Page 46 of Logan (The Valeur Billionaires #1)

Chapter Thirty-Five

SLOANE

I arrive at the charming cabin I rented, nestled in a secluded grove of towering pines. The rustic exterior and quaint gabled roof promise a cozy retreat, a place to lick my wounds and piece together the shattered remnants of my life.

But as I step over the threshold with my duffel bag clutched tight to my chest like a shield, I realize with sinking certainty that no amount of rustic scenery can dispel the suffocating feeling of dejection that has settled in my heart, heavy and immovable as a boulder.

My career is gone, shattered like cheap glass under the heel of my reckless choices. And if this video goes public, I won’t be able to show my face anywhere.

I drop my bag by the door, not bothering to unpack and wander into the living room. My gaze catches on a framed cross-stitch sampler above the fireplace, a saccharine platitude about the healing power of nature stitched in prim thread.

I snort.

A hysterical giggle bubbles up my throat as a sudden thought hits me. How much does facial reconstruction surgery cost? Maybe I should look into it.

I shake my head at my gallows humor. Seems like the only career I’ll be able to have now is that of a porn star since everyone has already gotten a good long look at my tits.

Might as well lean into it and embrace my new identity as the office slut. I glance down at my breasts. At least they’re nice, perky and symmetrical. Porn star grade.

I wander into the bedroom. The bed looms before me, wide and inviting, a plush down comforter in soothing earth tones begging me to crawl beneath it and shut out the world.

I stand with my back to the bed, and I let myself fall backward, surrendering to gravity and despair. I bounce as I hit the mattress, the ancient springs creaking in protest.

The whole point of this little getaway into the wilderness was to clear my head, gain some needed perspective, and come to grips with my new reality.

But I can’t muster up the willpower to even lace up my hiking boots, to plaster on a carefree smile for the unsuspecting strangers I might encounter on the trails.

I can barely stand the company of my own thoughts.

Thoughts that stray to the catalyst of my downfall, the man who lit the match and set my life ablaze with the barest brush of his fingertips.

Logan.

Even now, even with the acrid taste of betrayal coating my tongue, the mere thought of him sends a traitorous shiver skittering down my spine. I want to hate him. Want to curse his name and banish him from my thoughts like an exorcised demon. But I can’t.

I knew the risks, knew I was dancing on the edge of a cliff every time I let him put his hands on me, every time I fell into the stormy blue of his eyes and drowned there. I dove headfirst into the flames with a smile on my face, giddy at the rush of playing with fire.

I have no one to blame but myself for getting burned.

God, how could I have been so na?ve? So stupid?

I need to swear off men. Resign myself to a life of celibacy and cats and pints of ice cream consumed in a bathrobe on a Saturday night. Cut out the middleman and fast forward to spinsterhood.

I scrabble for my phone and hold it over my face, the glowing screen searing my gritty, aching eyes.

A barrage of notifications assault my vision, missed calls and concerned texts and emails clamoring for attention.

I swipe away the notifications, ignoring the twinge of curiosity, the niggling urge to scroll through my messages just in case.

Instead, I pull up my thread with Emery, my thumb hovering over the keyboard as I debate what to say. How to make her believe I haven’t lost it, that I’m not one stiff breeze away from shattering into a million jagged pieces?

In the end, I settle for a half-truth, a travel brochure snapshot of a carefree woodland retreat.

Hey, I arrived safely. The cabin is gorgeous. I’m already enjoying a hike in nature, and I’ve met nice people. Don’t worry.

I stare at the words until they blur. The pixels bleeding together. I promised Emery I’d let her know I was okay. I never promised complete honesty.

I hit send before I can second guess myself—before the suffocating despair claws its way back up my throat and renders me mute.

Emery’s response is almost immediate.

Emery

Glad to hear. I hope you’re alright, waiting for an update from you.

I stare at the message. I hate deceiving her, the one best friend I have left in this world. But I can’t bear the thought of her pity, her gentle concern, her attempts to just fix everything with platitudes and reassurances that I’m better off without the toxic influence of Logan Valeur in my life.

Maybe that’s true in some cosmic sense. Maybe someday I’ll look back on this whole mess as a blessed escape, the best thing that ever happened to me.

But right now, raw and bleeding in the aftermath, it feels like a vital piece of me has been ripped out, a Logan-shaped hole gaping in my chest where my heart used to be.

