22. Sasha

CHAPTER 22

SASHA

The muted lighting and the low hum of conversation accompanied by some old tune envelop me immediately as I step into Downers, an off-the-Strip bar that–according the bouncer named Seven at Vlad’s club–is a regular hang-out spot of a person I’m looking for. It’s a perfect night for this sort of thing, considering it's Logan's day off. I need to do this on my own. Need to get to the bottom of my father’s murder. Even if I hate him—both in life and in death equally.

My chat with Seven from the other day when I pretended to stop by Purgatory flashes through my mind as I push my way to the bar.

"Golden tooth," Seven said in a hushed tone, leaning in close while we stood in the back corridor with the loud music pounding against the floors and walls. "Shtyk is the guy you're lookin' for. A nasty piece of shit. Last I heard, you can find him to be hangin' out at this place called Downers."

"Thanks, mate." I clapped him on the shoulder, my bravado slipping further into my feet.

"What you need to talk to him for, dude?"

"Just Russian business," I lied through my teeth and then quickly made my retreat.

But now that I’m here, I’m not so sure I’m cut out to be doing this, to be dancing on the fringes of danger the same way Logan or even my older brother do. Every face in the room feels like the face of an enemy.

Taking a deep breath, I approach the bartender. I don’t feel like drinking tonight but I order a drink anyway to blend in with the crowd. If blending in with this crowd is even possible.

When the bloke slams the glass in front of me, I hand him a twenty and ask in a casual tone, "Any chance Shtyk's around tonight?"

The bartender regards me suspiciously, his eyes narrow. "He might show up later. Or he might not," he replies, noncommittal. "What’s it to you, young blood?"

As we exchange the words, I make the mistake of glancing over my shoulder. There’s a group of men—older—who've been eyeing me since I walked in. My danger senses spike up, and I know I better leave. I’ve seen guys like these back in Russia in my school, seen men with that same disgusted expression. "Can you pass a message along to Shtyk?" I ask the bartender. "Tell him Alexander Solovey wants to see him."

"Sure." He nods, clearly not buying my tough act.

"Cheers." Leaving my drink untouched on the counter, I turn away. My job here is done and I plan on heading toward the exit. I can feel their eyes on me as I weave around the rowdy clusters of people, my focus on the door. I think I manage ten steps before one of the men calls out, "Hey, pretty boy, where you headed off to?"

"Come join us!" another one snickers.

"Right. Come sit on my lap, baby."

My stomach twists. I catch the hints of Russian accent. I hate this shit. People trying to hide their own insecurities at the expense of others’ suffering. There’s something wrong with this world. But I’m alone and I can’t change someone else’s mind. I simply move one foot in front of the other, trying to avoid a collision with a group of some other drunk blokes suddenly appearing in my way. The unexpected interruption has me swerving left and right into the gathering of men taunting me.

To make matters worse, I accidentally elbow one of them.

Immediately, the bigger bloke from the table bellows loudly, "Hey, you! Bitches ain't allowed in here!" His cronies snicker as I give them a one-fingered salute, not breaking stride.

"Wait a second, pretty boy," the first one calls out, his voice now filled with disdain instead of mean amusement.

My heart races. I know how these things usually go. You’re dragged outside and beaten senseless and you’re lucky your face isn’t one purple bruise and you can still shit like a normal person. I saw it once in my school. Saw what human hate does to people like me, people who don’t fit into the societal norms.

"Come here, mal’chik ," a third man says.

Bollocks.

My pulse skyrockets. All I hear is a whoosh-whoosh-whoosh in my ears. I despise that my native tongue—my mother's language—makes me feel this way.

"Hey, cocksucker!" one of them—in a bright red beanie—hisses as he grabs my arm and I'm forced to spin around.

Anger bubbles inside me. "Did you wash your mouth before speaking to me?" I ask, unable to stay put.

The tension in the air becomes palpable as the Beanie Man inches closer. It’s clear he didn't like that I talked back. Without warning, the first man, who is a lot taller, slaps me on the side of the head where my ear is. My brain rings. My eyes darken. Along with it, my fury swells, threatening to burst free.

"Such a delicate little fairy, aren't you?"

Someone laughs.

I blink, trying to get past the initial shock of the unwanted, rude physical contact. My fear turns into a surge of adrenaline, and I throw a punch to protect myself. The force of it catches the man who just assaulted me off guard. He stumbles back, cursing loudly in Russian.

"Get 'im!" someone else bellows, and the others close in on me.

I’m in the circle of death, I realize. My heart hammers in my chest as I scramble to avoid the meaty fist that swings into my face by ducking.

