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The vague murmur of the men’s voices filter up from downstairs, and none of them come up as I quickly take care of my business in the bathroom, including awkwardly slathering my welted ass with some lotion I find in there.
They’re still deep in discussion as I pad silently back into the bedroom and fall into a restless sleep.
* * *
I’mexhausted when my eyes finally open the next morning, even though I can tell by the light coming in through the curtains that it’s not early. My body feels drained beyond just the poor sleep I had, so I don’t bother getting out of bed for a while.
I don’t have anywhere to be, and there’s nothing I can do to help Chloe until the Reapers decide to make a move. I’m sure I’ve long since lost my job at Club M, and I have absolutely no fucks to give about that. At some point, if they keep me here, not paying my rent on the apartment will become an issue, but I’m sure they don’t want me here any longer than necessary, so hopefully it won’t get that far.
I grab some clothes from the new supply Dante brought up yesterday, then head to the bathroom. The hot water stings my sore ass, waking me up even faster than the coffee I’m craving will.
As I get out of the shower and wipe the steam off the mirror, I can’t help but look.
“Oh my god,” I whisper, twisting and turning in an effort to see all of it. The welts Maddoc left on me aren’t quite as angry-looking as they were last night, but they’re still raised, red, and throbbing. The marks cover my ass and upper thighs in a crisscross pattern, standing out against the pale skin around them.
For a long moment, I can’t look away from the sight.
He marked me.
That thought sends a shiver down my spine. I’ll probably wear these marks for a while, a constant reminder of him. Some wild, primal part of me likes that idea, the ache in my core that I wouldn’t let myself take care of last night returning as my clit throbs lightly.
Stop it, Riley. Get your head on straight. No more fucking mistakes.
Still chastising myself mentally, I tug on my clothes and towel dry my hair, then leave the bathroom and head downstairs.
I assume I’ll find myself alone the way I have on most other mornings, but as I make my way toward the kitchen, something amazing hits my nose—a medley of delicious scents that smell so good I almost moan.
I’m suddenly so hungry that I can’t help my steps from speeding up, but they falter when I round the corner and see that Logan is the one responsible for all those amazing smells.
His back is to me as he cooks, and as always with him, everything in the kitchen looks utterly spotless and organized despite the obvious evidence that he’s been here a while. A variety of breakfast dishes are laid out with military precision on the countertop, each plated beautifully and every single one of them making my mouth water like I haven’t eaten in a year.
But this isLogan, and I truly have no idea where I stand with the unreadable ice king, so I start to back away as quietly as I can.
“Stay,” he says without turning around.
I freeze awkwardly, mid-step. My first instinct is to run now that he’s somehow noticed me, but it’s already too late. He turns away from the stove to face me, sliding a steaming omelet that smells like heaven onto a plate as those ice-colored eyes flick over to me and then back to the task at hand.
“Eat something,” he says without any inflection.
I swallow. “What… um, what should I eat?”
He lifts one shoulder in a small shrug before fastidiously wiping down the stovetop and efficiently transferring the pan and spatula he just used to the sink. “Whichever one you’d like, or all of them. It’s all for you.”
I blink, confused. “What?”
He frowns. “Eat,” he repeats, looking at me like I’m the crazy one. “I made you food.”
“Okay,” I say carefully, wondering what the catch is.
He just stares at me in that slightly unnerving way he has until I move, creeping slowly into the kitchen in case there’s some kind of booby trap I don’t see.
“Uh, thanks,” I finally remember to add.
Logan grunts softly, turning back to the sink, and I snatch the first plate I reach from the counter next to him and retreat to the end of the tall island in the middle of the kitchen that the guys often eat at.
He finishes washing the pan, dries it, returns it to the cupboard, then pours a fragrant cup of coffee and doctors it with a hefty pour of cream, just the way I like it. He brings it over to me, along with a set of silverware.
I freeze, hoping against hope that one of the other men will suddenly walk in.
