Page 51 of Unspoken

"Isn't there?" I counter, my voice unsteady. "We both know it's dangerous."

"Have you changed your mind about telling Vlad?"

"Of course not." The denial comes swift, a reflex born of self-preservation.

Taut silence stretches around us, like a rope frayed and worn, ready to snap. And as we stand there, the fact of the kiss that shouldn’t have happened has changed something.

I look at him, really look—taking in the flecks of sunlight in his hair, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. The realization hits hard, a surprise punch to the stomach: I'm attracted to Sasha. The thought sears through me with the intensity of a branding iron, marking me with a truth I cannot afford to acknowledge.

But it's there, undeniable, a spark that threatens to ignite a blaze I won't be able to contain. It worries me, this pull toward him. Because in this world, desire doesn't just complicate things—it can be lethal.

CHAPTER 18

SASHA

I'm in my bed, staring at the ceiling, my heart still galloping like a wild horse in my chest. It's been a few days since the unsuccessful hit. And although the adrenaline has worn off, the anxiety hasn’t. Sometimes I don’t believe that I'm still here, breathing, hurting inside where nobody can see. I still don’t believe that I kissed Logan right after death danced past us, that I actually had the guts to do something this rash. And now—although he promised he wouldn’t say anything—the fear of being outed clings to my skin.

But there’s a thought that won’t leave my mind, no matter how hard I try to push it down. Something Logan said to me on the rooftop.

We both know it's dangerous.

The sight of his face in crisp high-definition flashes in my mind, every detail carved with precise strokes. His chiseled jawline, reflecting soft twilight hues, appears as an enchanting paradox against his resolute gaze.

Makes me wonder if what he said means he feels the same way I do—rattled over this alarming intimacy that’s grown into something very tangible.

And if that’s the case…

I actually don’t know what I will do. Perhaps, it’s wise to check my theory.

That’s how I find myself padding barefoot into the kitchen a little later that morning, muttering a greeting. The tiles are cold against my soles and my heart is beating way too fast.

Logan's munching on a pastry, a fortress of solitude sitting by the breakfast nook.

"Morning," Logan's voice is gravel mixed with syrup as he replies. "Sleep well?"

"Like a log," I lie, pouring myself a coffee with hands way steadier than my nerves. "You?" I flop down across from him in a chair.

"Enough to keep going." His eyes are concentrated on his plate as if he’s avoiding me. Actually, he’s been doing this—averting his gaze—ever since the kiss.

Did I fuck up?

Am I overthinking it?

Should I let it go?

The questions keep spinning in my head until I’m dizzy. This is bloody frustrating, being in the state of the unknown.

I clear my throat and ask, "So any TV shows you like to watch?"

Logan looks up at me from his plate, expression confused, one brow pinched. "A show?" he asks, chewing on his croissant.

"Yeah, you know, some family drama or sitcom. You follow any of those?"

He seems to be thinking like I’ve asked him to crack the mystery of the world. After a long moment of silence, I add stupidly, "The weather forecast is promising more rain next week." I shift in my seat, feigning nonchalance as I stretch out a leg beneath the nook. My foot brushes against something warm and solid—Logan's ankle.

He chokes a bit on his pastry, coughing as he pulls his foot back. Our eyes are still on each other and I know he knows I did what I did on purpose, but neither one of us says anything.

Instead, I take a sip from my mug to hide the smirk threatening to surface. Because, bloody hell, Logan’s just as guilty.

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