-Hailey-
The next day was a carbon copy of the day before… only worse.
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Logan’s presence was so intense it felt like he was breathing for me. He anticipated my movements, was there before I decided to stand up, to go to the bathroom, to get a drink.
My resolve, meanwhile, was becoming harder and colder. Fed by every suspicious glance from Logan, every silent meal, every moment of feeling like a prisoner in the home that was supposed to be my sanctuary.
This wasn’t living. This was waiting to die. And if I was going to die, I’d do it on my feet, facing the monster, not cowering behind Logan while he got himself killed for me.
The sun went down, and Logan drank more than usual. A lot of the guys did. It was almost like they could somehow feel that something big was coming.
I watched Logan’s sharp edges get a little softer. His reactions half a beat slower. It wasn’t much, but it was something. I could use it.
We went upstairs earlier than the night before. He was quiet. The alcohol was making him sullen rather than sleepy. He paced the living room for a while, then finally stalked into the bedroom.
I followed.
“Get in bed,” he said, slurring his words the tiniest bit.
I did. He didn’t join me immediately. He stood at the window, peeking through a slit in the blinds down at the yard below.
He stood there for a full five minutes. Then he turned with a heavy sigh. He undressed in the dark and fell into bed beside
- me.
He didn’t reach for me. He just lay on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes.
“Fuckin‘ circus,” he muttered to the ceiling.
Within minutes, his breathing deepened and went ragged. I lay perfectly still, listening. Waiting.
Eventually, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand to check the time. 11:15 PM.
This was going to be the longest forty–five minutes of my life.
I counted them in the expansions of Logan’s chest, in the faint tick of the old baseboard heater, in the distant, muffled thump of music from downstairs. 11:20. 11:25.
My mind started racing.
What if the distraction doesn’t come? What if it does, but it doesn’t work? What if they’re all down there too drunk to notice?
11:28.
Logan snorted in his sleep and rolled onto his side facing me. His arm flopped out, his hand landing on my hip. His fingers were warm, but a chill crawled up my spine. Even unconscious, he was holding on.
11:29.
1/4
9:16 pm P PPD
Chapter 145
A new sound cut through the clubhouse murmur. Not music. A raised voice. Several voices. Angry. Demanding.
My heart slammed against my sternum. This was it.
The voices grew louder. They were at the main door. I could hear the distinct, officious tone of a man used to throwing his weight around. It was muffled by floors and walls, but the anger carried.
Logan’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened on my hip.
Then came the sound I’d been waiting for: the heavy, jarring “thud” of a fist – or maybe a nightstick – hammering against the clubhouse’s front door.
Logan’s hand on my hip went from a sleepy weight to a vise grip in half a second. I kept my breathing deep and even while an alarm was blaring inside my skull.
Bang. Bang. BANG.
“Open up! Riverstone PD!”
The voice was sharp, laced with a bureaucratic smugness that scratched down my spine.
I knew that voice. It had asked me calm, condescending questions after Matt pulled that gun on me in the tattoo shop.
Logan’s body went rigid. A low, guttural sound came out of him. He let go of my hip and pushed himself up on one elbow, his head cocked toward the bedroom door.
“The fuck?” he muttered, groggy with sleep and whiskey.
The pounding came again. “Nash! Talon Nash! Logan! Open this door now, or we’re coming through it!”
Logan was fully awake now. The liquor–induced fog was burned away by rage. He swung his legs out of bed and sat on the edge. A dark silhouette poised for violence.
“Ramirez,” he snarled the name.
Right. Officer Ramirez. The memory unspooled in my head. The sterile glow of the shop’s lights. The way Ramirez had stood just inside the door, his uniform impossibly crisp, his goatee perfectly trimmed.
“You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Nash?” Ramirez had said. “Parole must feel like a suggestion to you.”
Logan hadn’t answered. He’d just stared, his green eyes promising a world of pain if the cop took one step toward me.
Ramirez had smiled then. He’d taken my statement, but his eyes had kept flicking to Logan. Like he was clocking another violation.
He’d been angry that night. Not about the gun, not about me nearly getting killed. He’d been angry that the Warriors‘ lawlessness had spilled into his orderly jurisdiction, and that Logan Nash was at the center of it. As usual.
I heard Talon’s voice from downstairs, a low, warning rumble of words I couldn’t make out. Then other voices – brothers and prospects a gathering growl of defiance.
–
Car doors slammed outside. Two, three, four. More units arriving. Blue and red light started to pulse through the gaps in the
blinds.
Logan stood up. He yanked on his jeans from the floor, not bothering with underwear. He snatched his t–shirt and pulled it over his head. Every movement was stiff, charged.
2/4
216am PPPD
Chapter 144
legal comm. it was an order. A test of obedience. I forced a bire. The potato was cold and guey. It sat in my mouth like we pilaster anni I managed to swallow
He wanched the lump travel down my throat. Sarsfied, he went back to his own plate.