My successful dodge is marked by the guttural roar of the man standing behind me who's just been hit in my place. He's a bystander who doesn't belong to this group and he's obviously pissed.

Next, there’s the sound of shattering glass and I’m pushed from multiple angles by people I don’t know. Someone scratches my face. An elbow hits me in the stomach too. A fight is brewing now all around me, which is no doubt my cue to leave. I spot an opening in the chaos of bodies and dash toward the exit with my heart pounding like a jackhammer.

Fuck this shit .

Each breath feels like fire in my lungs as I burst onto the noisy street. Wincing at the burning sensation across my face, I fumble for my phone with trembling hands, desperate for some safety because my brain can’t think clearly anymore. The screen seems to blur as I finally manage to dial Logan's number, silently praying that he'll pick up.

"Hello?" His voice is groggy and thick with sleep.

"It’s me," I mutter through my panicked breathing, stepping around the corner of the bar to hide in the shadows of its walls. In case I’m followed. "I think I fucked up. I need help."

Logan’s voice is instantly filled with concern when he hears me. "Sasha? What's going on?"

"Logan," I gasp out. "Can you… can you pick me up?"

"Where are you?"

"Outside Downers."

"That place off the Strip?"

"Yes."

"Shit, Sasha." His tone shifts, becoming more alert and serious. If he was asleep a minute ago, he’s not asleep anymore. "That bar is no place for you. Are you safe?"

"I don't know," I admit, glancing around nervously. "Some arseholes were picking on me. A fight broke out."

"For fuck’s sake."

"I just need you to come get me, please."

"Alright, listen carefully," Logan instructs, his tone steady despite the situation. "Cross the street and go into the nearest casino or restaurant. Make sure you’re around people. Not assholes but decent people. Find a group of grandmas or something. Wait there until I arrive. Understood?"

"Y-yeah. Got it." My response is all cracks, betraying the fear that surges within me.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you," I whisper, making my way across the street as fast as my shaky legs can carry me. The bright lights and noise of the casino up ahead are a huge contrast to the dark and volatile atmosphere of the bar, but I find little solace in it. My heart continues to race. My thoughts are an incoherent mess as I wait for Logan's arrival.

"Hey, you're doing great," he reassures me through the phone, his words a small comfort in the midst of my terror. "Just hang in there." I can hear him speed-dressing in the background.

I nod, even though he can't see me, praying that he arrives before things go south again. Because I seem to attract danger.

I’m not sure how much time passes, and it’s probably no more than ten—fifteen minutes, because Logan doesn’t live far. But it feels like every second has stretched into a minute and every minute has become an hour before my phone finally buzzes in my hand. I look at it and Logan's name displayed on the screen has my heart rate dropping a little.

"I’m here," he says when I answer. "Go outside." Somehow, his voice is calmer than I remember it from our earlier conversation.

"Alright." Heart still pounding, I rush over to the entrance, scan the surroundings for any sign of danger, but all seems normal. Well, as normal as it can be when a casino is in the picture.

Outside, I’m slapped with the gust of air and a clamor of traffic. Lights are too bright and the smells are too sharp. And then I see it–Logan's Land Rover idling by the curb, windows rolled down, revealing his concerned face.

I dart over to the vehicle while the valet attendant is trying to get him to move.

As I slide into the passenger seat, Logan reaches over immediately, his fingertips hovering near my cheek. "What happened here?"

"You should see the other guy," I tell him with what I hope is a lopsided grin.

Logan ignores the cliche joke. "Are you hurt anywhere else?" His eyes are filled with worry and that makes my stomach flutter despite the shitty situation we’re sort of in.

"No, I’m good." I swat his hand away when he tries to cup my cheek.

"Fine." He puts the vehicle in Drive and hits the gas while I flip the sun visor to look in the mirror.

My reflection that stares back at me has a busted lip and an angry scratch marking my face. A wave of exhaustion washes over me, leaving me feeling hollow and drained. I can't even bother to concern myself with what Vlad thinks about my face if he sees it. Or maybe he won't be back for a while and I'll heal.

"Thanks for coming to get me," I finally mumble.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Logan smile gently while his attention is on the road. "I'd have come even if you were on the moon."

"You for real?" I raise an eyebrow, part of me pretending I don't believe him. But my belly is all fuzzy.

The sides of his mouth lift into a wry grin. "Yes, I’m for real."

Relief begins to seep through me, softening the edges of my fear. It's a small thing, his assurance, but it means more than I can say. "Where are we going?"

"Probably get you to the nearest hospital to look at that pretty face of yours."

"I’m not going to the hospital," I shut him down instantly. "You’re being extra."

