Page 34 of Heir of Ashes

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Logan waited beside me until I regained some control, deflating any concerned onlooker with a gesture or word. The rain started to let up, and the hotel was just across the street.

Without a word, I made my way toward it, Logan falling in step beside me, his pace matching mine. He invaded my private space, clearly ensuring that if I lost control, he was ready to step in. With his shoulders tense and his steps cautious, it was evident he didn’t trust me not to snap again. Truth be told, I didn’t trust myself either. Clenching my hands into tight fists, I realized that if Logan hadn’t been there, I might have killed someone in a fit of blind rage.

Was I really the monster the PSS always believed me to be?

We entered the lobby of what seemed like a low-star hotel. The reception desk was plain wood, adorned with a phoneand a flat-screen computer, and a numbered key holder on the wall behind a scrawny, pimpled boy who looked no older than eighteen. There was a comfortable seating area to the left with soft-cushioned, dark-colored sofas, and some tables arranged in a cozy corner to the right for dining. Both arrangements faced the sycamore trees outside.

We registered under our real names—no need for deception if I could be tracked via transmitters. If not, we were only here to check for the damned thing anyway. Logan handed the reception boy an extra twenty to get us the strongest painkillers available, before accepting the room key and nudging me toward the utilitarian gray elevator.

The room was small, a downgrade from the previous two, but it was clean enough. As was my routine, I headed to the bathroom first, stripping off my soaked clothes and wringing out the excess water in the sink. Then I squeezed my hair. Before Michelle had convinced me to dye it red, it had been as black as my eyes. Now, both colors contrasted starkly against my pale skin. Usually, I kept it pulled back tightly in a bun, but now I left it down, securing it loosely with a rubber band, partly to cover the thick bandage that covered half my forehead and temple, and partly so it would dry faster. Before I finished, Logan knocked on the door and offered me his jacket, which was clean of blood. After wringing out the excess water from it, I shrugged it on, shivering from the cold. It smelled of rain, man, and faintly of blood. The sleeves swallowed my hands, and it reached almost to mid-thigh. After a brief hesitation, I put my pants back on, left the squeaky shoes in the bathroom, and returned barefoot to the room. Logan stood at the door, towering over the reception boy, who held a CVS bag in one hand. Either the twenty had been a good incentive, or there was a CVS nearby. Not that it mattered either way.

Logan took my wrinkled shirt from my hand and passed it to the blushing boy. “Get this dry as fast as possible,” he said, tone firm but not unkind. “The quicker you manage it, the bigger your tip.”

The boy’s eyes lit up. “Yes, sir. I won’t be long,” he promised and hurried away.

I wished modesty hadn’t made me put the wet pants back on, so I could have sent them to be dried too.

Logan shut and locked the door, drawing my attention to him like a magnet. He took up most of the space, not in mass, but in presence. Why hadn’t I noticed it before? No doubt he was an alpha, in and out of a pack. He wore an undershirt that clung to broad shoulders and a flat, well-defined stomach, the contours more prominent with the clingy material. His hair was wet and tousled as if he had just finished a shower. A five o’clock shadow covered his cheeks, giving him a rugged appeal. He stood tall, broad, and military straight, watching me. Despite everything that was happening, I noticed him—a distraction I didn’t need.

“So,” I gestured widely around, “what now?”

He extracted a few painkiller pills from a generic bottle and passed them over. His eyes searched my face, undoubtedly looking for some sign that I’d go psychotic on him.

Under any other circumstances, I would have refused. Pain was a reminder of limits, and I’ve had much worse. I didn’t want to waste time arguing, though, which was what my refusal to take the painkillers would provoke. I dry-swallowed them and raised both eyebrows. “And now?” I asked.

“Sit, please.” He gestured a straight-backed chair.

Without hesitation, I straddled the chair, knowing if there was a transmitter, it would be somewhere hard to reach, like my back. And I wanted it gone.

“Well?” I prompted, turning my head so I could see him. My shoulder protested fiercely, and my head agreed with a pulsing throb.

“All right, we’ll start with your back first,” he said. “Lose the jacket, please.”

So much for modesty,I thought, unzipping it and shrugging it off. I clutched the bundled jacket to my front and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I’d been examined naked more times than I cared to remember. This time shouldn’t have been any different. But it was. Feeling increasingly self-conscious, I turned my head again, this time ready for the pain that accompanied the motion. Logan was standing behind me, staring at my back with an unreadable expression. His hand reached out, and he traced a random path down my spine with a warm finger. I stifled a shiver.

“When did this happen?” he asked quietly.

Ah, the bruises. Trivial, pesky things.I shrugged and looked away. “Never mind them,” I told him, figuring he was afraid to hurt me by touching my back.

A moment later, after gently brushing my hair aside, the tips of his fingers began circling the base of my skull. Clockwise, then counterclockwise. I frowned down at my pink bra. Was I wearing matching panties? I didn’t think so. I was never the type who tried to match my undergarments; I didn’t even wear matching socks. Accidentally, though, my flannel pants were the same shade as the bra.

Logan’s fingers lowered a fraction, warm against my cold skin. Goosebumps erupted all over my body, and I shivered. It felt good. Really good. I closed my eyes, relaxing at the hypnotizing rhythm. Before long, he was moving to my sore shoulders and down. His fingertips left no inch of skinuntouched, and despite the purpose of the exercise, my body enjoyed it very much.

I kept the jacket clutched to my front and, after the barest hesitation—felt only for the faltering rhythm—Logan loosened my arms and placed them on the back of the chair. Before I could protest, he skillfully checked under my arms, then moved back to my shoulder blades, leaving me to lower them again and clutch the jacket. His hands moved methodically, covering my back thoroughly. By the time he reached my waist, I had moved past self-consciousness to ticklish embarrassment. I squirmed a little and opened my eyes, catching sight of him in the bureau mirror across from me.

And … what was that? Disgust. It was disgust.Something in my stomach fluttered once, then fell. Hurt? Disappointment—I couldn’t tell. His lips had a slight sideways grimace, and frown lines creased his forehead.

I stiffened, and he noticed it. His eyes opened and met mine in the mirror. I hadn’t realized it before, but he had probably been watching me all along. Heat suffused my cheeks, and before I could move, he stepped back, motioning for me to put the jacket back on.

Disgust. I’d seen the expression more times than I could count, and all the variations in between. I could never mistake it for anything else.

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