8. Sasha

CHAPTER 8

SASHA

I lie on my bed, staring up at the ornate plasterwork ceiling of Vlad’s mansion. I can't think of this place as home. My mind's bloody chuffed with thoughts. It's been a few days since the dodgy ER incident with Logan's mum, and I know I should tell my brother about what happened. Logan broke the rules, put my life at risk, so to speak. Not that he actually did, but Vlad will think it for certain. Strangely, I just can't bring myself to do it. If Vlad finds out, Logan will be sacked for sure. And for some barmy reason, I don't want that to happen.

I have no idea why I care. Several weeks ago, I tried every trick in my playbook to get him fired.

He's just a bodyguard. A muscle for hire. Nothing more. But as I mull over everything I saw in the ER, fragmented memories of my own mum float to the surface, bringing a wave of sadness and longing for the scant bits of my childhood I can recall with her.

I see flashes of her radiant smile as we play together in the snow-covered garden of our dacha outside Moscow. " Sashen'ka, milyi moi! Lovi menya! " she calls out playfully, her blond hair streaming behind her as she runs, urging me to chase her. Her emerald eyes, so like my own, sparkle with love and mischief.

" Mama! I’m coming! " I squeal with delight in a language I’m starting to forget. My chubby little legs pump as I dash after her. My heart is bursting with pure, untainted happiness.

I was six then and I had no idea how cruel the world could be. Especially to the people who didn’t deserve it.

According to our father, Mama died from a stroke. But in my mind, it's like one day she was just...gone.

Vanished from my life without a trace.

The ache in my chest swells as the memories recede back into the shadows of my mind. I take a shaky breath and swipe at my damp eyes. Bloody hell, I miss her. I hardly even remember what she looked like. And Logan, seeing him so gutted over his mum...it just brought it all back.

Also made me realize that underneath that gruff exterior, he's human too.

Fuck.

This is beyond terrible.

Not only is this arsehole incredibly attractive, but I can also feel a sickening twist in my gut as I realize he's a secret softie.

I sigh heavily and roll onto my side, hugging a pillow to my chest. I need to get a grip. He works for Vlad. And if Vlad ever finds out that I'm...the way I am… I squeeze my eyes shut, shoving the thought away. I can't ever let that happen. I won't.

I punch the speed higher on the treadmill, my feet pounding out a punishing rhythm as sweat trickles down my spine. Running outside like I used to is not an option anymore. Vlad forbids it because of what happened back in London. So this is what passes for freedom now—a private gym with a state-of-the-art kit and fancy bottled water in the basement of my brother’s house. Vlad's version of keeping me safe .

My lungs are burning, muscles screaming for oxygen as much as they scream for a break, but the pain is a distraction from the thoughts churning in my head. The thoughts I haven’t been able to push down. The flashes of memory—Mama singing me to sleep in her soft lilting Russian. The wrenching grief when she vanished from my life is lingering. Still there after all these years. And now Logan's mum, the naked terror in his look as he rushed to get to her...

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block it all out, the thud of my pulse drowning everything else. I'm so lost in the zone, I almost miss the sound of the door opening. Almost.

I glance toward the noise and nearly stumble as I see Logan shuffling on the fringe of the room, hesitant for a moment. Then he strides over, all six two of solid muscle and coiled grace.

Bloody hell. The man can wear his clothes. Black trousers hug his lean, toned thighs in a way that makes my mouth dry. The plain black T-shirt stretching across his broad chest highlights the perfect form of his sculptured upper body. And then the tats on his arm. If he passed me on the street, I would have thought he was some bloody thirst trap TikTok model.

Fuck. My thoughts are a mess.

I’m proper embarrassed for calling him an old man.

I force my eyes up to his face, catching a flicker of something in that cool gray gaze.

"Impressive commitment," he remarks blankly, nodding at the treadmill display. His voice is dry as the Sahara, but there's a hint of warmth buried in there somewhere, and I can sense it. Strange thing. "You know, most people would take it easy after trying to run away from their security detail as many times as you did."

I bark out a breathless laugh, hitting the stop button. "Well, I'm not most people, am I?" I say as I grab my towel and swipe at the sweat coating my face, attempting to get my hammering heart under control. "Besides, gotta keep in shape if I'm gonna outrun you next time I try."

He doesn't smile, but I swear I see a muscle twitch in that chiseled jawline. "Let’s be honest, we both know you won’t outrun me while you’re on my watch." He says it with absolute conviction, immovable as a mountain.

For a second I let myself believe him, let myself imagine those strong arms wrapped around me, shielding me from everything in this fucked up world that wants to break me.