"Then back to my place," he replies. "But I can’t promise my medical skills can match those of the real doctors."

"I’m sure between the two of us we can patch up this silly bloke, right?"

"We’ll give it our best."

I wince as Logan opens the door to his flat, my split lip still throbbing a little from the bar brawl.

"Come in," he says gruffly, holding the door open. I limp inside, my body aching, despite the insignificant damage. I think it’s in my head. Or perhaps, I like pretending to be way more incapacitated than I am because I like Logan taking care of me.

"Sorry, if it’s not up to your standards, Your Highness," he jokes, flipping on the light.

The space is small but tidy. Logan's minimalist style is evident in the sparse decor. A scratched hardwood floor, a simple gray corner sofa, bare walls except for a few framed photographs and a couple of floating shelves holding some very manly items.

"So this is where you live," I murmur, mostly to myself.

"Have a seat." Logan directs me to the sofa. Or a couch. Or whatever else they may call it. "I'll grab the first aid kit."

As he disappears through the door to what I assume is the kitchen, I sink onto the cushions with a groan. Bollocks, what a night. My eyes drift to the mantlepiece above a fake fireplace, drawn to the photos perched there. A smiling woman who’s definitely Logan's mum when she was young, a man in a copper’s uniform with Logan's strong jaw. And Logan himself, looking fresher and slimmer, sporting a graduation cap, pride shining in his eyes. There are a few more frames of Logan’s entire family on various occasions and they all look so happy together. It’s something I never had. Can’t even remember my mother and father being in one room.

My gaze slips to the small image of Logan among some other fellows in what looks like a copper’s uniform but as I lean in closer, I see the police academy sign in the background.

It’s a different life where he was a different man. Before the circumstances that led him here, to this dark world of violence and vice that's left its mark on him, inside and out. Like a faded tracing, an echo of that bright-eyed boy lingers still, but obscured now, cloaked beneath layers of ink and scar tissue. Both visible and invisible.

Logan returns, first aid supplies in hand, rolling up the sleeves of his black Henley. The tats ripple and flex over his forearm.

"Let's get you cleaned up, huh?" He motions at the couch.

"Your family is nice," I comment as I perch on the soft edge.

"Was nice," Logan grunts, kneeling in front of me.

"You still have them. Have all the memories. It’s more than you think. Trust me."

He chooses not to reply, concentrating on my battle scars instead. His hands are gentle as he dabs antiseptic on the scratch across my cheek. I wince, sucking in a sharp breath through my teeth.

"Sorry," Logan murmurs, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Needs to be done, though." He fixes my lip next, very carefully. I hardly feel anything but the sting.

"I know." I study his face, mere inches from mine. The thin mark at his temple, the dense fringe of lashes, the perfect bow of his upper lip. An overwhelming urge seizes me to press my mouth there, to taste him.

"Hey, Muscle," I whisper. "I can think of other things that need doing." My voice drops to its lower register on its own accord. It’s like my mind knows what I want before I even form the idea fully. "A way to thank you properly for patching me up."

Logan's eyes lock on mine, inscrutable. His hand stills. "You don't need to do that."

"But I want to." I lean forward, reaching for his belt buckle. Quick as a snake, Logan catches my wrist.

"It’s okay." His voice is firm but not unkind. "You're hurt. I'd never take advantage of that."

I blink, unaccustomed to such chivalry. "It's just a bit of fun, luv. No need to get your knickers in a twist."

A ghost of a smile quirks Logan's mouth. "Tempting as that sounds, I'll have to refuse. At least until you're healed up." He winks at me.

His thumb brushes across my lips where they’re not hurt, a featherlight touch that sends liquid heat coursing through my veins. I shiver, suddenly envious of his self-restraint.

"You really are quite the white knight," I murmur. "Defending my virtue and all that nonsense."

Logan snorts. "Hardly. But I do have some principles left. Getting my dick sucked by a wounded man goes against them."

"Pity, that." I lean back with a theatrical sigh. "And here I thought my oral skills were legendary."

"Oh, I don't doubt that, mylash ." Logan's voice is a dark, honeyed rumble. I bloody love it so much. "But I'm a patient man. I can wait."

The unspoken promise hangs between us, sultry and charged. I swallow hard, pulse kicking into overdrive. Fuck me . I don’t think I’ll survive if he’s not in my life. I don’t think I’ll live if I don’t get more sex with him.

Christ, I'm getting hard just imagining it. I shift on the cushions, willing my eager cock to behave. It doesn’t want to, though.

"There," Logan says with satisfaction, securing the tiny butterfly bandage on my cheek. "Good as new. Well, almost."

