Page 13 of Unspoken

Inspiration—or perhaps sheer idiocy—strikes me like lightning.

"Hey, Ivan!Privet, mate!" I call out, licking at the melting mess of ice cream and swinging my legs.

Ivan halts to a stop and looks up. His face remains the same. Arsehole doesn't bat an eyelid, too wrapped up in his conversation or perhaps too used to my antics.

Either way, I'm invisible, a ghost literally on the precipice.

The wind whistles a warning, tousling my hair. I should care more about this balancing act, teetering on the brink between sky and earth, but the thrill of potential catastrophe pumps through my veins. It's exhilarating and desperate—a perfect cocktail of self-destruction.

I scoop another spoonful, defiance and dairy dripping down my chin. If Logan won't rise to my bait, maybe gravity will.

Maybe, there’s afterlife and maybe Alfie’s waiting for me there.

"You planning to audition for the role of Humpty Dumpty?" Logan's voice comes from behind, laced with dry humor.

"Thought I'd give you an easy day, Muscle," I retort without looking back, my voice lingering on the edge just as much as my body. "No need to exert yourself."

"Right, because a splattered heir of the Solovey family makes for light paperwork." Logan steps closer, his shadow falling over me like an eclipse. "Get down from there, Alexander. This isn't a circus act."

"Maybe not, but it's certainly more entertaining than your newspaper."

"Entertaining? You're one misstep away from breaking your neck," he counters, his voice low and steady. "Rich kid stunts don't impress gravity."

"Nor do they impress big, bad bodyguards, apparently." My heart thumps a reckless rhythm against my chest as I shift slightly for effect. The railing is slippery and unforgiving beneath my palm.

And then, the precarious balance I've been toying with tilts toward disaster. My hand slips, a silent gasp escaping me. The ice cream bucket abandons ship, plummeting downwards—a creamy comet tail following in its wake.

Oh how I wish Ivan was in its way.

"I don't—" The rest of my bravado chokes off as a stark realization hits me: I'm flirting with death, and suddenly she's not as seductive as she seemed earlier.

Logan is there—instinct and muscle probably honed by years of protecting ungrateful sods like me—and his arms are steel bands around my chest. He pulls me back, away from the yawning abyss that almost claimed me.

"Didn’t I tell you to get down?" he grunts out, hauling me over the railing and onto solid ground. His grip is a lifeline, dragging me from the brink of eternity back to the harsh reality of the living.

"Unhand me, you cretin!" I snap, the surge of adrenaline morphing into anger and embarrassment. But even as I fight against his hold, part of me—a very small one—is grateful for the solidity of his presence, anchoring me amidst the chaos of my own making.

"Next time, stick to the ground level for your dramatics," Logan mutters, finally releasing me as if I burn him.

I stagger back, lungs heaving, feeling a strange cocktail of relief and resentment.

With caution, I approach the balustrade and peer over it. The ice cream is a casualty on the concrete below, a melting tribute to my folly.

And Logan is an unexpected savior I never asked for, yet somehow needed.

I guess the right thing here would be to thank him for doing his job, but I’m tongue-tied again, glaring at him for a moment while my pulse is raging. Finally, I mumble, "Didn’t need your help."

"Not that I wanted to save you," he replies with a poker face. "But if you’re dead, I lose my job." He pauses. "Next time, I might just let you fall."

We both know it's a lie.

"Piss off," I spit back, but my words lack their usual bite. The adrenaline ebbs away, leaving me hollow, exposed like a nerve scraped raw.

I pivot on my heel, each step away from him heavy with defeat. My room beckons—a cave to lick my wounds, a stage with curtains drawn against the act I've just botched. I slam the door behind me with a force that echoes like a gunshot, sealing myself within the dark cocoon of my thoughts.

Getting rid of this Logan McKenna needs some serious planning.

CHAPTER 5

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