Page 21 of Unspoken

"Morning, Alexander," he greets not looking up from whatever it is he’s checking on his phone.

I stop in my tracks, halfway down the stairs, thinking that’s a novelty—Logan without a newspaper. His voice is gruff as gravel, the same as always. What did I expect really?

My dumb heart starts beating faster and faster with each step I take.

"You don’t sleep?" I reply, my own voice betraying no confusion in me.

"I do," he mutters and finally shifts his gaze to me and it’s that stupid dark and sweet and…forbidden something coiling at the base of my spine. I feel naked all of a sudden. Naked and on display. Like one of those mannequins in the store that someone forgot to dress.

It's ludicrous, this odd pull toward him, as if gravity itself has been redefined in his favor. Because that’s what my body wants to do instead of consuming coffee—press up to him like it was last night where his heat enveloped mine.

"Sleep well?" Logan questions. It might be casual, but I can sense the scrutiny behind it and a little sarcasm.

"Like a baby," I lie smoothly, keeping my distance and swerving in the direction of the kitchen.

To let him close would be to let him see—and what then? If Vlad finds out, I’m dead. Will be buried next to my fucking father.

"Rosario has some aspirin for you," Logan comments and goes back to his phone’s screen.

Bloody hell!

What is happening to me?

Do I really find Logan McKenna sexy now?

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty space as I shuffle toward the kitchen to get that aspirin.

CHAPTER 7

LOGAN

The engine hums a low, restless growl as I steer the Navigator through the sunlit streets. The city's heartbeat seems to quicken with every block we leave behind. Alexander sits beside me again, his profile etched sharply against the passing light. He's quiet in a way that's got my nerves on edge. Silence never bodes well with him; it's like the calm before a storm, and I can almost feel the crackle of his mind weaving webs I'll later get tangled in.

"Could've just gotten takeout," I mutter to myself, the words barely cresting over the sound of the tires on dry asphalt.

Alexander turns his head to me and from the corner of my eye I can see that condescending look on his face.

"This is a proper sushi restaurant, Logan," he says. "They don't do takeout. It compromises the integrity of the dish."

"Right." I scoff under my breath. "Rich people whims."

"Perhaps," he retorts, unfazed, "but you wouldn't know a good sushi restaurant if it hit you in the ass."

"Never had the pleasure," I reply dryly. "I don’t eat sushi in the desert."

"Come again?"

"Getting it to Vegas from the coast compromises the integrity of the fish, don’t you think?"

"Arsehole," he mumbles as if I can’t hear him and gazes out the window.

The car continues to speed past buildings and lights, and I have this odd feeling I’m chasing something I can't ever catch.

My phone buzzes insistently against my chest inside the pocket of my jacket. I snatch it up—the name flashing across the screen sends a jolt of anxiety through me. It's Magda, Ma’s friend and neighbor who checks on her every now and then when the caregiver I hired isn't there and while I’m babysitting this little piece of shit.

I know I’m technically on the clock and not supposed to be taking personal calls, but with Ma recently out of the surgery and now doing chemo, it’s all really for her. If she’s not around, there’s no point in stooping to this level.

"Logan?" Magda’s voice trembles on the line when I answer, and my gut clenches tight. "I've been knocking on her door since morning, but Cecilia won't answer."

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