Page 27 of Unspoken

"Well, it’s taught in pretty much every high school in this country, especially in states with a lot of bilingual populations like California, Nevada, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. So, I had the basics down when I met this girl while in the Academy. Her family was from Mexico City and we kinda hit it off. Started dating. She taught me some and then I took some classes too. It’s a beautiful language."

"What happened to the girl?"

"Nothing. She's married now and has a kid. Didn’t work out between us. We just grew apart after a couple of years. She wanted a family. I wanted a career. She wanted to leave Nevada and I couldn’t… because of my mother."

Another question is forming in my head when our order number is called and the moment is broken. Logan stands to retrieve the food.

I watch him navigate the crowd, all strength and fluid movement. Something in the pit of my stomach clenches, a heat that has nothing to do with the spicy scent of salsa in the air.

As he makes his way back to our table, a tray in hand and a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, I realize with a sudden, terrifying clarity that I am well and truly fucked. Because despite every instinct screaming at me to run, to keep my walls up and my heart guarded, I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the man in front of me.

And for the first time since I stepped off that plane, I'm not sure I want to.

Logan sets the tray down, the aroma of cilantro and sizzling meat wafting up to tease my nostrils. Silently, we dig in, the flavors exploding on my tongue in a symphony of spice and warmth. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of contented chewing and the distant chatter of the crowded street.

"How is it?" Logan asks eventually.

When I look up from my paper plate, there’s a smidgen of sauce in the corner of his mouth and he licks it with his tongue. Oh no! This has my gut tightening.

"That good, huh?" Logan chuckles. "That you lost your ability to speak."

I nod stupidly. "Yes. You pretty much summed it up, mate."

He picks up another taco from his own paper plate and bites into it.

We continue to devour our food without talking. Logan seems satisfied with the silence between us while I feel like sharing something in return since he shared bits of his life with me.

"I hardly remember my mum," I say softly, part of me hoping he won’t hear it because I don’t talk about Mama at all. Not even with Vlad.

Logan looks up, his gray eyes searching my face.

"The memories, they're fading. Like an old photograph, you know? All blurry around the edges."

He nods, understanding etched into the lines of his face. "What happened? If you don't mind my asking?"

"I was told she had a stroke."

"How old were you?" he asks gently. "When she passed?"

"Six," I reply, my throat suddenly tight. "Vlad was nineteen. I don't even remember the funeral, not really. Just fragments that surround that time of my life. Like a puzzle with half the pieces gone missing."

Logan's hand twitches on the tabletop, as if he wants to reach out and offer comfort but thinks better of it. "It must have been hard," he says instead, his voice low and rough. "Losing her so young."

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart twists painfully in my chest. "I loved her, you know? She was my whole world. But without her Russia was a nightmare. I hated everybloody second of it until they shipped me off to London when I was fourteen."

"Maybe it was for the best," Logan offers quietly. "Kept you safe, at least."

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, the sound harsh and grating in the warm air. "Safe?" I echo hollowly. "Tell that to Alfie. Fat lot of good it did him, being my friend."

Logan's brow furrows, but he doesn't press the issue. And I'm glad. I have no idea what Vlad told him about the bomb in London. All I know is that my brother said an attempt was made.

Logan takes another bite of his taco, chewing slowly as if lost in thought.

The remainder of our meal passes in quiet with the weight of words unspoken lingering between us but not ready to come out. The sounds of the city wash over me—car horns blaring, music spilling from open windows, laughter and chatter in a dozen different languages. But all I can focus on is the man across the tiny table from me. This infuriating, intriguing enigma who somehow makes me feel more alive than I have in years.

And as we sit there, surrounded by the sights and smells and sounds of a world so different from the one I've always known, I realize that for the first time since coming to this strange, sprawling city, I'm actually enjoying myself.

CHAPTER 9

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