine.

“How was the debrief?”

“Long, and it won’t be the only one.” He positioned himself near the window, still not sitting, like he might contaminate the furniture. “It’s important to go over every detail while it’s fresh. Silva’s organization, the hurricane, the extraction. Especially the…conclusion.”

The explosion. Mateo’s death. We hadn’t talked about it, but I’d seen the grim necessity in his expression when he’d pulled that trigger. One more ghost for him to carry.

“You’ll have a shorter version tomorrow morning,” he continued. “Eight sharp, downstairs conference room. Just basic questions, nothing too invasive. Either I or one of the guys will come and get you.”

“Okay.”

We stood there, the space between us feeling like an ocean. His gaze tracked over me—the plush robe, my clean hair still damp at the ends. Something shifted in his expression, a tightening around his eyes.

“You look…” He paused, seemed to reconsider his words. “Better. How’s the wound?”

“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 his shoulders. 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.

“I’m fine. We’re alive and safe, thanks to you.”

His eyes met mine, and I saw everything there—guilt, desire, fear, something deeper he wouldn’t name. Then he was kissing me again, softer this time, like he was memorizing the shape of my mouth. His lips traced a path down my throat, across my collarbone, lower.

He took his time, mapping my body with the same careful attention I’d given his scars.

When his mouth found sensitive places that made me arch beneath him, he lingered, drawing out sounds I didn’t try to muffle.

His fingers joined his exploration, and I forgot about yesterday and tomorrow, and everything but the building pressure and the need for more.

“Please,” I managed, tugging at his shoulders. “Logan, I need?—”

“I know.” He moved up my body, settling between my thighs with careful attention to my injured side. “I’ve got you.”

When he pushed inside me, we both stilled. The connection felt like more than bodies joining. His forehead pressed to mine, breath mingling as we adjusted to the feeling.

“Look at me,” he whispered, and I opened eyes I hadn’t realized I’d closed. His gaze held mine as he began to move, slow and deep, watching every flicker of pleasure across my face.

Our eyes locked as long as I could stand it, and then I pulled his head down, needing his lips on mine. I wrapped my legs around him, holding him close as we found our rhythm. Each movement sent sparks through me, building toward something that felt too big for my body to contain.

His hand found mine, fingers interlacing against the sheets. Such a simple gesture, but it undid me completely. The pressure crested, and I shattered with his name on my lips. He followed me over, face buried in my neck, my name a broken prayer against my skin.

We stayed joined afterward, neither willing to accept separation. His weight should have been uncomfortable, but instead, it anchored me to the moment. To him.

Eventually, he shifted to his side, pulling me against his chest. The suite was dark now, city lights painting abstract patterns on the ceiling.

For the first time since Diego Silva had executed Carlos—maybe since before that—I felt truly safe.

Not just physically protected, but soul-deep safe in a way that terrified me.

“Sleep,” he murmured against my hair. “I’ve got watch.”

“You can sleep too. We’re safe here. The door’s locked, we’re on the twentieth floor?—”

“Then I’ll watch you sleep.” His arm tightened around me. “Make sure this is real. Make sure you’re real.”

I wanted to argue, to tell him he needed rest more than I did. But exhaustion pulled at me like an undertow. The last thing I felt was his lips pressed to my temple, his whispered words too quiet to catch.

Tomorrow would bring debriefs and airports and the return to lives that no longer fit quite right. Tomorrow, I’d have to pretend this week hadn’t fundamentally altered something in my DNA.

But tonight, wrapped in his arms while the city pulsed below us, we existed outside of time. Two people who’d found each other in the worst possible circumstances and discovered something worth more than either had expected.