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Softer boot steps edged closer to me. I lifted my shoulders, turning my head toward the sound.
I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay. I can survive this.
The blackness lifted.
I blinked my eyes while looking at the pale concrete ground, squinting away from the blinding overhead light. My eyes searched the floor. There wasn’t a table with a body. Just two giant tan boots rested across from my bare feet. My eyes trailed up the bench.
I wasn’t sitting on a bench. It was a small cot with a blanket pulled over it with its twin on the other side of the room.
Two firm hands cupped my face and dragged my gaze upwards.
Standing in the same hiking boots and bloodied pants as before, with his blond hair pulled back, he looked so incredibly sad.
Logan.
His body looked the same, maybe even better than in the valley, but his eyes told me a different story. His face and hands were clean, without any streaks of dirt. The smears of blood on his cheeks were gone, and his shirt had been replaced with a tight black T-shirt.
He was standing.
He’s alive.Holy shit! He’s standing!
I shot to my feet.
His hands slipped off my chin. I needed to look at him better. I needed to make sure he was real. I needed to touch him.
I wavered, faltering to the side on stiff and weak legs.
Logan watched me dip back toward the bed and fall onto the mattress with a quiet thunk.
He eased down next to me, watching my eyes as I stared at broad chest, his perfectly solid torso, and then lingered on his torn pants. Each leg had rips through the upper thighs, but surprisingly, the rest of the pants remained intact.
My trembling palms reached for him and then paused, wavering a breath over his shirt before my hand rested over his slow, forceful heartbeat. Inch by inch, my fingers brushed up to his neck. I rubbed my thumb over his beard. It scraped at my fingertips.
He was here. My light had saved him, together we had saved him. Somehow.
Logan waited patiently. He allowed my fingers to explore the tanned skin of his arms. I forced myself to say something. “You’re alive.”
I didn’t understand his impassive stare. How was this not amazing to him? He tilted his head, studying my fingers resting on his hands. Had the shock for him worn off? Did he not know how injured he’d been before? This was a freaking miracle, but he didn’t seem as elated as me.
I followed his gaze. My wrists held bruises and deep red gashes circling them like a bracelet. I pulled my hands back into my lap, fighting the urge to touch Logan. He didn’t seem to enjoy my touch like he had before.
His emotionless mask kept my hands balled into my thighs.
“We should talk about things,” he croaked, barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning.
He reached for my forearms and looked at my wrists, then scanned my bare feet and up my torso to my missing shirt. Unconsciously, I crossed my arms over my chest. I watched him bunch his jaw even tighter than before. He looked pissed off. At least that emotion I could read.
“Can you tell me what you did last night?” He spoke softly, each word carefully drawn out.
I paused.
He wants to know what I did to him, but I don’t know what my light did once it flowed into him.
“Believe me when I tell you I can’t explain it. Do you know what’s happening?” I looked around the concrete room. The white door had a glass window that peered into a long hallway with a jet-black ceiling, exposed ducts, and more concrete floors.
Logan reached for the blanket on the opposite bed before tossing it at my chest. “How am I alive, Charlie?”
“I don’t know. I’m just as shocked, or maybe more so, than you.”
