Page 73 of Heir of Ashes
“Come on, man!” Rafael exploded with a loud hiss. “Listen to yourself. Those people wouldn’t let a fly hurt one of their kind, much less a scion. They’re so rare, they’re practically deities.”
“And yet she was left at the mercy of the Society year after year, until she managed to escape on her own,” Logan argued, his hands clenched by his sides.
“Why?” Rafael demanded. “Everyone knows Fosch died for her, hybrid or not.”
“That’s what smells iffy. I’m going to keep her close until I can talk to Archer. Until he talks to her. Until then, I’m not throwing her to the vultures,” Logan said with finality, before adding more gently, “After that, I promise you, Rafe, I’ll wash my hands of the problem.” Logan glanced back at me—the problem—and met my eyes.
For a moment, we stared at each other, his words hanging between us like a heavy gong ready to fall.
I tried to sit up, and a sharp tug on the back of my left hand made me realize with a twinge of panic that I was connected to a dripping IV. A small sound of horror escaped my lips. I fumbled and grabbed for it, ready to yank it out when a large hand closed over mine. I pushed at it, trying to pull my hand free. My heart squeezed once, my vision blurred at the edges, then began to dim. Vaguely, in the very back of my mind, I recognized the panic attack for what it was. My inner voice told me to relax, that this was Logan and he was taking care of me, but it was faint and faraway, muffled by the loud roar of panic.
“Take it out,” I rasped. “Take it out!” I screeched, seeing only the white coats of the lab scientists and hearing only the bleeps of the machines monitoring my every breath while I shivered on that cold steel table.
Logan lay beside me, his body warm and solid against mine as he pulled me close, holding my hand in an iron grip. “Shh. Shh-hh. It’s okay. It’s okay.” He rocked me gently, his voice a soothing murmur in my ear until I fell asleep—or passed out.
When I woke, the IV had been removed, and I was sweating rivers under the thick duvet. I glanced around and found myself alone in a room sparsely furnished: a straight -back chair beside the bed, a nightstand with a cheap plastic lamp, and nothing else. There were no windows, so I couldn’t tell if it was day or night.
God, how I missed the warmth of the sun on my face. I pushed the duvet away and got up slowly. The world tilted from side to side, my stomach in sync with it. I had to sit back down and wait for the world to settle and the nausea to abate before attempting to stand again.
All I had on was one of my oversized t-shirts. With a vaguely alarmed sense of curiosity, I raised the hem to make sure I was wearing underwear. I was. Unless there was another woman in the house, I was sure Logan was the one who’d cleaned and dressed me. Werewolves were territorial, and he would feel responsible for me if for no other reason than he had met me first.
How did I feel about that?
I searched for something—embarrassment, alarm, outrage—anything. They were all there, but somehow muted. As though I was too drained to fully feel anything. Or maybe it was because, in a sense, I’d rather have Logan see me naked than Rafael.
I scanned the room but found no sign of my clothes or duffel bag. Since the t-shirt was long enough to cover the essentials, I left the room to look for food, Logan, and a bathroom—not necessarily in that order.
I found the bathroom first. It was the first door to the right in the narrow hallway. There were three other closed doors, but I paid them no mind. After washing and taking care of necessities, I went in search of the remaining two on my list. The hallway ended in a spacious, dimly lit, also scarcely furnished living room. There was a comfortable-looking green velvet sofa, a recliner, two straight-back chairs like the one in the bedroom, a scarred coffee table with some empty Coke cans on top, what looked like folded beach chairs underneath, and a flat-screen TV with some expensive-looking entertainment devices. The wooden floor, like in the bedroom and hallway, was worn and muted.
None of the furniture matched. Like in the bedroom and bathroom, there were no windows here either. The walls were unadorned and bare, painted a shade of muted white, with faint yellow splotches indicating a past leak. A couple of doors led to different parts of the house, but I went for the one on the left where a fluorescent light glowed.
Before I reached it, I heard the sound of a chair scraping against linoleum and muffled footsteps. Logan appeared, his figure looming in the doorway. He looked both weary and relieved, and as handsome as ever. My stomach fluttered with a mix of hunger and something else, something that could easily turn into a serious crush if I wasn’t careful.
“Hey.”
“Hey back,” I said, my voice still a little scratchy.
“You okay?”
“Hungry.”
He nodded. “There’s soup. Come on.” He turned and disappeared inside.
I followed him to a small kitchen. An industrial counter covered one side of the room, flanked by a stove and a refrigerator at each end. A scarred, light-colored wooden table sat opposite the sink, shoved all the way against the wall, with three straight-back chairs around it.
Logan motioned for me to sit, and I did, taking the closest chair.
He lit the stove under a copper pot filled to the brim with something that smelled delicious. He still wore the same clothes from before—dark blue long-sleeve t-shirt and faded blue jeans—though they looked disheveled. His hair looked like it had seen nothing but a few rough fingers for the past few days. His posture was stiff, with tension emanating from his shoulders in waves. His green-and-yellow aura pulsated with coiled violence, barely leashed.
“These digs yours?” I asked, trying for a lighter mood.
“No.”
“This Douglas guy Rafael mentioned?” I guessed.
He grunted.
“I don’t sense anyone in the house but us.”