Page 60 of Logan
Because I thought I’d never feel this small again.
Because I never wanted Logan to see me like this broken again, wrecked again, stripped down to the rawest parts of myself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, the words barely there. “I’m so sorry I didn’t call. I—I should’ve known—”
“No.” The word leaves him like a growl, sharp and immediate. “Don’t do that. You don’t owe me an apology. He did this. Not you.”
He leans back just enough to see my face. His hands cradle it like something precious, his palms warm and steady, his thumbs brushing against my skin to catch the tears I can’t seem to stop. His touch is light, reverent, like he’s afraid I might shatter if he presses too hard.
“You were trying to be brave,” he says, his voice low but fierce. “And you were. You fought him off once. You fought again today. You’re the strongest damn woman I’ve ever met.”
I shake my head, the tears coming harder. “I didn’t want to need anyone…”
“I need you,” he says, and his voice cracks open on the words. “I’ve needed you since the day you walked into my life. And needing someone isn’t weakness, Mac. Let me be strong for you now.”
The fight drains out of me, replaced by something heavy and aching but safe. I collapse against him again, pressing my face to his chest, breathing in the scent that has always meant I was okay. Leather. Sweat. Motor oil. Logan.
I don’t know how long we stay like that—wrapped in silence and pain and something fierce and tender underneath it all. Time feels slippery, like the clock in this room stopped when the door broke open.
Eventually, the world starts to bleed back in.
Cain’s voice somewhere behind me, low and clipped, speaking into a phone.
Dom’s quiet footsteps moving through the hall, the faint creak of the floorboards.
And Logan. Always Logan. His arms around me, his breath steady against my hair, holding me like the very idea of letting go is unthinkable.
Like I’m not broken.
Like I’m his.
***
The room is quiet except for the low hum of a fan in the corner. The steady, mechanical sound fills the space in a way that makes it feel too still, too fragile, like if it stopped, everything else might collapse. I’m awake before I open my eyes because I feel him.
Logan’s body is curled protectively around mine, his chest a solid wall against my back, his arm draped across my waist like a shield that could keep out the whole world if it tried to push its way in.
My body aches, inside and out. It’s not just the bruises blooming under my skin, or the soreness that lingers where his hands had been. It’s deeper than that, in my muscles, in my bones, in the places my mind can’t stop going. Every breath tugs at something tender. But I am safe.
I am safe.
I keep my eyes closed, holding onto that thought like it’s the only rope keeping me from being pulled under. Because the second I open them, the weight of it all will come flooding in, the smell of that room, the sound of his voice, the way my wrists burned. What Anthony did. What he almost did. And what I still have to face.
Logan shifts beside me, and I feel it, the subtle change in his breathing, the tension running through his chest and into his arm. He’s not sleeping either. His body is too alert, too aware, like a man ready to react to anything.
“You’re not breathing steady,” he murmurs, his voice rough with exhaustion. “You awake?”
I nod against the pillow.
He presses a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering just long enough for me to feel the warmth. “You don’t have to say anything.”
But I want to.
I need to.
My voice feels small when I ask, “Logan… why didn’t we call the police?”
There’s a pause. Not long. Not hesitant. Just long enough for me to know he was expecting this.