Afer times. Logan parked us on the couch in the main room. He found a baseball game on one of the TVs and stretched an arm along the back of the couch, his fingers inches from my shoulder. Not touching Just… present.
I picked up an old morarepede magazine from the side table. The pages were sticky and smelled like stale beer. I pretended to read an amade about carburense muning, but the words Blurred into meaningless shapes.
All I could think about was the more. Had every piece flushed away? Had a single, telltale scrap clung to the porcelain, waiting to be founde
My hands were sweaty. I wiped them on my jeans
Logan’s thun stared to nb a slow, absent circle on my back. For a second my throat closed up.
This was the man who’d held me through nightmares, whose body I knew better than my own. And I was about to rip his hean out of his chest
The game droned on. The crowd cheered a distant home run. The sound was hollow, like it was happening in another
mixerse
At some point, he stood up. “C’mon Let’s go to bed”
I followed him. The dimb up the steps felt like walking to the gallows.
In the apartment, the absence of Anatoly’s camera was like an itchy phantom limb. I could feel the empty spot in the rafters. Logan felt in too. His eyes went to the ceiling immediately, then dropped to me.
Tm gonna shower,” he said, shrugging out of his cut and tossing it over the chair. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I nodded
The bathroom door clicked shut. I didn’t hear the lock engage. He was giving me the illusion of privacy. Another test.
I stood in the middle of the living room for a few seconds, listening to the running water through the wall. My eyes went to the window
He had installed a new lock on it, but of course that was meant to keep things out… not in.
So, this would be my escape route. It would work. It would have to.
I moved, quickly and quietly. I went to the bedroom closet and found one of Logan’s hoodies. The worn–out black one I was looking for. It was heavy, and it smelled just like him.
1 bundled it up and shoved it under my side of the mattress, at the foot of the bed. The lump was visible, but only if you were looking for it. I smoothed the comforter over it.
The water shut off. I hurried back to the living room and dropped onto the couch, pulling out my phone to look busy.
He emerged a minute later with a towel slung low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hair on his chest, tracing the lines
of his tattoos.
He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, drying his hair with a second towel, watching me.
2/3
9:36 pm P
Chapter 141
“Your turn,” he said finally
In the bathroom. I locked the door. I leaned my forehead again the cool wood and closed my eyes
“Breathe, Hailey.” I whispered. “Just breathe”
I ran the water hot as I stripped off my clothes.
Hoodie. Note. Phone. Window. Fire escape. Fence. Alley. Sam… Railyard.
It played through my head as I showered, over and over. A mantra of betrayal.
When I came out, I threw on one of his t–shirts. He was already in bed. Sitting up against the headboard, staring at me. The muscles in his bare shoulders were coiled with tension.
I slid into my side of the bed, keeping to the edge. I didn’t know if I could handle physical contact right now
He reached over and turned off the lamp. Darkness swallowed us both.
For a long time, there was only the sound of our breathing. His was a slow, controlled rhythm. Mine felt too quick and shallow, so I forced it to match his.
His hand found mine in the dark. His fingers laced through mine. It wasn’t tender, though. It was possessive. A handcuf
“Go to sleep. Ace,” he murmured.
I didn’t answer. I just lay there with my hand in his, feeling like the worst kind of liar.
AD
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9:16 pm P P
Chapter 145
Chapter 145
-Hailey
The next day was a carbon copy of the day before… only worse,
Logan’s presence was so intense it felt like he was breathing for me. He anticipated my movements, was there before! decided to stand up, to go to the bathroom, to get a drink.
My resolve, meanwhile, was becoming harder and colder. Fed by every suspicious glance from Logan, every silent mea every moment of feeling like a prisoner in the home that was supposed to be my sanctuary.
This wasn’t living. This was waiting to die. And if I was going to die, I’d do it on my feet, facing the monster, not cowering behind Logan while he got himself killed for me.
The sun went down, and Logan drank more than usual. A lot of the guys did. It was almost like they could somehow feel thus something big was coming.
I watched Logan’s sharp edges get a little softer. His reactions half a beat slower. It wasn’t much, but it was something, 1 could use it.
We went upstairs earlier than the night before. He was quiet. The alcohol was making him sullen rather than sleepy. He paced the living room for a while, then finally stalked into the bedroom.
I followed.
“Get in bed,” he said, slurring his words the tiniest bit.
I did. He didn’t join me immediately. He stood at the window, peeking through a slit in the blinds down at the yard below.
He stood there for a full five minutes. Then he turned with a heavy sigh. He undressed in the dark and fell into bed beside
- me.
He didn’t reach for me. He just lay on his back with an arm thrown over his eyes.
“Fuckin‘ circus,” he muttered to the ceiling.
Within minutes, his breathing deepened and went ragged. I lay perfectly still, listening. Waiting.
Eventually, I grabbed my phone from the nightstand to check the time. 11:15 PM.
This was going to be the longest forty–five minutes of my life.
