Page 39

Lauren

Four days. Four days of Logan as my constant shadow, and I still couldn’t look at him without feeling that familiar twist of hurt and anger in my chest. He’d been nothing but professional—standing just far enough away to give me space, speaking only when necessary.

But I wanted so much more…or so much less.

I shouldn’t have noticed the way my skin sparked every time he guided me through a doorway, his hand barely grazing the small of my back. I shouldn’t have cataloged each brush of our fingers when he handed me something. My body hadn’t gotten the memo that we were done with Logan Kane.

But I couldn’t deny one thing—I felt safer with him here. The crawling sensation of being watched hadn’t disappeared entirely, but knowing Logan was nearby made it bearable. No one was stupid enough to approach me with six feet two inches of lethal protection at my side.

I’d accomplished more at the hospital in these four days than in all the weeks before combined. Amazing what I could focus on when I wasn’t constantly checking over my shoulder.

Or when I had a presence I was determined to pretend wasn’t there, forcing my mind to focus on other things.

I grabbed my bag from the kitchen counter, hyperaware of Logan waiting just inside the doorway. He’d learned my morning routine quickly—where to stand to be present but not intrusive, when to move to maintain his sight lines without crowding me. Professional to the core.

The elevator was already waiting when we reached it, one of the perks of living on the thirty-fifth floor.

I stepped inside, Logan following with that careful, maddening distance.

The doors slid closed with their expensive whisper, and we began our descent in the same silence that had defined our interactions.

The elevator was the worst. The perfect time for chitchat, but never between us.

Twenty-nine floors to go. Twenty-eight. Twenty-seven?—

We lurched to a stop, the lights flickering once before steadying. My stomach dropped in that instant of weightlessness before physics caught up. I waited for us to continue our journey, but we didn’t move.

“What—”

“Let’s stay calm.” Logan was already moving to the emergency panel, his movements competent and controlled. “Probably just a mechanical issue.”

I watched him pick up the emergency phone, his voice carrying that particular tone of authority that made people want to comply. “This is the elevator between floors twenty-seven and twenty-six. Two occupants. We’re stopped.”

A tinny voice responded through the speaker, and Logan’s expression remained neutral as he listened. “Understood. We’ll wait for your update.”

He hung up and turned to me. “They’re aware of the situation. They’ll get maintenance working on it.”

“How long will it be?”

“They didn’t say.”

I moved to the far corner of the elevator, as far from Logan as the confined space allowed. The silence stretched between us, thick and uncomfortable. I checked my phone—no signal. Typical.

Eight minutes passed. Ten. At the fifteen-minute mark, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I grabbed the emergency phone myself.

“This is Dr. Valentino. We’ve been stuck in here for a while. What’s the timeline?”

The same operator, the same platitudes. They were working on it. We weren’t in danger. Just hang tight.

I slammed the phone back down with more force than necessary.

“They don’t know how long,” I said, not looking at Logan.

“I figured.”

More silence. The air in the elevator seemed to thicken with each passing minute, charged with everything we weren’t saying. I could feel him watching me, that steady gaze I’d once found comforting now just another reminder of what I’d lost.

“Do you want someone else?”

His question startled me enough that I actually looked at him. “What?”

“As your primary security detail.” He stood perfectly still, hands clasped in front of him in that military at-ease position. “I can arrange for Jace or Ty to take over. Would probably be easier for everyone. Or an entirely different company altogether. I’ll make sure it’s someone good.”

“Did someone force you to be here?” The question escaped before I could stop it. The thought had plagued me since the moment he’d shown up. That, just like Corazón, all I was to him was an assignment.

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 to Lauren me. 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.

“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 different angle, 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?”