Page 8 of Heir of Ashes
“We’ll rest here for a few hours,” he said as he guided me into the warm interior.
The redheaded receptionist openly scrutinized Logan’s shiner and then my bruised cheek. She didn’t even try to be discreet; she probably thought we’d beaten each other up. She handed him a key with a cheerful smile. “Would you like some help with your bag?”
“I got this,” Logan replied politely. “Thank you.” Then he guided me away, his hand pressed firmly against my lower back.
We made our way to the bank of elevators in silence, emerging on the sixth floor, and headed to the right. The corridor stretched ahead, brightly lit, ten doors to either side. The third door to the right creaked open, and Logan shifted half in front of me, blocking my view. His hand disappeared inside his coat, no doubt where his pistol was concealed. Then his shoulders relaxed, and his empty hand returned to the middle of my back.
A brunette woman clad in a pink satin robe emerged from the third room to the right, pushing out a cart laden with empty dishes. Without acknowledging us, she stepped back into the room and shut the door with a soft click. We continued to the end of the corridor, pausing in front of the last room on the left.
I waited for Logan to unlock the door and made a beeline for the bathroom. After I relieved myself, I unbuttoned my jacket and began to undress. It was the first chance I had to fully take inventory of my injuries. I couldn’t help the gasp of horror that escaped my lips at the first sight of my bruised and scabbed upper half. The Bad Boy team had done a number on me. My skin was mottled with purple, green, and yellow splotches, along with angry, raised, red scars. It looked like someone had dropped a gallon of rainbow paint on me. I knew the beating hadbeen severe—the constant pain had been a clear indication—but I hadn’t realized, or imagined, how ghastly it really looked.
The swelling on my face had gone down, leaving behind a bruise the sickly color of green and yellow. Even though that bruise was the least severe, it bothered me the most. Maybe there was still a piece of that vain teenager inside me.
I left my clothes where they fell and started the shower, turning the water to hot. As steam began filling the stall, I eased in and shut the glass door. The hot spray alleviated some of my aches, and I let the water soothe my abused muscles for a few minutes before washing my hair with the hotel’s shampoo and conditioner. I also used the small bottle of lotion I found by the sink—even though the strong rose fragrance overwhelmed my senses. I only considered putting my bloodied clothes back on for a second before dismissing the thought and reaching for the plush bathrobe hanging on a peg behind the door.
Without another glance at the mirror, I emerged from the bathroom to the wonderful aroma of coffee and an array of breakfast items on a small table. Logan occupied one of the two chairs, a mug of coffee steaming between his large hands. He glanced up, giving me a clinical once-over, before getting up and pulling out the second chair for me. Surprised, I hesitated for a beat, self-consciously aware that I had nothing underneath the robe. He didn’t comment or wait for me to sit but resumed drinking his coffee. Well, at least I was in no danger of being ravished by him. Still, I looked around for my duffel, but it was nowhere in sight.
“My bag?” I asked.
“In the closet,” he said, nodding toward the slightly open closet door.
After I dressed in jeans, a red sweater, and running shoes, I joined Logan at the table, watching as he poured a cup of coffee and handed it to me. I nearly salivated at the aroma. Next,he slathered cream cheese on a bagel and passed it over. After an awkward pause, I took it and ate with gusto. He prepared the remaining two bagels, gray eyes sparkling with humor at my famished state. I devoured everything, then wolfed down all the mango and strawberry slices, not caring if I looked like a slobbering pig. It wasn’t every day that I got to enjoy a fulfilling meal. In fact, it had been weeks since I had.
“I’m not going to let you take me back, you know?” I said after my second cup of coffee.
He sipped from his cup, his gaze assessing.
I clenched my jaw. “I’d kill you if you tried.” I was proud of how firm and confident my voice sounded. Logan’s eyes sharpened with interest, as if just now realizing I was a wolf dressed in a doe’s skin. I managed not to squirm under his intense scrutiny, and I didn’t back down. I raised my chin defiantly and added, “I didn’t warn the others, but I owe you for saving my life back at the motel.”
