Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

I step into the jailhouse.

The reception lady looks up from her desk, her eyes narrowing as she spots me. Her lips curl into a sneer, but she picks up the phone and mutters something I can’t make out.

Moments later, a deputy appears, motioning for me to follow. Instead of heading toward the cells, though, I veer off to the sheriff’s office. The deputy opens his mouth to protest, but I push past him, determination fueling my every step.

Sheriff Dunham is behind his desk, feet propped up like he owns the world. He leans back in his chair, eyes roaming over me with a leer that makes my skin crawl.

“Well, if it isn’t Miss Cole,” he drawls. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I force myself to stand tall, locking eyes with him. “I want to know why there’s been a delay in Logan’s bail.”

He chuckles, the sound low and mocking. “Oh, sweetheart, you really think it’s that simple?”

“Don’t call me sweetheart,” I snap. “And yes, I do think it’s that simple. The evidence against him is flimsy at best.”

His smile widens, but there’s no warmth in it. “Flimsy? We’ve got his fingerprints on a crowbar covered in blood.”

My hands clench into fists at my sides. “That evidence was planted. By you.”

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Doesn’t matter what you think happened. What matters is what the court thinks.”

“Then why delay bail? If you’re so confident in your case?”

His eyes darken, and he leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “I’m enjoying watching him squirm. That’s reason enough.”

My stomach twists at his words. “You have no right—”

“I have every right. This is my town, my rules. Besides, the only prosecutor has been mighty busy. We are a small town, you know.” He smirks, making it clear that everyone knows exactly how busy the judge gets when he goes down south past the border, where he can do as much drugs and underage girls as his poor, triple-bypass heart can stand. “I’m sure he’ll get around to it.”

“Wait much longer and it’ll be considered a breach of his due process. I’m sure you don’t want the state attorney general to take an interest in this case.”

Sheriff Dunham studies me for a moment, his gaze lingering on my face. I can tell he’s weighing his options, trying to decide whether to help me or not. I know he’s a corrupt man, but he’s also one who understands a threat when he hears one. In a way it’s a thin promise. It’s not like I can actually make the state attorney general investigate anything. He might, though. Will the sheriff take that risk?

“I’ll reach out to him,” he says gruffly. “Tell him it’s been long enough.”

I give him a short nod, because that’s all I can do. For now.

As I’m led to the small jail cell, I steel myself for what’s to come. Fluorescent lights overhead flicker, casting eerie shadows on the chipped paint of the walls.

When I finally see Logan through the bars, my heart skips a beat.

His dark, tousled hair hangs limply around his chiseled face, his eyes haunted, like those of a hunted animal. His white shirt is tossed across the small, stained cot. That leaves him shirtless. The intricate tattoos that snake across his biceps and shoulders seem to writhe in the dim light, telling stories of a hard life. And of hope.

My eyes well up with tears at the sight of him, the man I love, caged like some exotic creature in this godforsaken place. But I push the emotions down, forcing a brave smile to my lips. I can’t let him see how much this is killing me.

Wolfgang is already inside. They’re speaking in low, serious tones.

When he sees me, he nods and steps past me.

The solid metal door closes behind me with a thud.

Logan stands on the other side of the bars, his eyes weary and haunted. Seeing him like this, my heart sinks. I take a deep breath, willing myself to put on a brave face. He needs my strength right now, not my tears.

The cell reeks of despair and old sweat.

The tattoos are a vibrant tapestry of circus scenes, painted with an artist’s precision. On one shoulder, acrobats soar through the air, their limbs elongated in impossible grace. Below them, a ringmaster cracks his whip, his face contorted in a mixture of glee and menace. On Logan’s chest, a contortionist bends in ways that defy human anatomy, her eyes wide and hauntingly beautiful.

But not all of it is playful. There are grotesque images too. A clown with jagged teeth grins malevolently from his left bicep, while a strongman lifts an impossibly heavy barbell with veins bulging from his neck. The vibrant colors of the tattoos seem almost out of place in this drab, gray cell.

A thin sheen of sweat glistens on Logan’s skin, highlighting the definition of his muscles. Each curve tells a story of hard work and dedication, but also pain and sacrifice. His broad shoulders look capable of carrying the weight of the world—or at least the weight of this damn circus.

He looks up as I approach, eyes locking on to mine. Despite the haunted light in them, he’s still undeniably hot. His presence fills the small space, making it less like a cage and more like… something else.

The heavy growth on his face, not quite a beard, but more than faint scruff, makes him seem even more dangerous, like a caged circus animal.

