Page 52 of Unspoken

"So, anything on the agenda today?" he asks, deflecting, his voice a touch too casual.

"Same old, yah? Trying not to get dead." I keep my gaze fixed on his face, looking for signs of fracture in his composed mask.

"Always a good plan," Logan replies.

I do it again.Accidentallynudge his foot with mine, testing the waters that we both know could drown us.

"Do you need something?" Logan's voice finally gives out, crackling a little as our eyes snap into a deadly stare across the breakfast nook. He pulls his foot back again.

"Maybe," I admit, my tone low. The words between us are like a spider's web, delicate and dangerous. And I don’t know why I’m not scared of him, not scared to have him know my secret, the one that can kill me just as dead as the hired gun.

Logan stands abruptly. "I'll be in the living room if you need anything."

I watch him leave, feeling a strange giddiness bubble up inside me. He's hiding something behind that stony facade too, and I'm keen on finding out what. It's not just because I fancy a challenge—it's because, despite the danger, the thrill of this forbidden dance has me hooked, and I can't help wanting more.

Vlad’s out, leaving me with a sense of restlessness.

The memory of our kiss with Logan taunts me, the ghost of his lips on mine. It's a craving I didn't know I had, an itch right under my skin.

I've long since accepted the truth about myself. The tangle of identity cleared up on a fateful day in seventh grade, when Nastya Pavlova hemmed me into an empty classroom during a lunch break—its stale air of forgotten books and oxidized metal still lingers in my head from time to time. I felt nothing when she kissed me. I soon decided to indulge my curiosity, to chart the unknown waters of this new reality within me. I did the same thing Nastya did to me but with a boy. My father found out, of course, and beat the shit out of me while I chewed back a scream. Because making sounds only infuriated him more. Then, came the next school year and I was on my way to London and away from the family that would never accept—even rumors—that the younger son of Yuri Solovey was gay.

But now, this fear I’ve been clinging to for so long has morphed into something different with Logan around. And this stupid determination to find out if he truly finds me as attractive as I find him has me doing silly things. Has me flirting.

"I’m going to hit the gym," I suggest a couple of days after the footsie incident. Another plan is already hatching in my mind. "Fancy keeping me company, Muscle?"

"Sure," Logan replies, his voice devoid of any emotion.

Down in the gym, I start my routine, limbs stretching, muscles warming. Then I peel off my shirt, discarding it without ceremony. In the mirror, I catch Logan's reflection. He's looking away, a subtle shift, but I notice. He's avoiding the sight of my bare skin, and that small act fans the flames of my curiosity even more.

"Can't handle it, Logan?" I ask, my voice echoing slightly in the space.

"Nothing I haven't seen before," he says gruffly, but there's a tension in his jaw that wasn't there moments ago.

"Then why look away?" I probe, hopping onto the treadmill, setting a pace that'll have sweat slicking down my back in no time.

"I’m here to protect you," he answers curtly, but his eyes are flint, striking sparks I’m desperate to ignite into something more.

"Right," I say, dragging out the word. "Professionalism."

As I run, the rhythm pounds a mad beat, matching the thrumming of my heart. Each step is a dare, each breath a challenge thrown into the charged air between me and my bodyguard. And all the while, I can feel his gaze, heavy and heated, even when he thinks I'm not watching.

"Enjoying the view?" I ask some time later, unable to resist the jab.

"Doing my job," he shoots back, but there's a crack in his armor, a slip that tells me he’s just as caught up in this madness as I am.

"Keep telling yourself that," I reply, the corner of my mouth lifting in a smirk that I know he can see, even if he pretends not to.

The treadmill whirs to a stop, and I step off, every inch of me screaming with the exertion and something else—something wilder. It's a dance, this thing between us, one where the steps are unknown and the rhythm could change at any second. But I'm learning his moves, and the thought sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

Ready for crunches, I drop to the floor, my back hitting the cool mat with a soft thud. The gym's air is thick with the stench of sweat and rubber, a heady mix that does little to distract from the thoughts swirling in my mind.

"Hey," I call out casually, as if I'm not orchestrating every single move. "Mind giving me a hand? Keep my feet from slipping, yeah?"

He strides over, all gruff efficiency, and drops into a crouch, and presses his palms against my trainers, anchoring me to the floor while everything else feels like it's floating away. I focus on my breathing, trying to keep it even, but the proximity is like a live wire sparking under my skin.

"Thanks," I grunt between lifts, watching him through half-lowered lashes. "Wouldn't want to end up arse over tit."

"Focus on your exercise, Sasha," he replies, his voice as steady as the pressure on my feet.

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