17. Logan

CHAPTER 17

LOGAN

The Strip's neon lights are a vortex of color and sound that spins in my memory like a carousel on fire. Just twelve hours ago, Sasha and I weaved through the throngs of casino tourists while bullets meant for Sasha's heart bit into metal and glass. And then high above the chaos, where the city sprawled beneath us like a kingdom of fallen stars, Sasha kissed me.

Alexander Solovey kissed me .

His lips were so soft, the press of them so innocent, a contrast to everything his last name represents. He was sweet, like candy, his breaths non-existent as if he held air in his lungs. This kind of kiss usually speaks of desperate, quiet things. It tasted like forbidden fruit; it felt like the peace I'd been missing without knowing it was gone. A fire that licked my insides as he stood in front of me, his body so close almost pressing up against mine.

But I'm not here for kisses.

I'm here to keep him alive.

I did what I thought was the best thing for both of us. I put a stop to it before it was too late, before his wants consumed me, before I lost control and signed my own death sentence.

Only now, that time has passed and morning light began to filter through the heavy curtains of Vlad's mansion, I still can’t shake off that feeling that washed over me when Sasha’s lips touched mine. It’s all my mind knows. I wonder if this is how Adam and Eve felt when they ate the Forbidden Fruit.

Don’t, Logan. Don’t think about it. Don’t let it mess with you.

Still, guilt gnaws at my insides. Maybe I was too kind, too open. Maybe Sasha mistook my protection for something else. Something more.

I try to dispel the fog of emotions clouding my judgment. Duty first. Feelings... they don't have a place in this story. Not when every shadow could hide a gun, every corner a threat waiting to leap.

Exhaustion clings to me as I peel myself from the bed, still dressed in yesterday's clothes. Ivan asked me to stay when I brought Sasha back, and I spent the night in the spare bedroom down the hall from Sasha’s room, hardly sleeping, just laying on top of the covers, ready and mostly listening to the sounds of this house.

A distant hum somewhere outside signals an arrival. I reach the window and slide the pane open. Heavy tires crunch against the driveway. Agitated voices travel downstairs. Vlad. It's him; it has to be. He’s returned from yet another business trip.

Every inch of my body protests the movement as I roll my shoulders and head over to the bathroom. There, water that splashes onto my face scatters thoughts and images—Sasha's taboo lips caressing mine. Toothpaste foams, washing away the taste of him and the taste of guilt that lingers in my mouth.

A knock jolts me. Ivan's frame fills the doorway when I swing it open, his eyes serious as he delivers the message in his gravelly Russian accent. "Vlad wants to see you. Downstairs."

"Thanks," I reply, with a nod that feels like a weight tied around my neck.

As we descend the staircase and walk toward the office, my each step is chained to the terror pooling in my gut.

Ivan stops in front of the heavy doors and knocks twice until a curt "come in" sounds from the inside.

The first thing I see when I enter the room is a dark monolith against the light of the large window where the morning sun sears through the glass, spilling over Vlad’s figure. He stands there, a presence of power wrapped in an immaculate suit that whispers threats in its crisp lines.

"Vlad," I say, my voice betraying nothing but professionalism.

He doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge my greeting with more than a tilt of his head. A mystery puppeteer presiding over his kingdom. The door shuts behind me with the finality of a coffin lid.

"Logan." Vlad’s voice slices through the tension of the room. "Thank you. For saving Alexander yesterday." The words are thick, unaccompanied by a glance or gesture.

"Doing my job," I respond, keeping my tone even. My eyes fixate on his back, wondering if gratitude is just another currency in this place.

"And I appreciate it." The pause that follows is heavy. "However, I do not remember giving you permission to teach him to use a gun." The statement comes out flat, almost a question, but it's clear he's not seeking an answer. When he turns, the light carves harsh lines into his expression—shadows of displeasure etched deep into his features.

"He needs to be able to protect himself," I supply, knowing where this dance leads. His authority bears down on us, a tangible force that seeks to suffocate my reasoning.

"He does not," Vlad snaps, cold fury simmering beneath his polished veneer. "I will protect my brother myself."

"And when you're not around?" I challenge, meeting his gaze squarely. It's a gamble, throwing these words like dice onto the table between us. Every time I defy Vlad I risk losing this job. And my head.

"That is why you are here," he retorts. "Or perhaps you are not as capable as I thought."

"I’m more than capable. You know it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be upstairs right now. He’d be in a fucking morgue."

Vlad’s jaw clenches as he continues to stare at me. "You are my employee. You are not hired to make decisions," he finally grits out.

"Helpless," I spit out. "That's what you turned him into."

"Do not presume to know what is best for Alexander."