“Hey,” I say softly, stepping closer to the bars.

He looks up, a shadow of a smile flickering across his lips. “Hey yourself.”

I reach out, my fingers curling around the cold metal. “How are you holding up?”

Logan’s shoulders sag, and he lets out a heavy sigh. “Wolfgang was just telling me about what happened.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. “I hate that you have to worry about this.”

He blows out a breath. “I know that Nadia leaving is a bigger blow to the circus, but somehow Emerson leaving hurts worse.”

“We’ll manage,” I say, though my voice wavers slightly.

He shakes his head, his eyes filled with defeat. “It’s falling apart, Sienna. Everything I’ve worked for… It’s slipping through my fingers.”

“Hey,” I say firmly, trying to inject some steel into my voice. “We are not giving up. We’ll figure this out.”

Logan’s gaze locks on to mine, and for a moment, his severe expression softens. “How do you do it? How do you stay so strong?”

I force a smile. “It was that or die.”

A ghost of a chuckle escapes his lips. “You always were a tough one.”

“Takes one to know one,” I shoot back, hoping to lighten the mood even just a little.

But his expression turns serious again, the weight of our situation pressing down on him. “I don’t want you visiting me here anymore,” he says suddenly.

The words hit me harder than any blow Kyle ever dealt me. “What? Why?”

“I can’t stand seeing you like this,” he admits, his voice cracking. “It’s tearing me apart.”

“I’m not leaving you,” I say fiercely, gripping the bars tighter. “You hear me? I’m not going anywhere.”

His hand reaches through the bars, touching mine briefly before pulling away as if burned by the contact. “Sienna…”

“Don’t,” I interrupt him. “Don’t push me away now.”

He looks at me with those haunted eyes, and I can see the internal battle he’s fighting—wanting to protect me but needing me close.

I grip the bars so tightly my knuckles turn white. “This isn’t fair, Logan. You don’t deserve to be in here.”

His eyes darken, and he looks down at his feet. “Fairness has nothing to do with it, Sienna. They’re out to get me because I stood up to them.”

“But you did it for me,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “This is all my fault.”

He shakes his head sharply. “Don’t you dare think that. I made my choices.”

My throat tightens as I fight back tears. “The evidence… Logan, they’re saying they have your fingerprints on the crowbar. It’s bullshit.”

“I know. But proving that is another story.”

“The lawyer’s working on it.” I try to inject some hope into my words.

Logan’s eyes meet mine again, filled with a mix of desperation and determination. “It’s not even about the murder charge. It’s about these fucking bars. About being chained up. Watched. Mocked. About being like my father.”

My heart drops to the pit of my stomach. Logan feels like he’s become his father, the circus freak, the criminal, the rapist. The very thing he’s spent his life trying to escape, now shackling him tighter than any set of bars ever could.

“No,” I breathe out, the word escaping my lips before I can stop it. “Logan, you’re nothing like him.”

His eyes flash with pain and anger. “Aren’t I? Look at me, Sienna. Look at where I am.”

I step closer to the bars, wanting to reach out, to hold him, to break through this invisible wall of despair that’s crushing him. “Your father… He was a monster in human form. You’re not.”

Logan’s laugh is bitter and hollow. “And what am I now? A caged animal for people to gawk at?”

“Stop it,” I say fiercely. “You’re Logan Whitmere. The man who saved me from a life of misery. The man who built a home for outcasts, who gave them purpose and pride.”

He shakes his head, looking away from me, as if ashamed. “I feel like him every time these bars clang shut behind me.”

My chest tightens with the weight of his words. Seeing him like this—broken, dehumanized—it’s unbearable.

“Logan,” I whisper, my voice trembling. “This place… It’s temporary. We’ll get you out.”

He finally meets my gaze again, his eyes searching mine for something—hope, maybe, or reassurance. “And what then? What if they drag me back? What if this is my life now?”

“No,” I say firmly, trying to pour every ounce of conviction into my words. “We won’t let that happen.”

A tear slips down my cheek, and I quickly brush it away. “You’re not your father. You never were and you never will be.”

His jaw clenches, and he closes his eyes briefly as if trying to block out the truth of our situation.

“I just… don’t want you to see me like this,” he mutters.

“Too late,” I reply softly but with steel in my voice. “I’ve already seen you at your worst and your best, Logan. And I’m still here.”

He opens his eyes again, something softening in his expression.

“We’ll get through this,” I promise him.

Logan looks at me with a mixture of gratitude and sadness, but there’s a flicker of something else too—a spark of hope.

