Page 26 of Keeping Kasey (Love and Blood #3)
CHAPTER TWENTY
Kasey
I lied to Logan.
At least, I think I did.
It’s true that everything is a haze, and I don’t remember all the details. But one thing I do know: Brandon didn’t try to assault me.
And while I didn’t flat-out tell Logan that he did, I knowingly implied it.
I only remember fragments of my conversation with Brandon before Ford showed up, but I vividly recall the confusion, the fear, and the eerie sense that I’d done something wrong.
The parts of the conversation that I do remember scare me almost as much as the encounter itself.
You lying traitor , he’d said and asked if I was here to delete it.
I don’t even know what it is.
Then, the one sentence I remember with painful clarity:
Consoli will find out you’re a traitor, and he’ll kill you.
Implying an assault isn’t the most morally appropriate option, but it’s easier than telling Logan the far more confusing and potentially damning truth. I have no idea what Brandon thinks he knows about me, but I trust my gut enough to know I need to look into it before I tell Logan.
My guilt is far outweighed by the feeling of complete serenity when Logan’s arms are wrapped around me.
The side of Logan I’ve seen since he walked into my hospital room is both disconcerting and utterly irresistible. This gentle, attentive, protective version of him sharply contrasts the egotistical, controlling man he usually is.
The mix of these two personalities is alluring, and I let myself fall headfirst into him.
It took every ounce of the remaining strength I had to lie to the one person capable of offering me comfort. So now, with nothing left but the raw emotions I spend my life hiding, I find peace in Logan. I forget the paranoia and take comfort in his touch—his presence.
I don’t argue when he has the doctor do one last exam before discharging me.
I don’t argue when he insists on using a wheelchair to get me to his car.
I don’t argue when he drives me to a nearby hotel, one hand on my thigh the entire drive.
And I don’t argue when he carries me bridal-style through the hotel lobby and up to my room.
For the first time in my life, I let someone take care of me.
After a shower that Logan prepares—and joins me for—I’m brushing out my hair when his eyes drop to my foot.
“You didn’t tell me about this.”
A bolt of pain travels up my leg at the memory of kicking the leg of the desk, and I wince. “It’s just a bruise.”
He takes me by the hand to sit on the bed, then does something that renders me speechless for the second time today.
He kneels.
The regal, formidable boss of the Consoli mafia family kneels .
For me.
He takes my foot, gently brushing his fingers over the bruise.
“I’m not your responsibility, you know,” I whisper. “You don’t have to take care of me.”
When Logan’s eyes meet mine, my chest constricts at the affection that shines so openly. There isn’t an ounce of wavering, even when his lips tug into a small smile and he says, “I want to take care of you.”
My breath catches, and the lump in my throat thickens too much to speak, so I silently pull him to his feet, wrap my arms around his waist, and mold my body to his.
If he’s caught off guard, he doesn’t show it. His arms instinctively pull me to him, and though we’ve slept together so many times, there’s something deeply intimate about how we fit together in this moment.
I blame today’s trauma for the tears stinging the corners of my eyes.
Usually, I’d be mortified by the idea of anyone witnessing my tears—or any expression of weakness—but right now, I feel safe.
It’s a level of comfort I can’t remember ever feeling before, and it isn’t only about my physical security.
I know with absolute certainty that if a tear were to escape, Logan would simply wipe it away and hold me tighter.
Less than an hour later—after I was forced to ice and elevate my foot—we’re lying between the soft sheets of the hotel bed. I fit into Logan’s side, and one of his arms holds me to him. The position is so cozy that I’m tempted to fall asleep.
But I can’t.
In addition to the guilt I feel from lying to Logan, there’s one other part of today I can’t so easily move on from.
“I killed him,” I whisper, and it’s the first time I’ve said the words out loud.
Taking Brandon’s life was a necessity for Ford’s and my survival, but that doesn’t mean it was easy or that the image of his face right before I pulled the trigger won’t be embedded in my brain forever.
It already is.
“You didn’t have a choice.”
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
Logan’s hand holds the side of my face tenderly. “It should. Ford would be dead right now if you hadn’t done it, and you probably would be, too.”
“I don’t feel very heroic.”
Logan’s soft chuckle wraps around me like rich velvet—soothing to every bone in my body. “I can’t speak for being a hero, but I know that doing what’s necessary rarely feels like doing what’s right.”
His eyes are devoid of their usual snark and condescension. As his mesmerizing green eyes bore into mine, I feel the burden of duty that weighs on him like a ton of bricks.
