Page 40 of Unspoken

I slam into the passenger seat and try to get my breathing back to normal. My backpack is on the floor by my feet.

Logan's gaze locks onto mine, unyielding. "Out with it, Sasha," he demands. It's a tone that accepts no argument, one that commands attention without raising volume. I can't help but find comfort in the authority of it. Strangest thing but I don’t have to inspect how my mind works.

"Did someone follow you?" Logan asks when I give him no answer.

I shut my eyes and draw as much air in my lungs as I can.I’m a Solovey. Although I hate it, I have my father’s blood running through my veins. I can do this.

Then I exhale and turn to face the man who’s been protecting me all this time. "Logan..." My words stumble out, tripping over a tongue that feels too thick. "I need you to teach me how to shoot."

The air between us tightens, charged with the weight of my request. His eyes narrow slightly, a spark of something unreadable passing through them.

"Teach you to shoot?" Logan echoes, disbelief edged with a concern that burrows deep into my chest.

"Yes."

"Your brother will kill me."

"He doesn’t need to know," I argue.

Logan continues to stare at me.

"No matter how hard he tries to protect me, it’s not enough," I say. "My family’s shady dealings are catching up to me and if I can’t protect myself—at least the bare minimum—I’ll be dead soon. And fuck, I don’t want to be dead, Logan."

There's a pause, pregnant with unspoken words and tension that wraps around us. Finally, he nods, jaw set in a hard line. "Alright. You win. I’ll do it."

CHAPTER 15

LOGAN

The sun is already taking a dive, staining the sky with bloody streaks as we pull up to the shooting range. It's an old beast, squatting on the outskirts of Vegas, battered by time and desert winds. The neon sign flickers, half-dead, like it's giving up on trying to shine. I feel that. There's a heaviness in my chest that sinks deeper with each shuddering breath—Ma isn't doing well at all, her thread of life fraying thinner by the hour.

I try to push the thoughts away, push the inevitable away, to drown the reality with work, work that has paid off the final hospital bill, work I’m still struggling to accept as something my father would be proud of.

Contrary to my expectations, Sasha’s presence seems to be the only good at this very moment. He’s been less of a pain in the ass and more of an occasional ray of sunshine, cracking some British jokes I don’t understand, asking for my guidance in picking the next place to grab a meal.

He’s been keeping me busy. Trying his hardest. I get that.

Still, my mind is clouded.

"Here we are," I murmur, pushing the Navigator’s door open. The gravel crunches underfoot as we climb out.

Sasha’s green eyes scan the rundown facade with more curiosity than disdain. Yes, like I said, he’s been slowly morphing into someone else. I guess life does that to everyone. Even spoiled brats.

His delicate brows furrow, but he nods, the movement brittle. "It looks... lived-in."

"Survived, more like." My smile feels like it's carved from stone. Ma used to say, "Smile, Logan. Even when it hurts." Hell, everything hurts these days.

Inside, the air smells of gunpowder and testosterone. I lead Sasha through the maze of corridors, past the empty booths where echoes of shots fired earlier in the day still seem to linger. I had to choose the time carefully when the place isn’t packed. After all, Sasha’s valuable cargo. With cops looking into Vlad, I need to be more vigilant. Parading him in front of a trigger-happy army of guys isn’t smart.

"Long time no see, McKenna," Ramon, the owner of the place, says, peeking from the office as we pass by him. He glances at Sasha but doesn’t comment. Former military, he knows what’s going on on both sides of the law in Vegas, knows all the key players. I’m sure he’s heard of Vlad and possibly his younger brother by now.

Good he keeps to himself. This place is his bread and butter and he’s not in the business of gossip or making enemies.

"Who’s the big guy?" Sasha asks as we swerve to another line of booths. One is occupied but the rest are empty and I escort him to the very last.

"Ramon," I reply. "He owns this range."

"I see," Sasha’s response is curt.

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