"My dashing good looks remain intact, then?" I quip, trying for levity.

"Of course."

Logan sets aside the first aid kit, scrutinizing my face, as if trying to make sure his handiwork is solid.

It's a strange sensation, being looked after like this—it's been so long since anyone has shown me such care. And I savor the closeness between us.

"Like what you see, big guy?" I murmur seductively, stretching out on the couch, one arm slung over my head on the headrest.

"Very," Logan replies. He hesitates for just a moment before lowering his mouth to mine, tentatively at first to avoid hurting the busted lip. "Let me do all the work tonight." Then he trails kisses down my jawline, over the sensitive skin at the base of my neck, making me tremble with delight. His rasping stubble leaves behind a pleasurable sting that only makes me want more. "Take off your T-shirt," he orders, drawing back a little to give me space.

I do as he says, wrestle out of my tee, and toss it to the floor with a bit more enthusiasm than necessary, to which Logan smiles softly.

"Good. Now we’re talking," he says, nudging me back down into the cushions of the couch.

I gasp softly as he traces the line of my collarbone with his tongue before dragging it down my chest. The feel of his mouth is intoxicating—like fresh air and dark, expensive whiskey I steal from Vlad’s office sometimes.

"Fuck..." I exhale as Logan brushes his lips over my nipple. "This is magnificent."

"Glad you approve." His voice is full of smug confidence, and I chuckle—until his mouth latches around my nipple, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. I arch into his touch, head thrown back against the headrest. I had no idea how good this would feel—all these things done to my body.

Logan McKenna. My savior. My protector. My dark depraved desire.

He shifts lower, nuzzling against my stomach, his tongue gliding over my abdomen, and I moan louder, grabbing at his shoulders.

"Shh," he whispers against me where the waistband of my jeans meets my skin. "I’m driving this one, remember? Just relax."

Then he drags down my zipper and hooks his thumbs under the elastic of my boxers, and slowly, agonizingly slowly, eases them down my thighs.

"Are you ready to be blown…away?" he asks with a cheeky smile.

"Fuck you," I grouse good-naturedly, but his hands are there, warm and calloused, guiding me to full mast.

"You’ll get your turn," he purrs against my cock, voice full of promise, lips barely touching.

Such a sweet torture.

Then Logan's hot, wet mouth engulfs me, and fuck, it's good.

Too bloody good.

I'm wound tighter than a coil, my entire world narrowing down to the relentless, and quite skillful slide of his lips. And the way he looks up at me through a fan of dark eyelashes. One hand cups my balls and the other hand slips beneath me to grip my arse, angling my hips just how he wants them.

"Logan," I gasp, a strangled moan spilling from my lips, "this is... bloody... Jesus... so..."

Logan chuckles around my cock, the vibrations sending me hurtling even further over the edge. I clutch fistfuls of upholstery as sensation dances along my spine, a thousand tiny sparklers igniting all at the same time.

"Logan," I whimper, the words coming out in a choke, "I'm going to..."

He moans in response, his talented tongue flicking against the tip of my cock, and that's it. I'm spent, my entire body coiling tighter than a mousetrap's spring before the snap.

White-hot pleasure explodes through my veins, my seed spilling into Logan's waiting mouth. Fuck, it's amazing. What battle wounds? What fucking bar fight?

I forget about it all as I ride this rapturous wave, arching off the cushions.

That’s it, that’s the feeling, that’s the real happiness. Dirty and sweet and absolutely mind-blowing.

Balls emptied and cock ruined, I sink into the sofa, my chest heaving like I've just run a marathon. Logan—dear, sweet, patient Logan—pulls away and licks his lips with the tip of his devious tongue. Butterflies take up residence in my stomach as I watch him clean me off with my own discarded T-shirt, his face shining with a sheen of sweat and accomplishment.

"Don’t worry. I’ve got laundry." He chuckles at my raised eyebrows.

"What about you?" I ask, pointing at his hard-on.

"Not today." He flops on the couch next to me. "But you owe me one now."

Our legs are pressed together, and I rest my head on his shoulder. "You know," I say, the afterglow enveloping me like a blanket. "Now, I’m ready to die. This blow job was the best five minutes of my entire life."

Logan drapes an arm around my shoulders. "There's more where that came from."

"I’m also realizing something now. My own deepthroating skills are horrible."

"Oh, you have no idea how fucking fine your mouth actually is."

A compliment. From Logan. My cheeks immediately heat up and I burrow my head further into his body, wanting to be as close as possible.

"Hey," he whispers a little later when our breathing is finally under control. "You want to take it to the bedroom? Cuddle and watch X-Files?"

"Only if you have crisps."