Just like that, I no longer think of how this day has affected me, but how the role Logan was forced into has affected him.
“How do you cope?”
He lightly rests his forehead to mine. “By remembering what’s important to me.”
The question is on the tip of my tongue…
I jump in Logan’s arms when his phone rings. Matteo’s name flashes on the screen, and Logan kisses my temple before answering.
“Consoli,” he greets, then listens. “And there’s nothing else they can do?” A pause. “Yes, but not until the morning. I trust you can handle things until then? Good, well—”
Logan freezes, and his eyes find mine with an expression I can’t read.
“You’re sure?” he asks, and my stomach drops. “Thanks, Matteo.”
Logan ends the call, but his unreadable expression stays in place.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, and my head spins with the possibilities.
He studies me for a long moment, then says, “You left something out of your story.”
I rub my head and squeeze my eyes closed to hide my growing panic. “I told you, it’s all fuzzy.”
Logan nods, and his face breaks in a rare show of vulnerability. “You tried to send me a message.”
My relief is instant, even if accompanied by a wave of guilt that I lied in the first place. Then the embarrassment hits—because trying to message Logan hadn’t been a rational decision, but rather, an instinct.
“Yeah,” I practically breathe the word, averting my gaze.
We sit in charged silence for only a moment before Logan tenderly takes my face between his hands, forcing my eyes to his.
The look I find there melts any hint of my shame.
His unbridled wonder, fear, and awe reduce my walls to rubble.
“What were you thinking? You had the chance to call for help, and you didn’t set off any alarms or call for someone closer? Why would you try to message me when I was hundreds of miles away?”
There’s nothing malicious in his tone. Genuine curiosity and urgency are laced in each word.
And I can’t bring myself to tell him another lie.
“When I realized I was in danger, I just…” I close my eyes before admitting, “I just wanted you.”
The second the confession leaves my lips, he’s kissing me.
It’s the opposite of every other kiss we’ve shared. There’s no frenzied desperation—though I’m more desperate now than I’ve ever been.
Still, Logan kisses me soft and slow, like I’m made of glass.
It’s so different from how he usually touches me. I love the rough, animalistic nature of our chemistry, but this? This is something entirely different, and I have to admit—even if just to myself—that maybe I’ve been craving this, too.
I let Logan take me by the hips and pull me onto him as he rolls to his back. The warmth of his body against mine, the comfort his scent brings, and the safety of his touch are amplified as I fall into the bliss that is Logan.
I want more.
When my hand wanders down, he shakes his head, lips still brushing mine. “Not tonight.”
“I want to,” I whisper.
“You’re hurt, and you’ve gone through something traumatic.”
“And now I want to be with you.” I run my fingers down the side of his face. “Please, Logan.”
He pulls in a long breath, then sighs. “It’s getting increasingly difficult to say no to you.”
Then he’s kissing me again.
The complete contentment that fills me is starting to terrify me. I can’t even remember what it was like to be with someone else—I only know that it’s never felt like this. Not even close. I’ve never felt so tied to someone, like we’re connected by more than just our bodies.
Like I’m not just me anymore.
Logan takes my hand, watching me intently as he flattens my palm over his bare chest and glides it over his heart. The erratic racing of his heart, the raw desperation in his gaze, and the possessive hold he keeps on my wrist and hip—it’s his silent affirmation.
I’m not the only one burning with need.
He’s burning with me.
This silent confession spurs a million feelings I can’t possibly name—let alone begin to process—but for the first time, I want to try. I don’t feel the need to throw myself into my work. I only want to throw myself into him .
Headfirst, and with no intention of resurfacing.
By the time Logan tucks me into bed, I can barely keep my eyes open.
Sleep threatens to take over, but I fight it off when I hear the rustle of fabric.
Through strained eyes, I find Logan buttoning his pants in the reflection of the hotel mirror, and the idea of him walking out that door hurts more than it should.
“Logan,” I whisper, the word barely audible.
His brow furrows as he rushes to my side, eyes scanning me for something wrong.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I’m not sure what it is—my long pause or the expression on my face—but when I don’t answer, his concern morphs to realization.
Maybe it’s the concussion, the exhaustion, or just my wishful thinking, but I could swear he gives me the slightest nod, which is why I finally ask the question.
“Will you stay with me?”
His smile is small, but so genuine my heart could burst from the sight. With a soft kiss to my cheek, he murmurs, “Anything for you.”
Logan slides into bed behind me, our bodies fitting together perfectly, and when his arms wrap around me, I fall fast asleep.