Chapter 141
-Hailey-
The bed next to me was empty when I woke up. Not just empty, but cold. No Logan.
My hand slid across the sheets, reaching for where his body should have been.
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I opened my eyes and blinked at the sunlight streaming in through the window. I wondered why he had the curtains open today. I looked around the room, and then I saw him.
He was slumped in the ugly floral armchair crammed in the corner. The one we used as a dumping ground for clean aundry that never got put away. I’d never actually seen anyone sit in it.
He was already fully dressed, and his cut was draped over the back of the chair. He was perfectly still except for his thumb. which was scrolling slowly on his phone.
My stomach knotted up. watching me sleep.
This wasn’t the restless energy of a man with too much on his mind. This was a vigil. He’d been
I pushed myself up on my elbows, slowly. Deliberately. Like I was approaching a skittish animal. “Logan?”
His thumb stopped scrolling, but he didn’t look up immediately. He finished reading whatever was on his screen, then lifted nis head.
And the look in his eyes… it put another knot in my stomach.
They were flat. The fierce, green fire I was used to Extinguished.
—
the one that could flash from anger to desire to tenderness
–
was gone.
What was left looked like moss on a tombstone. He looked at me like I was a problem on a checklist he needed to address.
‘You’re awake,” he said. His voice was rough from disuse, but there was no warmth in the gravel. It was a statement of fact.
‘Yeah,” I said, clearing my throat. I pulled the sheet up higher, suddenly feeling exposed. “I am. What’s… what are you doing over there?”
‘Thinking.”
That was it. One word. The knots twisted tighter. I searched his face for any hint of the man who’d held me through my nightmare, whose body I’d used to find a few hours of forgetfulness.
Nothing.
Had I said something in my sleep? I’d used to talk in my sleep, back when I was a kid… but never recently,
The memory of my dream was a fragmented, oily mess–darkness, a sense of being watched, Anatoly’s voice– but nothing concrete. Had I said something out loud?
“Couldn’t sleep?” I tried again, injecting a note of concern I barely felt through my own rising panic
His gaze didn’t waver. “No”
The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Filled with everything he wasn’t saying
I could feel the distance between us expanding. This was different from the frustrated VP from yesterday. That had been
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Chapter 141
heat. This was a deep, penetrating cold. This was the Arctic Ocean between us.
“Are you… okay?” The question sounded pathetic even to me.
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He finally moved, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The chair creaked under him. He laced his fingers together.
He studied me for a long moment, his eyes tracing the line of my shoulder, the hollow of my throat. Like he was looking for something.
“Couldn’t sleep,” he repeated, as if I hadn’t spoken. Then he nodded toward the floor on my side of the bed. “Get some clothes on. I gotta go downstairs.”
My heart started a frantic drumbeat against my ribs. “He knows. Oh god, he knows something.”
But what? The camera? My call to Sam? My mind was racing, frantic, but I kept my face neutral. I couldn’t afford to give anything away.
“Okay,” I said softly, swinging my legs out of bed. The floorboards were icy under my bare feet, but not nearly as icy as Logan.
I avoided his gaze as I bent down to scoop up my clothes from last night. I could feel his eyes on me the entire time.
It was a different kind of scrutiny than the camera’s. This was… personal.
I dressed quickly with my back to him. When I turned around, he was already standing, sliding his arms into his cut. The patches seemed to glare at me.
“Ready?” he asked. His tone implied my readiness was irrelevant.
I just nodded, following him out of the bedroom.
He didn’t reach for my hand. He didn’t touch the small of my back. He walked ahead of me, and I trailed behind him like a damn kicked puppy.
On the stairs, I tried one last time. I reached out and touched his arm. He stopped instantly and his whole body went rigid. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t turn around either.
“Logan, please,” I whispered, trying to hold it together. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
He slowly turned his head, just enough to look at me over his shoulder. His green eyes were like shards of glass.
“Everything’s wrong, Ace,” he said, utterly devoid of emotion. “Come on.”
He continued down the stairs, and I followed as the chill from his words seeped into my bones.
The weight of his stare became something physical. A layer of lead I wore under my skin all day. He didn’t let me more than five feet away from him.
Breakfast and lunch were eaten under his watchful eye.
Conversations with anyone else were cut short by his looming presence.
So when he finally dragged me back upstairs, parked me on the living room couch and sand, “Don’t fuckin move. I need to take a shit,” it felt less like a permission slip and more like a test.
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Chapter 141
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His tone was the same flat, dispassionate drone he’d been using all morning, and a small part of me wanted to giggle at the words he’d chosen.
I just stared at his back as he walked away.
The moment the bathroom door clicked shut, the air in the apartment changed. The oppressive pressure lifted a little, and 1 drew in a breath that felt like my first in hours.
And anger bloomed in my chest.
This wasn’t protection. This was punishment. For what, I still didn’t know, but I was sick of this shit. This… being a passenger n my own life crap.
My gaze drifted upward, to the rafter above me. The source of so much of my fear.
But today, looking at it, fear was drowned out by a hotter, more useful emotion. Rage.
was done being watched. I was done being anyone’s little rabbit.
With a huff of pure frustration, I pushed myself off the couch. I stepped onto the stained cushion and the springs groaned under my weight. I reached up, my fingers stretching toward the beam.
My heart was hammering, but it was a frantic, exhilarated beat now. This was something I could *do*. A problem I could ouch… and solve.
My fingertips brushed through the decades–worth of dust. I swept them along the narrow ledge, expecting to hit the small, mooth dome of the camera. They didn’t.
Confusion turned into panic. I shifted my weight, stretching further, scanning the beam with my fingers. Nothing.
ran my hand along the entire length of the rafter, my breathing getting quicker.
t wasn’t there.
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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.
