Page 11 of Unspoken

"Even with Curtis there?" I probe, feeling the old scars pulse with remembered pain.

"Especially with Curtis there. He'd want you there, Logan. Despite everything." Her words hang between us, an echo of the past I can’t quite escape. Past she knows very little about. Past I don’t want her to dig into.

"Wasn’t a small thing, Connie," I tell her softly. "Probably best I sit this one out."

Connie sighs, a gentle sound that threads through the line. "You know if he could have done something—"

"There wasn’t anything he or anyone else could have done to fix it," I cut her off, sharper than I mean to. I don’t want to rehash what happened five years ago, but the memories flare, hot and unbidden, a fire I can never fully extinguish.

"Logan—"

"Sorry, Connie. It's just..." I let the sentence die, unfinished, like so many things between me and Curtis.

"Please think about it," she pleads.

"Sure, I will," I say, though the promise feels like stones in my throat.

We say our goodbyes and I'm left alone with the oppressive silence of my apartment once more. My only company are the ghosts that linger in the corners.

The beer is back in my hand and the TV flickers to life, an MMA fight in full swing—muscle and sinew straining, fists carving arcs through the air. It's violence distilled, raw, and unapologetic. The fighters move like they're dancing with death. Each blow is a reminder that every moment could be their last in that ring. I should feel something—excitement, adrenaline, anything—but there's only numbness. A void where emotions used to surge like tides.

Soon the match blurs before my eyes and sleep creeps in. The sound of the crowd’s distant roar fades into nothing. And as I drift off, my last thought is about tomorrow, about the green-eyed kid with the foul mouth I’m to guard against the dangers of Vlad’s world.

CHAPTER 4

SASHA

Eyelids heavy like lead, I pry them open to the bleak symphony of my own ragged breathing. Another restless night in the tomb that is my bedroom—a monochrome canvas where shadows play hide and seek with the scant light trickling through the gauzy curtains. I'm a shipwreck on these silk sheets, adrift in a sea of nightmares that cling to me like brine on skin.

The mirror doesn't lie as I scrub away the remnants of sleep. It shows a bloke who's more ghost than flesh. My undercut hair is a tousled mess, and the stud in my ear catches the light, winking like it's in on some cosmic joke I'm too knackered to understand.

There are dark crescents beneath my eyes that reflect the state of constant anxiety I’ve been in ever since the day Alfie was blown up to pieces.

I try not to think about it, try to push the images away. Try to tell myself that things aren’t going back to the way they were and I need to move on, but memories are a tricky bit. They have a way of sneaking up on you and refusing to let go.

Stumbling downstairs with a sour taste lingering in my mouth even after I brushed my teeth, I'm still half-dressed in my pajama pants and a wrinkled T-shirt. My heart's a sluggishdrummer boy as I see him—Logan bloody McKenna—sitting on the couch like he owns the place. The newspaper in his hands is like a relic of another century. Who does that when there’s an iPad?

I pause for a second on the last step and drink him in. His upper body’s built like a brick shithouse, biceps threatening to tear through the fabric of his plain black tee. Damn long legs. Lean waist. Sure, he’s fit. Probably spends all his free time in the gym. I’m honestly surprised he’s not sporting a suit like my brother. Tattoos snaking around his right arm are intriguing, but they feel like a warning too. His buzz-cut hair is a dark halo around his head and there’s a small crescent moon-shaped scar on his temple.

I realize I’m staring at him longer than I’d typically allow myself. There’s something about his calm, unbothered demeanor that sets me off.

"Ah, you’re here, babysitter," I sneer. "Try not to get lost on the way to change my nappy, yeah?"

"Good morning to you too," Logan retorts, unfazed, eyes barely flicking up from the paper.

Arsehole.

In the kitchen, the bitter brew of coffee promises a semblance of alertness. I pour myself a cup and chug it down like salvation in liquid form, warmth and caffeine spreading through my insides. But even this can't flush out the cold dread that Logan's presence brings.

Like my suffocation isn't already absolute—this claustrophobia that he tacks on top just makes it worse.

Weeks in this place and I haven’t seen anything but Ivan’s mug and my brother’s absurd garden. The ridiculous abundance wouldn't shock me if it gave birth to a riot of flamboyant peacocks one unsuspecting day.

Once during my only outing with Ivan I saw the realest thing in this country. I memorized the name of the shopping center but we never went back.

Cup in hand, I saunter back to the living room, scheming sweet mischief. I need to get rid of this arsehole. And soon. Maybe, if Vlad can't find a permanent guard, I can go back to London. Or go somewhere else. Far from here.

"So, how’s the new job treating you?" I ask casually as I approach Logan.

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