Page 19 of Pretty Wicked Secrets

My body clenches, remembering anyway, but I ruthlessly shove those memories aside, sucking in the lemony fresh scent of cleaning supplies instead.

An unwelcome surge of gratitude rises up inside me.

“You did this, didn’t you?” I ask, turning to Logan.

Not that he would have cleaned it up formypeace of mind. Hell, if anything, he was probably silently cursing me out for the extra work the whole time. Either that or plotting how to punish me for not falling into line with their plans.

But instead of glaring at me, Logan pans his gaze over the pristine kitchen, finally looking back at me confused. “I did… what?”

“Never mind,” I mumble. It was a stupid question anyway. Of course it was him. There’s no way Logan’s need for order would have let him rest with the state we left the kitchen in. He just doesn’t see having taken care of that so thoroughly as anything special, because to him, it wasn’t.

Maybe he really is a robot… one who’s still staring at me with a quizzical look on his usually expressionless face, like I’m a problem he has to solve.

Or, more likely, a duty he’s been assigned.

I thrust my cuffed hands at him, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with how bad my sleep was. “Are you going to take these off so I can get something to eat?”

“No,” Logan says flatly, cocking his head to the side. “That would be imprudent.”

I snort. Imprudent? Who talks like that? But whatever. I’m just here for the food, so I can get my strength back and find a way to help Chloe. If he wants to make it difficult or play some kind of power game by keeping me locked up, I’ll deal with it just like I have with all the other bullshit the Reapers have thrown at me.

Logan’s still staring at me, his bold, dark eyebrows drawn together in the middle.

For a second, I almost think he’s going to say something else, but silence is almost like a religion with him, so of course he doesn’t. Instead, he just shakes his head and leads me over to the same tall stool I sat at when he cooked me breakfast that one time, his long fingers wrapped around my wrist in a surprisingly gentle hold that almost has me considering making a run for it.

I’m not that stupid, though…. and Iamthat hungry, now that he’s brought it up.

Once I’m seated, he clears his throat. “Do you have any requests?”

I blink in surprise, then hold out my wrists again. “I just made one.”

“I meant about what you’d like me to cook for you,” he says, his voice as flat as ever despite the fact that, this time, I’m almost positive I saw that almost-smile cross his face for a second.

“You’re going to cook for me?”

“Of course,” he says promptly, even though there’s no “of course” about it.

Other than the low-budget meals Chloe would save for me after a shift, he’s the only one who’s ever gone to that kind of trouble for me, and I still don’t know why he even did it the first time, much less why he’d want to now that we all know we’re not on the same side.

“Why the fuck would you do that?” I blurt out.

He stares at me in silence for a moment, and this time there’s definitely no almost-smile. There’s no expression on his face at all.

“We’re not trying to starve you to death,” he finally says. “Maddoc wants you alive and functional. Food is essential to that.”

“Anything you want to make is fine,” I mumble, looking away and willing myself to get a grip. Of course that’s all it is.

I can feel Logan staring at me in silence for another minute, but then he finally moves away, rummaging through the refrigerator and pulling out a bunch of shit that I don’t pay attention to.

As soon as his back is to me, I bring my cuffed hands to my face, scrubbing furiously before my stinging eyes spill over and can give away how stupid I am to keep looking for something that isn’t there and never was. I’ve been on my own forever, not counting Chloe, so I’m not exactly sure why this current bullshit with the Reapers makes me feel even lonelier than I did before I met them.

What I am sure of is that it’s time to clamp down on my unruly emotions and get some answers about the one thing that truly matters here.

“How’s the search for my sister going?” I ask as Logan lays out some vegetables on a cutting board.

He looks up, giving me another of those eerily blank looks of his.

“Have the stitches been bothering you?” he asks, ignoring my question. “You were very… active earlier. Twisting at the waist may have popped a few loose.”

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