Please.
Logan caught both my wrists and pinned my hands beneath my stomach.
“Quit being weird and put your hands down,” he hissed under his breath.
Mr. Devereaux in green went very still. His partner’s arm slid away from his waist.
“She’s confused,” Logan said sharply. “She’s–”
“She’s not,” the man in green interrupted, quiet and flat. “She’s unwell.”
Mr. Devereaux in orange shifted, angling his body so the rest of the room couldn’t see his hands. Slowly, he signed back.
Hold on.
Then, a beat later:
Safe.
The word hit harder than it should have.
Safe.
I didn’t feel safe.
I felt like I was going to drop dead in the middle of Logan’s little performance, and the realization scared me more than I wanted to admit.
A soft whimper escaped me. One tear slipped down my cheek.
That was enough to piss Logan off.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, irritation bleeding through the polished mask.
“If you two will excuse me,” Logan said tightly, “I believe we’re done here.”
The Devereauxs didn’t argue. They returned to their table, but their eyes stayed on me as Logan pulled me away from the crowd and into a dim corner of the packed room.
He glanced over his shoulder, then pushed me down onto a velvet chaise.
The cushions swallowed me. I lay back and stared at the blur I assumed was the ceiling. Gold light fractured above, smearing into soft halos that pulsed with my vision.
In.
The breath barely made it past my throat.
Out.
Logan hovered over me, blocking the light.
“Sit up,” he whispered harshly, gripping my shoulders.
My body didn’t cooperate.
He checked behind him again, then forced me upright into something more ladylike. His hands clamped my cheeks hard enough to hurt.
“You’re fine,” he hissed. “Quit making a scene.”
My head lolled slightly between his palms.