I counted them in the expansions of Logan’s chest, in the faint tick of the old baseboard heater, in the distant, muffled thump of music from downstairs. 11:20. 11:25.
My mind started racing.
What if the distraction doesn’t come? What if it does, but it doesn’t work? What if they’re all down there too drunk to notice?
11:28.
Logan snorted in his sleep and rolled onto his side facing me. His arm flopped out, his hand landing on my hip. His fingers were warm, but a chill crawled up my spine. Even unconscious, he was holding on.
11:29.
9:16 pm P P P D
Chapter 145
A new sound cut through the clubhouse murmur. Not music. A raised voice. Several voices. Angry. Demanding.
My heart slammed against my sternum. This was it.
The voices grew louder. They were at the main door. I could hear the distinct, officious tone of a man used to throwing his weight around. It was muffled by floors and walls, but the anger carried.
Logan’s breath hitched. His fingers tightened on my hip.
–
Then came the sound I’d been waiting for: the heavy, jarring *thud” of a fist or maybe a nightstick – hammering against. the clubhouse’s front door.
Logan’s hand on my hip went from a sleepy weight to a vise grip in half a second. I kept my breathing deep and even while an alarm was blaring inside my skull.
Bang. Bang. BANG.
“Open up! Riverstone PD!”
The voice was sharp, laced with a bureaucratic smugness that scratched down my spine.
I knew that voice. It had asked me calm, condescending questions after Matt pulled that gun on me in the tattoo shop.
Logan’s body went rigid. A low, guttural sound came out of him. He let go of my hip and pushed himself up on one elbow, his head cocked toward the bedroom door.
“The fuck?” he muttered, groggy with sleep and whiskey.
The pounding came again. “Nash! Talon Nash! Logan! Open this door now, or we’re coming through it!”
Logan was fully awake now. The liquor–induced fog was burned away by rage. He swung his legs out of bed and sat on the edge. A dark silhouette poised for violence.
“Ramirez,” he snarled the name.
Right. Officer Ramirez. The memory unspooled in my head. The sterile glow of the shop’s lights. The way Ramirez had stood just inside the door, his uniform impossibly crisp, his goatee perfectly trimmed.
“You just can’t stay out of trouble, can you, Nash?” Ramirez had said. “Parole must feel like a suggestion to you.” Logan hadn’t answered. He’d just stared, his green eyes promising a world of pain if the cop took one step toward me.
Ramirez had smiled then. He’d taken my statement, but his eyes had kept flicking to Logan. Like he was clocking another violation.
He’d been angry that night. Not about the gun, not about me nearly getting killed. He’d been angry that the Warriors‘ lawlessness had spilled into his orderly jurisdiction, and that Logan Nash was at the center of it. As usual.
I heard Talon’s voice from downstairs, a low, warning rumble of words I couldn’t make out. Then other voices – brothers and prospects- a gathering growl of defiance.
Car doors slammed outside. Two, three, four. More units arriving. Blue and red light started to pulse through the gaps in the
blinds.
Logan stood up. He yanked on his jeans from the floor, not bothering with underwear. He snatched his t–shirt and pulled it over his head. Every movement was stiff, charged.
9:16pm p p PD
Chapter 145
This wasn’t just an unwanted police visit. This was a personal incursion. Ramirez was here for *him*.
“Stay here,” he said to me. A blunt command tossed over his shoulder. He hadn’t even looked to see if I was awake.
He stepped into his boots, not bothering to lace them, then shrugged into his cut.
I slipped out of bed and tiptoed after him into the living room. When he opened the apartment door, the noise from below flooded in.
“the hell you think you’re doin‘, Ramirez? You got a warrant?” That was Talon
“I don’t need a warrant to talk to a citizen, Talon.” Ramirez’s reply was calm. Infuriatingly reasonable. “But since you asked. we’re executing a compliance check on one Logan Nash. Parole conditions. We have reason to believe he’s in violation. Multiple violations”
A beat of silence. Then Logan swore softly and threw the door open wider.
“Logan, no-“The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.
He stopped in the doorway, half–turned back. The pulsing police lights from outside flashed across his face, making his expression look fractured.
His eyes found me in the dark, and for a second, the VP mask slipped. I saw the raw, weary man beneath it. The one who was sick of being hounded. The one who knew exactly what this was. A provocation.
“Go back to the bedroom,” he said, his voice lower than before. “Lock the door. Don’t come out for anything. You hear me?”
I nodded, crossing my arms over my chest, the picture of terrified compliance.
He held my gaze for a few seconds, and I saw the conflict there. The part of him that wanted to drag me downstairs with him, keep me in his sight. And the part that knew taking his old lady into a potential standoff with Riverstone PD was the worst possible move.
The protective instinct won, but it was accompanied by a fresh layer of bitter suspicion. Letting me out of his sight was a risk. Everything was a risk.
“I’ll send Scarlett up here,” he added. “To keep you company.”
Great. To babysit me, you mean.
He turned and left, pulling the door shut behind him. The click of the latch was deafening.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
