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“Thank you,” I whisper, and from the bottom of my heart, I mean it.
When he spots the visible bruises on my forearms, his throat bobs. “Did he…”
“He tried, but I-I kneed him in the balls.”
Logan huffs a sharp laugh when I give him the details of how I escaped. “Thatta girl.”
His praise has me fidgeting. That proud smile making me feel prudish.
“I’m a mess,” I say, absently picking little pieces of dirt off the sheets, my skin still crawling with the phantom presence of Koa’s mouth.
“Lidia gave the ‘unofficial doctor’ stamp of approval if you’d like to take a bath.”
The soft smile that finds my lips is an exact match to his. “That sounds amazing, actually.”
After pulling the covers back, he helps me to my unsteady feet, and it’s then I notice several bloody gashes between his knuckles, adhered with some sort of clear glue.
Visions of Logan hitting Koa repeatedly, without mercy, flash behind my eyes.
“Is… is he…?”
“Dead?” He scoffs while gently ushering me toward the bathroom. “He fucking should be.”
Knowing he went after Koa in my honor shifts something foreign inside me. Something like that spark I’ve been searching for.
When we stop short of the tub inside the luxury bathroom, I trace the outer edges of the wounds on his right hand. “Someone could’ve easily taken a video of you.”
“They could’ve,” he agrees, knowing how fast the media would run with it if it were discovered.
“You risked your business’s reputation and Silas’s wrath… for me.”
“And I’d do it again.” He glares at the gashes on my knees before cupping his hand partly along my jaw, partly at the base of my skull. His voice rumbles dangerously. “I savored every strike of my knuckles breaking skin and his blood coating my fingers. It brought me joy to hurt him for you, Penelope. Do you understand that?”
His eyes scour my face as I slowly nod, and my heart pumps wildly when he leans in and presses his lips to my forehead. That single gesture cleanses me of Koa’s touch, allowing me to take an easy breath for the first time since I woke.
“I’ll run the bath for you,” he says before bending to plug the bottom of the claw-foot tub.
He twists the gold-plated handle to fill it with hot water and adds several pumps of lavender bubbles. He tests the temperature, switching to cold once it’s nearly full, and then turns back to me.
Logan hesitates, his very presence making me feel exposed, raw, and confused. But he dismisses the thought with a subtle shake of his head. “I’ll wait in your room in case you need anything.”
Part of me wants to ask him to stay, but I nod, watching him go with longing building in my chest.
I gingerly cross to the sink to remove my clothes but stop when I come face to face with my reflection. One shaky, scraped hand rises to my tangled hair, then to the black mascara stains running down my cheeks.
A sob catches in my throat as the full weight of what happened last night settles around me. How many women have been in my position and weren’t able to get away? Logan served as my reckoning, but what about them? Who was there for them?
Taking several calming breaths, I reach for the hem of my top. “Ah.”
I bite my lip as the muscles between my neck and shoulder blades scream in protest. Grunting in pain, I struggle through one more attempt before giving up altogether.
Dammit.
I glare at the closed door, then at my reflection in the foggy mirror, and breathe a defeated sigh.
“Logan?”
The door opens immediately. “What’s wrong?”