Then I mentally slap myself and step off the treadmill.

Get a grip, Sasha.

This is just your abandonment issues latching onto the nearest warm body. He's your bodyguard, nothing more. A really bloody fit, heroic bodyguard with quicksilver eyes and hands that could probably snap you in half.

Fuck. I am well and truly screwed.

I clear my throat, feeling the tension crackling between us in the air. "Look, about your mum..." I trail off, unsure how to broach the subject. I don’t even remember what I wanted to say.

"You didn't have to do that," Logan says quietly, his gaze boring into me. "Pay the hospital bills, I mean."

I shrug, aiming for nonchalance. "Consider it a present from an entitled, spoilt brat." I infuse a little bit of sarcasm into these words, but not too much. I don’t want to sound like a complete knob. The situation doesn’t allow.

Logan is silent for a long moment, his eyes searching my face like he's trying to piece together a particularly challenging puzzle. The air feels charged, heavy with things unsaid.

I fight the urge to squirm under the intensity of his scrutiny.

Finally, I can't take it anymore. I step back, putting some much-needed distance between us. "Right then, I'm absolutely famished." I force a grin, trying to dispel the weird energy. "You hungry? Fancy grabbing a bite?"

Logan doesn't take the bait. "I'll take you wherever you want to go."

An idea strikes me. "You know, I've never actually had a proper taco." His eyebrows shoot up, and I press on, "If you know a good spot, I'd love to try it. The real American experience and all that, since it looks like I'll be sticking around for a while."

The corner of his mouth twitches, almost a smile. "Trust me, the best tacos aren't served in the places you're used to."

I wave a hand dismissively. "I don't give a toss about fancy. I want authenticity." I fix him with a challenging stare. "Think you can manage that, Mr. Muscle?"

"Oh, it’s ‘mister’ now?"

"You can call me Sasha," I blurt out. "Alexander is a mouthful anyway."

This time, he definitely smiles. Just a small one, but it transforms his whole face, softening the hard edges. My heart does a little flip in my chest. Bloody hell, I'm in trouble.

"Okay, Sasha. If you insist, I know just the place," he says.

The car ride is tense and I keep my gaze fixed out the window, watching the sun-soaked streets of Vegas blur past. Logan drives in silence, his strong hands gripping the wheel. I want to say something, anything to break the suffocating quiet, but my tongue feels like lead in my mouth.

Something is happening between us. He smiled. I let him call me the way Mama used to call me. I also didn’t snitch to Vlad about the ER trip. And I’m also finding everything about Logan attractive now.

Before panic overtakes me completely, we pull up to a bustling taco truck somewhere in the heart of the city where traffic is loud and people are plentiful. The aroma of sizzling meat and spices wafts over immediately, and my stomach grumbles traitorously as we climb out. But the sound of passing cars and chatter from the long line drowns out the betraying sound.

"So, this is the place," I comment, turning to my companion.

"Is it not up to your liking, Your Majesty?" he asks mockingly, attempting a poorly executed British accent.

I roll my eyes. "It's...different."

"It’s the best place in town," Logan says with pride in his voice. "But if you don’t like it, we can always head back to your mansion and order room service."

"No, thank you. I think I’ve had enough of my room."

I scan the crowd spilling in front of the truck, a mix of English and rapid-fire Spanish washing over me. The sheer comradery of it all is staggering. People are talking to each other while eating or waiting or getting ready to go. Some seem to know each other and others are clearly strangers, except that now they are united by the food made in this funny-looking painted truck.

I feel like an outsider.

"Is it always this busy?" I ask, trying to hide my nerves beneath a layer of bravado as we approach the line to join in.

Logan shoots me an amused look. "This? This is nothing. You should see the line at 2 AM, after the clubs let out."

"They drive from the Strip here?"

"Oh, they do."

"Americans are quite odd. Your fascination with food is rather absurd."

"You say this because you haven’t tried good food yet. You’ll be obsessed with it too after Don Julio’s Tacos ."

We join the queue, and I try not to fidget as we inch closer to the front. When it's finally our turn, Logan steps up to the counter with the ease of a regular and throws at me over his shoulder, "You don’t have any food restrictions or allergies, do you?"

"Not that I know of… Can you ask if—"

Logan doesn’t give me a chance to finish my question of whether the meat here is humane. I try to avoid factory-farmed meat as much as I can.

He rattles off our order to the guy inside the truck in fluent Spanish, the words flowing like honey from his lips. I catch a few familiar phrases you hear everywhere around these parts— carne asada, al pastor, pollo —but the rest is lost on me.