Before I can spiral again, lose myself in the sticky web of memories and might-have-beens, another message from Emery pops up.

Emery

Oh, Logan Valeur was looking for you.

I freeze, my lungs seizing in my chest. Everything in me goes still and quiet, the white noise buzzing in my head snuffed out like a candle in a gale.

Logan was asking about me? Trying to find me?

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry or throw my phone at the wall.

He’s probably just covering his bases, doing damage control, like the efficient leader he is.

I type out a response with fingers that shake with impotent fury, jamming my thumb at the screen like I could break it in half with the force of my rage.

Logan can go fuck himself.

I copy the first message, the sunny lie, and send it to my parents as well. There. Familial obligations fulfilled, concerned parties appeased. Now I can retreat into my cave of sorrows and fester in peace, undisturbed by the outside world and its endless demands .

I shut off my phone, the screen going black. Then, numb and wrung out, I reach over and flip off the bedside lamp as well, plunging the room into a gloom that matches my mood.

I don’t care that it’s barely past dinnertime, that there are a million healthier coping mechanisms than hiding in bed feeling sorry for myself.

I don’t care about anything beyond the ache in my throat, the burn behind my eyes and the awful, echoing emptiness in the cavity where my heart used to be.

My eyes ache, and my head pulsates as I cry until exhaustion takes over.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

I jerk awake, my heart pounding against my ribs.

“Sloane, open up!” The banging continues, insistent and demanding.

What time is it? What’s going on? I wrap the blanket around my body and rise, padding to the door on sleep-clumsy feet. I crack it open, peering out into the dim light of late evening.

The door flies open, nearly sending me sprawling. I stumble back, my eyes widening as Logan steps into the room, his large frame filling the small space, making it feel cramped. Suffocating.

“Logan?” I rasp, my voice rough with sleep and tears. “What are you doing here?”

“Fuck, Sloane.” He strides forward, his eyes blazing. “Don’t you ever run from me again.”

Without warning, he sweeps me into his arms, crushing me against his chest.

Stunned, I stiffen for a moment before melting into his embrace, my resistance crumbling like a house of cards. He feels so good, so warm and solid and safe.

He brushes his thumb over my cheek, his touch gentle despite the tension thrumming through him. Then he curses under his breath. “You’ve been crying.”

I hate him. I hate he can still make me feel this way, even now, even after everything. But I can’t bring myself to pull away.

“I’m not exactly sexy with red, puffy eyes, huh?” I try for a joke, but it falls flat, my voice wavering.

“You’re always sexy to me.” He cups my face in his hands, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. “You’re perfect.” He leans in, his lips a hairsbreadth from mine. “And I want to kiss you until you can’t remember anything but the taste of me.”

He claims my mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing my gasp as his tongue sweeps inside. I can taste the faint hint of coffee and mint, the flavor uniquely his, and it makes me dizzy, makes me weak in the knees.

The blanket slips from my shoulders, forgotten, leaving me in just my thin tank top and panties. But I can’t bring myself to care, not when Logan is kissing me like he wants to crawl inside me, like he wants to devour me whole.

My mind goes blank, just like he promised. All I can focus on is the hard press of his body against my soft curves, the hot slide of his mouth over mine, the electric blue of his eyes, so clear and intense I feel like I can see straight into his soul.

Fuck.

I wrench myself away, planting my hands on his chest and shoving him back. He’s doing it again, scrambling my brain, making me forget why I’m angry, why I ran.

His gaze rakes over my body, molten with barely restrained hunger. I can see the struggle on his face as he drags his eyes back to mine, his jaw clenched tight. I snatch my discarded t-shirt from the chair and yank it over my head, needing the flimsy barrier between us.

“Don’t distract me with kisses.” I jab a finger at him. “You sent me into a porn career! This is all your fault. Did you know the most searched term in the US is Creampie?”

“Porn career?” He narrows his eyes, confusion flickering over his features. “What the hell are you talking about?” He takes a step closer, trying to bridge the distance between us again.

I throw up a hand, halting his advance. “Don’t come any closer. I can’t think straight when you’re near me.”

His eyes narrow to slits, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You can blame me for whatever you want, hate me all you like, but you can’t ask me to stay away from you. That’s the one thing I won’t do. I can’t be apart from you, Sloane. Not anymore.”