Page 54 of Keeping Kasey (Love and Blood #3)

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Kasey

For the first time in months, I woke up without tears wetting my cheeks and a pile of tissues beside my bed.

A seamless transition from sleep to wakefulness.

Logan’s arms were wrapped tightly around me through the night, keeping me safe. The peace his presence alone brought me was comforting beyond anything I could put into words.

And I can’t help but wonder if those tears and tissues will multiply tenfold when I leave again.

It’s all I could think about as we lay in bed this morning.

Just yesterday, I was certain that leaving as soon as possible was my only option, but now it doesn’t seem so black and white. Everything I told Logan last night is still true—we don’t trust each other, and that won’t change just because we want it to.

And staying would mean telling Logan everything .

Before last night, I wouldn’t have even considered it, but Logan’s embrace had a particularly calming effect on me. A dangerous one that made me question everything.

Then, for him to hold my hand through the base, kiss me so openly, and leave me alone in the office, I can’t help but wonder what things could look like. What if we really could trust each other again?

Is there a world where I wake up beside Logan every day? Where walking through the base hand in hand is a regular occurrence and not a novelty that attracts the attention of every passerby?

Could I stay here?

I don’t know what I want more: to fall into Logan’s arms or to run for the hills and never look back.

My deepest desires, or my most basic instincts.

The warring thoughts fade as I pull the rolling chair to the desk. Like every time I get behind the keyboard, everything else disappears. It’s a merciful reprieve that I fully embrace.

Throwing myself into work has always been the only sure path to peace. It’s therapy—if therapy means ignoring your problems instead of confronting them.

It’s also working like a charm.

The last test run finishes in half the time I anticipated, and when the results come up instantly, I realize that my time here is much shorter than I thought.

The Seeker is ready to recover the list.

Which means my work here ends today.

For a moment, all I can do is stare at the screen.

I knew I was close, but I was expecting at least a few bugs from today’s test that would take me a little longer to work out. I guess I should be impressed by my own work, but instead, I just feel numb.

It’s not only my feelings for Logan that I have to sort through, but also my plan for getting away without drawing the attention of the mystery caller.

Since Logan gave me my phone back last night, I’ve been waiting with dread for them to call again, but no one has.

It’ll be a headache to stay hidden from an enemy I don’t even know, but I don’t plan to stay in the country, and I can’t imagine they’ll care to follow me past the border.

Or I could tell Logan everything and let him protect me…

Putting all my chaotic feelings aside, I set up the Seeker to find and retrieve the list. I meticulously check each program within the software—the deep scan algorithm, fragment reconstruction engine, disc sector analyzer, and binary pattern detector.

I double, then triple-check them, but when an hour has passed, there’s nothing left to do but turn it on.

As the Seeker works to recover the list, I decide on the perfect way to pass the time. But when I pull up the Pac-Man program to reread messages for old times’ sake, it’s empty.

Of course, he deleted the messages. I shouldn’t be surprised.

Recovering them takes no time at all—they weren’t embedded in a highly encrypted communications program. As soon as they’re rendered, I open the program and settle in for a walk down memory lane to distract myself.

But these aren’t just our old messages.

There are dozens of new ones.

All from Logan.

They start the day I left, and several short messages follow in the days after.

Logan: Enjoy your freedom while it lasts. I am going to take everything from you.

Logan: There is nowhere you can go that I will not find you.

Logan: Your days are numbered, liar.

Logan: You can’t stay away forever. When I finally get my hands on you, I will make you wish you were never born.

Several more, just like them, fill the first few weeks of my time on the run. I scroll down to one sent the day I gave away most of Logan’s cars.

Logan: Going after the car collection was a bad move, liar. You’re only giving me more reasons to prolong your suffering when I do find you—and I will find you.

The next is dated one day later.

Logan: If you think I will let you go because of anything that happened between us, you’re wrong. I don’t care who you are. No one gets away with betraying my family.

Another day.

Logan: What was the point anyway? If you were always going to stab me in the back, why bother pretending? Was it to keep me distracted? It might’ve worked once, but never again. I’m going to make your life hell. You can keep running, liar, but I will catch you.

A few days pass before the next message.

Logan: You could’ve at least told me why. Was it about money? Power? I should’ve known anyone could buy you. You have no sense of loyalty, and why would you? You’re alone and always have been.

The words have a physical effect, making my stomach twist and my eyes close, as if I can delete the words from my brain.

But I can’t.

And I can’t stop myself from reading either.

The next message is dated the day before Logan burned down the motel.

Logan: I thought I hated Mason, but I didn’t.

The second I learned of his betrayal, he was dead to me.

He wasn’t my brother anymore. But you? I really hate you, liar.

Because you’re not dead to me. You didn’t become a stranger just because I learned you’re a lying traitor.

I hate that I wonder where you are. I hate that I can’t forget about you. I hate you.

Tears gather in my eyes, but they don’t slide down my cheeks until I read the last message, dated one day later.

Logan: I’m done. As long as you stay out of my way, I will let you go.

You’re not worth the trouble. You are a memory I will relish losing as I marry someone who won’t stab me in the back.

She is well-mannered, soft-spoken, and respectful.

She was born and raised to be my wife. She is perfect for me in every way.

She is everything that you are not. Thank you for showing me who you really were before I made the mistake of choosing you.

Enjoy your freedom, liar. It is the last thing I will ever give you.

My eyes fall shut as tears stream down my face, silent and unrelenting.

I can’t help myself. It’s purely masochistic, but my curiosity is too strong. I need to know.

I open my identification program and search Logan Consoli.

It’s pathetically easy to find the woman he’s talking about.

Isabella Romano.