"Then enlighten me," I challenge, my frustration mounting. "How does ignorance keep him alive?"

"Control." He's stalking toward me now, hands in pockets of his slacks, eyes filled with suppressed rage. "It keeps the unpredictability out. All pieces on the board have their place and their role."

"Control can shatter," I counter, my stance firm despite the creeping sense of unease. "And when it does, what then? Who will shield him from a bullet?"

"Your job is not to philosophize." Vlad's voice drops an octave, a low hum now ricocheting dully against the carpeted walls.

"Nor is it to babysit a grown man who's been sheltered to the point of danger," I shoot back, unwilling to yield an inch.

"You overstep your bounds. Do it again, and you are gone."

I realize there’s no way to persuade Vlad otherwise. If he’s decided something, then it’s going to be so until he changes his mind.

"Leave. Now," he orders, jutting his chin at the door. "I have business to attend to."

"Understood." I turn around. Sasha's safety won't be on my conscience if he ties my hands behind my back.

But somehow, I don’t believe that it’s true.

I stand on the terrace, eyes scanning the manicured garden below. Shadows flit between the trees, a silent dance of security personnel hidden from view. The sun is a traitor here, casting too much brightness after the last night's terror—a botched attempt on Sasha's life at the casino. My jaw tightens at the thought of Vlad denying Sasha the right to defend himself. It's like caging a lion and throwing away the key, expecting it not to bare its teeth when danger prowls close.

"Couldn't sleep, eh?"

I don't startle; I never do. But Sasha's voice—and that damn accent carrying the remnants of yesterday's adrenaline—sends a jolt through me. He’s the last person I want to see right now. Not because I despise him. I don’t. We haven’t really had a conversation about what transpired on the rooftop. And I don’t know how to talk about it without hurting him. But I guess I can’t avoid this for long.

When I glance over my shoulder, Sasha steps out onto the terrace with a croissant in hand. His green eyes immediately find mine and hold them in a gaze that’s both an accusation and a plea.

"Sleep is a luxury," I reply.

"Seems we're both bankrupt then." He gives a wry smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He walks up to the railing, leaning back against it, facing me. Our proximity is a reminder of the line we crossed, the kiss that could be our undoing.

"Logan," he starts, and even his voice holds edges, "I—"

"They’ll try again," I cut him off, not wanting to discuss the topic that’s on the tip of his tongue. My tone is harsher than intended, but every syllable is a brick in the wall I need to keep between us for survival.

"Right."

"Vlad also doesn’t want you to go back to the range."

Sasha rolls his eyes. "Because being alive is more important than actually living." There's a bitterness there, a darkness I recognize in myself.

I look away, fixing my gaze on a rose bush. "He’s your brother. He knows best." I don’t believe it but I have to do what the man who pays me commands.

"Logan?" Sasha's voice cuts through the fog in my head, and I turn to find him biting into the croissant. Crumbs cascade down like tiny soldiers jumping from a ledge, some clinging to the corner of his mouth.

"You really didn’t sleep all night?" he asks, his eyes searching mine for something I'm not sure I have for him in this instant.

"Didn't even try." My tone is flat, but inside, my pulse suddenly thunders—a relentless drumbeat.

"Fucking sucks being a Solovey," Sasha admits, and there's an echo of our shared restlessness in the small space between us, and I wonder if he purposely positioned himself this close to me.

"Dark thoughts?" I probe.

"Yes," he whispers, and the vulnerability with which he speaks tugs at something deep within me.

I watch a crumb tremble on his lower lip, and before I realize it, I've closed the distance between us completely with one step. My finger brushes against his skin to remove the crumble, and a bolt of electricity arcs through me, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

I move back, my hand retreating as if scorched. "Sorry," I mutter, more to myself than him.

He continues to hold my gaze, those striking eyes sheltering a text of unspoken words. "There's nothing to apologize for."

"Isn't there?" I counter, my voice unsteady. "We both know it's dangerous."

"Have you changed your mind about telling Vlad?"

"Of course not." The denial comes swift, a reflex born of self-preservation.

Taut silence stretches around us, like a rope frayed and worn, ready to snap. And as we stand there, the fact of the kiss that shouldn’t have happened has changed something.

I look at him, really look—taking in the flecks of sunlight in his hair, the tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. The realization hits hard, a surprise punch to the stomach: I'm attracted to Sasha. The thought sears through me with the intensity of a branding iron, marking me with a truth I cannot afford to acknowledge.

But it's there, undeniable, a spark that threatens to ignite a blaze I won't be able to contain. It worries me, this pull toward him. Because in this world, desire doesn't just complicate things—it can be lethal.