Page 18 of Unspoken

His gray eyes are too sharp, too knowing. "It’s his place of work. It’s also pretty dangerous for you to be in public places with very little light."

"Vlad said it's fine," I insist, crossing my arms defensively. "I've been cooped up in that abysmal house for weeks. Cabin fever, I suspect."

"Because you tried to run away," he reminds me, his tone even but firm. "Put your life in jeopardy."

The atmosphere between us is heavy, suffocating even, like the city smog pressing against the car windows. I look away, the knot in my stomach tightening. I don't respond. What's the point? Logan doesn't understand the gnawing need for escape that eats at me, the desperation to be free from the literal cage my life has become. The desperation to be someone else, not a member of the Solovey family.

The Navigator pulls up to the club and we silently climb out. A guy in a red vest and black slacks rushes over. Logan hands the fob to the valet and then tells the bloke, "Don't park it too far." His voice is just loud enough for me to overhear.

Bloody control freak.

Inside, the club swallows us like a black hole—the thumping beat of the music, the kaleidoscope of lights, the heat of bodies moving in rhythm. It's a world unto itself, one Vlad inherited somehow from some American who disappeared. I don’t know much about it, just whatever information I could collect bybrowsing online and eavesdropping on Ivan and the rest of my brother’s help.

I haven’t been to a place like this in forever. The last time was with Alfie back in January when we wolfed down a dozen shots.

The memory is so vivid, so demobilizing.

I’ve been trying to deal with this shit, but it’s not something you just forget—witnessing your best friend’s horrific demise in front of you.

Emotions running high, I stride to the bar, wave down the bartender, and order a shot. I swallow it in one go before the burn can reach my chest. "Another," I demand, slamming the glass on the counter.

"Slow down," Logan says over the noise of the music, but his command is like smoke, dissipating before it can take hold.

I scoff at him. "You’re controlling what I drink now too, Muscle?"

The second shot lands in front of me and I down it without a thought.

"Trying to keep you safe is all," Logan responds with a bored face.

"Can’t hear you!" I yell back at him as the music continues to rage.

"Sure," he drawls.

"This sucks," I announce, not really meaning it. But exhausting Logan seems like a fun idea. "I want to check out the casino."

The hallway connecting the two worlds is quieter, a minimal space where my footsteps echo against polished floors. Clutching a cocktail I bought at the bar before leaving the club, I stagger slightly, the room spinning gently around me. Logan's presence is a constant shadow at my back. Bloody robot in his tight black T-shirt and neatly ironed trousers that hardly hide anything.

"It’s not a good idea, Alexander," Logan warns as we keep on walking.

"Piss off, then," I say, more to myself than to him.

The alcohol coils in my stomach, a dragon waking from its slumber, and I feel the walls closing in. Loneliness grips me, a familiar foe, whispering that I'll never belong anywhere—not in London, not here, not in my own bloody skin.

The casino blooms before us at the end of the hallway, like a garden of vice and shiny, neon possibilities. I'm adrift, the cocktail in my hand a lifeline in a sea of chance and chaos. Emotions swell in my chest, threatening to spill over with each sip of the colorful liquid—a poor substitute for the taste of home.

What is home anyway?

Where is it?

"Feeling alright?" Logan's voice cuts through my haze, but I can barely muster the energy to scowl at him. Instead, I sip on the leftovers of my cocktail, finishing up entirely. I even toss an ice cube in my mouth and crunch it with my teeth.

"Never better," I lie, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm as I dive deeper into the night, my steps suddenly unsteady, my legs refusing to follow the command of my brain. I've always been a lightweight drinker but today it's hitting me hard. Plus, I may have had a beer back at the house before we left.

The casino floor is a shimmering mirage of rebellion, and I'm swaying toward it like a moth to flame. The liquor in my veins hums, a tipsy symphony that scrambles my senses and fuels my defiance.

Bar. I need a drink.

I push through the crowd and past the ringing slot machines and toward my destination. A part of me hopes Logan gets lost and I’ll be alone for a while, free of his frustrating ever-present stare and his dumb generic responses to my quips.

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