The wealthy family lives in the center of Chicago with ties to the Consolis, and after only moments of searching, pictures of a stunning woman fill my screen.

Her skin is tanned to perfection, with dark hair that falls elegantly in thick, shiny waves down her back.

Her dark eyes are round, and in every picture, they’re adorned with makeup that effortlessly enhances her natural beauty.

She has full lips and a gently curved nose that gives her the perfect button shape.

But it’s not Isabella’s beauty that hits me like a battering ram to the heart.

It’s the photos of her and Logan, arm in arm, at a dozen events. Most of them are formal, with Logan in sharp suits and Isabella in breathtaking gowns, but a few are more casual outings.

In all of them, they’re the picture-perfect couple.

If I thought his remark was meant to hurt me, I know now that it wasn’t. There is no denying how natural they are together. The dark features, the ideal height difference, and even the way her soft smile takes the edge off his hard glare.

She is perfect for him.

One picture catches my eye—of Logan leading Isabella by the hand, both of them dressed to the nines at some fancy event. The knife in my chest slowly turns when I realize where I’ve seen that tuxedo before.

It’s the same one he wore at the hotel bar.

I click on the photo and search for a date, though I already know what it’ll show me.

This photo was taken three days ago.

While I spent the evening at the manor alone, he was with her .

The woman made for him.

His future wife .

And yet, last night, he was in bed with me .

The disgust and shame hit me along with a sadness that I cannot deny because, more than anything else in the world, I want this to be a lie.

With my tears dried and my heart sufficiently crushed, I print one of the pictures and close out of the program as the computer at my side beeps.

The list is fully rendered.

The names, positions, and addresses of each of the nearly two hundred traitors are perfectly organized on a list that I send to the printer under encryption so others in the database can’t access it.

I take the list, seal it in an envelope, and leave Ford’s office.

I’m grateful to make it to Damon’s office without passing anyone. I don’t particularly care what anyone here thinks of me, but I’d rather no one witness my weakness.

I knock on the door to Damon’s office, and he calls me in.

He stands the second he sees me. “What happened? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you?”

Instead of answering, I toss the picture of Logan and Isabella on his desk.

Damon curses under his breath. “It’s not what it looks like.”

“Please,” I whisper. “You’ve never lied to me before, so please don’t start now.”

He looks down at the picture and swallows. “You should talk to Logan.”

“Did you know he was with her the other night?”

“The Romanos hosted the event, so I knew she’d be there, yes.”

I nod, the pain slicing through me over and over again. I keep waiting for it to stop, but it just seems to sharpen with every second that passes.

“Is he going to marry her?”

“Why are you asking me and not him?”

I drop my gaze.

“Don’t ask for honesty unless you’re going to return it,” he snaps, and it’s the first time he’s ever snapped at me.

“Because I’ll accept any answer he gives me if it means I can have him,” I admit, meeting Damon’s gaze with as much dignity as I can muster. “And I deserve more than that.”

Damon doesn’t attempt to hide his torn contemplation.

“Is he going to marry her?” I repeat.

“I don’t think he means it.”

“But he said he will?”

Damon nods once. “But that doesn’t—”

“He’s said that since this picture was taken?” I ask, not letting myself look at it again.

It hurts too much.

Damon nods again, eyes silently begging me not to ask.

But I have to.

“When?”

“Kasey, he’s the one you need to—”

“When was the last time Logan said he was planning to marry her?”

He closes his eyes, drawing in a long breath. “Please don’t make me answer that.”

The realization cuts through me with the mercy of a dull, rusty blade.

“ Today ?”

Damon’s eyes open, and the answer is right there. “He’s in love with you , Kasey. He would throw everything else away if he thought you’d stay.”

Logan held me through the night, cared for me, kissed me, and made me feel like I could live again.

And all the while, he had this poor woman on standby.

“I need you to do something for me.”

Damon shakes his head. “Absolutely not. I’m calling Logan so you two can talk. This isn’t my business.”

He reaches for his phone, and I step forward, pleading with my eyes.

“Please, Damon. This is the last thing I will ever ask of you. I promise.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“The hell I don’t; you’re leaving. Again .”

I hand him the envelope. “All I need is a two-hour head start.”

“Is this—”

I nod. “Two hours, that’s all I’m asking for.”

“He’ll find you,” Damon says. “Just like he did before.”

“He didn’t find me, did he? He had no idea where I was until someone told him.”

Damon’s face falls.

It’s confirmation enough.

“I won’t let you go,” he asserts, moving to block the door. “And you’re not locking me in a bathroom this time.”

I don’t want to be any more vulnerable than I already have been, but the only way to make Damon understand is to tell him the truth.

“I love him, too,” I admit. “But I don’t trust him, and he doesn’t trust me either.”

I look down, to the picture of the woman who looks like she was handcrafted to hang on Logan’s arm.

“I will never be what’s best for him. Even if he did choose me, it would be at the risk of his own family.

Choosing the traitor over the perfect mafia princess who was made for him.

He’ll lose alliances, strength, and notoriety, all for what? Some messy fling that went too far?”

I close the distance between us and look up at Damon, who regards me with a sad resignation.

“It isn’t worth the risk. I’m not worth the risk, even if he claims otherwise. So please, let me go. I just need a two-hour head start before you give him this list and tell him I left.”

It’s a painfully long moment before Damon finally sighs. “I’ll drive you back to the hotel myself.”

I shake my head and pull my sweatshirt up to reveal the gun in my waistband. “I’ll be just fine.”

“Kasey—”

I lift onto my tiptoes and place a kiss on his cheek. “I’ll miss you, Damon.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Goldie,” he says, reluctantly stepping aside.

I hope so, too.