It’s small, but it’s enough for now.

“Just… don’t give up,” I whisper.

I glance toward the door and spot the back of Wolfgang’s head through the tiny window. No nosy deputies in sight, either. Before I can second-guess myself, I reach through the bars and grab Logan’s hand. His fingers curl around mine instantly, a lifeline in this hellish place.

His touch is warm and strong, grounding me in this moment of chaos. I squeeze his hand tightly, pouring every ounce of love and support into that simple gesture.

“We’ll get through this,” I say.

Logan’s grip tightens in response.

I study the gorgeous tapestry of tattoos across his body—the red-and-white striped circus tent, the lion standing up on his back paws, the carousel with its macabre faces. My eyebrows pull together. It almost looks darker beneath the flame-covered ring.

I’m unfortunately very familiar with bruises like that, the kind made with fists.

“What happened?” I ask, my pulse thudding in my ears.

He looks grim and sardonic. “I tripped.”

“On what? There’s barely anything in there.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does freaking matter if they’re abusing you. You’re a prisoner here. You have rights. We can call Harrison. Or the ACLU. Or the newspapers. Or—”

“We’re not calling anyone.”

“Logan—”

“Stop.”

The air between us crackles, charged with an intensity that sends a shiver down my spine. Logan’s gaze holds mine, a mix of desperation and desire swirling in those stormy eyes. Heat radiates off his body, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. My breath hitches, caught in the moment, as our emotions run high and wild.

His voice is low, almost a growl, when he speaks. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

I step closer to the bars, the metal emanating cold. “Yes, I should.”

His eyes flash. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

My heart pounds with a primal rhythm. “And what is that?”

His gaze roams over me, lingering on the curves of my body. I can feel the weight of his stare, like a physical touch, setting my nerves alight. The tension between us is palpable, a taut wire ready to snap.

Something shifts in his expression. His eyes turn cruel, a harsh gleam replacing the heat from moments before. My stomach twists, a sense of unease washing over me.

“I’ve been hard up in here,” he says, his voice cold and distant. “If you’re so intent on comforting me, how about putting on a little show?”

The words hit me like a slap, a brutal reminder of the walls he’s trying to build between us. I can see it in his eyes—he wants to push me away, to use sex as a weapon, a barrier to keep me at arm’s length.

And after being taunted and shamed by the town for years, it’s working.

Logan’s words hang in the air, a brutal challenge that cuts deep. “Show me somethin’ pretty if you want to stick around.” His eyes, once warm and inviting, now glint with a cruel edge. My heart hammers against my ribs, a drumbeat of confusion and hurt.

Part of me wants to run, to flee this cold, harsh version of the man I love. But another part, a darker, more insidious part, wonders if this is all I’m good for. The echoes of Kyle’s taunts, the whispers of the town, all swirl in my mind. “Trash.” “Worthless.” “Good for nothing but a quick lay.”

I stand there, frozen, my breath coming in shallow gasps. Logan’s gaze bores into me, waiting, demanding. His lips curl into a smirk, a cruel mockery of his usual smile. It’s like he’s become a stranger, a dark reflection of the man I know.

“Well?” he prompts, his voice a low growl. “What’s it gonna be, Sienna?”

My hands tremble as I reach for the hem of my shirt, a sense of dread washing over me. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? A performance, a spectacle for his amusement? But if it means staying with him, if it means not losing him completely…

I hesitate, my fingers toying with the fabric. Logan’s eyes follow the movement, a hungry gleam in their depths. It’s a hunger I recognize, but it’s tainted now, twisted into something ugly and wrong.

“Logan,” I whisper, a plea in my voice. “Don’t do this.”

His smirk fades, replaced by a hard, unyielding expression. “You wanted to stay, Sienna. This is the price.”

Tears sting my eyes, blurring my vision. I blink them back, refusing to let them fall. I won’t cry, not in front of him. Not like this.

My hands drop to my sides, my resolve crumbling. I can’t do it. I can’t debase myself like this, not even for him.

“I… I can’t,” I choke out, my voice barely a whisper.

Logan’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes flickers. A hint of regret, perhaps, or maybe it’s just my imagination, a desperate attempt to find the man I love in this cold, cruel stranger.

I take a step back, my heart heavy with defeat. “I’m sorry, Logan. I can’t do this.”

His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek. For a moment, he says nothing, his gaze locked on to mine. Then, he turns away, his shoulders tense, his back rigid.

“Fine,” he says, his voice cold and distant. “Then go.”