We find a small table nearby, miraculously empty amidst the chaos. As we sit, I work up the nerve to ask, "So, do you come here often?"

Logan shrugs, leaning back in his plastic chair. "When I have the time, yeah. It's a nice break from the glitz and glam, you know? It’s simple but it’s just right."

I nod, even though I don't really understand. My life has been nothing but glitz and glam, a never-ending parade of luxury and excess. But sitting here, surrounded by the sights and smells of something real, something uncomplicated, I think I'm starting to see the appeal.

As we wait for our food, Logan points out the different meats and toppings, explaining the flavor profiles and traditional combinations. I nod along, trying to commit it all to memory. It's a small thing, but the fact that he's taking the time to teach me, to share something he clearly enjoys, makes a warmth bloom in my chest.

"So, where did you learn Spanish?" I ask.

"Well, it’s taught in pretty much every high school in this country, especially in states with a lot of bilingual populations like California, Nevada, Texas, New Mexico, Arizona. So, I had the basics down when I met this girl while in the Academy. Her family was from Mexico City and we kinda hit it off. Started dating. She taught me some and then I took some classes too. It’s a beautiful language."

"What happened to the girl?"

"Nothing. She's married now and has a kid. Didn’t work out between us. We just grew apart after a couple of years. She wanted a family. I wanted a career. She wanted to leave Nevada and I couldn’t… because of my mother."

Another question is forming in my head when our order number is called and the moment is broken. Logan stands to retrieve the food.

I watch him navigate the crowd, all strength and fluid movement. Something in the pit of my stomach clenches, a heat that has nothing to do with the spicy scent of salsa in the air.

As he makes his way back to our table, a tray in hand and a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, I realize with a sudden, terrifying clarity that I am well and truly fucked. Because despite every instinct screaming at me to run, to keep my walls up and my heart guarded, I can't seem to tear my eyes away from the man in front of me.

And for the first time since I stepped off that plane, I'm not sure I want to.

Logan sets the tray down, the aroma of cilantro and sizzling meat wafting up to tease my nostrils. Silently, we dig in, the flavors exploding on my tongue in a symphony of spice and warmth. For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of contented chewing and the distant chatter of the crowded street.

"How is it?" Logan asks eventually.

When I look up from my paper plate, there’s a smidgen of sauce in the corner of his mouth and he licks it with his tongue. Oh no! This has my gut tightening.

"That good, huh?" Logan chuckles. "That you lost your ability to speak."

I nod stupidly. "Yes. You pretty much summed it up, mate."

He picks up another taco from his own paper plate and bites into it.

We continue to devour our food without talking. Logan seems satisfied with the silence between us while I feel like sharing something in return since he shared bits of his life with me.

"I hardly remember my mum," I say softly, part of me hoping he won’t hear it because I don’t talk about Mama at all. Not even with Vlad.

Logan looks up, his gray eyes searching my face.

"The memories, they're fading. Like an old photograph, you know? All blurry around the edges."

He nods, understanding etched into the lines of his face. "What happened? If you don't mind my asking?"

"I was told she had a stroke."

"How old were you?" he asks gently. "When she passed?"

"Six," I reply, my throat suddenly tight. "Vlad was nineteen. I don't even remember the funeral, not really. Just fragments that surround that time of my life. Like a puzzle with half the pieces gone missing."

Logan's hand twitches on the tabletop, as if he wants to reach out and offer comfort but thinks better of it. "It must have been hard," he says instead, his voice low and rough. "Losing her so young."

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as my heart twists painfully in my chest. "I loved her, you know? She was my whole world. But without her Russia was a nightmare. I hated every bloody second of it until they shipped me off to London when I was fourteen."

"Maybe it was for the best," Logan offers quietly. "Kept you safe, at least."

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, the sound harsh and grating in the warm air. "Safe?" I echo hollowly. "Tell that to Alfie. Fat lot of good it did him, being my friend."

Logan's brow furrows, but he doesn't press the issue. And I'm glad. I have no idea what Vlad told him about the bomb in London. All I know is that my brother said an attempt was made.

Logan takes another bite of his taco, chewing slowly as if lost in thought.

The remainder of our meal passes in quiet with the weight of words unspoken lingering between us but not ready to come out. The sounds of the city wash over me—car horns blaring, music spilling from open windows, laughter and chatter in a dozen different languages. But all I can focus on is the man across the tiny table from me. This infuriating, intriguing enigma who somehow makes me feel more alive than I have in years.

And as we sit there, surrounded by the sights and smells and sounds of a world so different from the one I've always known, I realize that for the first time since coming to this strange, sprawling city, I'm actually enjoying myself.