He nodded once, acknowledging the truth in my words, got up, and went to the bathroom. I didn’t realize how tense I’d been until the shower started. I exhaled a sigh of relief. I debated escaping while he showered but decided against it when I couldn’t find the key to the Range Rover. On foot, even if he took his time in the shower, he would be on me within minutes, and I needed a head start if I didn’t want to get caught again. Besides, I needed rest to recharge my energy before trying to run. Every instinct and piece of common sense I possessed told me to wait for better odds. Rested, I’d be stronger and have a better chance at success, and my wounds would be better healed. And I bet he knew that too.
Exhausted, I crawled under the sheets and vaguely wondered if he was going to rest as well or keep watch while I did.
***
I woke up to a dark room. For a disorienting moment, I had no idea where I was. Then it all flooded back with a shock, like a bucket of icy water had been dumped over me.
The sound of even, low snores came from beside me. The question of whether Logan planned to rest was answered. And apparently, he had decided the bed was big enough for two. My outrage at his audacity quickly gave way to urgency—this was my chance to escape. I eased out of bed, aware that I, and likely Logan, had slept through the day. Creeping to the bathroom, I grabbed my denim jacket and shrugged it on. I had slept dressed in jeans and shoes that sank into the thick carpet and muffled my steps. I hurried for my duffel next, took the wallet that contained my rapidly dwindling emergency money, and Dr. Maxwell’s journal. I placed the latter in the inside pocket of my jacket and promised myself I’d burn it the first chance I got. I had already memorized it letter by letter, and I didn’t want anyone getting hold of it. The thought of leaving my belongings behind was painful, but I knew sooner or later I’d have to.
I was ready to leave when Logan stirred and sat up. I cursed and moved to the window as if it had been my destination all along. Had he been aware of what I was doing, feigning sleep to see what my next move would be?The fucker.
I parted the curtain and peered out at the inky night, acting as if I hadn’t yet noticed he was awake. If only I’d woken up earlier … I berated myself, feeling the weight of his eyes on me.
The window overlooked the hotel’s front, and I watched as a black sedan parked by the entrance. I couldn’t discern auras from afar, but the telltale bulges beneath the jackets of the three hulking men climbing out were unmistakable. I stiffened. The sheets rustled as Logan slid off the bed, joining me at the window just as the men disappeared inside. Their brusque paceand stiff posture were all too familiar. I’d seen the combination so many times, I’d recognize it anywhere.
I grasped Logan’s arm. “I gotta get out of here. Now.”
His eyes studied my face, then he peeled my fingers off his arm and began moving. For some reason I’d question later, he put on his shoes and coat, then followed me out of the room without asking me to explain. He called both elevators, but before I could object, he guided me toward the stairs at the opposite end of the corridor.
I opened the heavy door slowly. We both listened for sounds of footsteps coming up before proceeding. On the landing of the third floor, we heard footsteps ascending at a fast clip. Logan pushed me out of the stairwell and into the corridor, wrapping his knuckles on the first room we came across.
“Come on, come on, come on,” he muttered under his breath and tried the doorknob. It was locked, of course.
I was about to suggest we try another room when I heard it: footsteps inside the room. Logan’s senses must have been sharper than mine. The moment the door opened a crack, Logan pushed inside—my forearm held firmly in his grip—and locked the room behind us. He halted the man’s protest with a glare and a hundred-dollar bill that appeared like magic in his hand. He searched my face, then bent to whisper in my ear, “You okay? Can you run if you need to?”
I straightened my shoulders and smoothed my grimace, setting my expression into a stoic mask before giving a small nod. Whatever happened next, this man had an agenda that involved me being well and rested.
“There are three of them,” I murmured. Because I knew what these men were capable of, I would need Logan if I wanted to get rid of them. Maybe if I was at my best … or maybe if there was only one of them … but I wasn’t, and there wasn’t.