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He’s thinner than the last time I saw him. His hair is longer, flipping up over his ears, and his cheeks are covered in five o'clock shadow. There's a slight tremor in his legs as he leans heavier on one side, but those eyes… those soft, amber eyes—the color of a sunset just before it fades—are unmistakably Logan.
Alive. Not ashes.
“Hey,” he says shyly, and my hand flies to my mouth as I take in the ghost of a man I never thought I'd see again. Everyone around us fades away until all I can see is him.
“You’re not real,” I whisper, swaying in place.
Logan smiles and simply holds out a hand. “Oh, I am. Wanna come see for yourself?”
Chapter
Forty-Eight
Logan
Salem hasn't stopped looking at me like she’s seeing the Loch Ness Monster.
She'd refused to take my hand, which admittedly made things awkward, and everyone decided to go for a swim while we hash things out.
Her palm hasn't left her lips either, not all the way through the hotel lobby, not during the uncomfortable elevator ride, and not even now as I drop her bags on the bed in my suite. Not that I expect her to stay here, but part of me always hopes.
Always fucking hopes.
The silence becomes deafening despite The Love You Want by Sleep Token playing from the radio. She sinks down onto the edge of the hot tub, looking fucking gorgeous in a crop top and cut offs as she moves her gaze around the room. It’s larger than my old apartment. There's even a mini bar, a private balcony overlooking the ocean, and a fully stocked snack pantry. Apparently, Matty spares no expense when it comes to his friends.
“I’m not a ghost, you know,” I try to laugh, but the joke falls flat.
Salem finally drops her hand from her mouth, lips nearly white. “How did this happen? We… they took you off life support.”
“Yeah. They did.”
“Your heart stopped.” Tears escape from her lashes. “I watched it. I heard it. That fucking machine flatlined—” She chokes off and threads her fingers through her hair. “You died.”
I cross the room in three strides, but I don’t touch her, even though I crave it. God, I want to drop to my knees and worship her, apologize for everything with my tongue—but I don’t. Not yet.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I did. But then I didn’t.”
A broken, disbelieving laugh leaves her throat. “You didn’t?”
“Not for long.”
“Not for long?” she repeats, voice rising with each syllable. “You died, Logan. You fucking died, and I buried you.” Her fist pounds into her temple. “In here, I buried you. I mourned you. I’ve been mourning you.”
I take a cautious step closer, every nerve ending in my body desperately clawing for her. “Maybe you shouldn't have run, then.”
She jumps to her feet like I've struck her, and fuck, I didn’t mean for it to sound like that.
“Salem, I didn’t—”
“No,” she whispers, turning away from me. “No, you're right. I ran like a fucking coward.”
The crack in her voice nearly guts me, but she doesn’t let me see her cry. Her shoulders stiffen, spine a rigid wall of pride. I hate that I put that distance there.
“Well, you weren't the only one,” I admit.
“What are you talking about?”
Giving in to temptation just a little, I get as close to my wife as I can, the cherry chocolate scent of her body lotion driving me wild. “In Vegas, remember? The morning after we married. I found out you'd slept with Devon and when he told me I was adopted, I ran. But I'm done running, Salem. I'm tired.”
