4. Sasha

CHAPTER 4

SASHA

Eyelids heavy like lead, I pry them open to the bleak symphony of my own ragged breathing. Another restless night in the tomb that is my bedroom—a monochrome canvas where shadows play hide and seek with the scant light trickling through the gauzy curtains. I'm a shipwreck on these silk sheets, adrift in a sea of nightmares that cling to me like brine on skin.

The mirror doesn't lie as I scrub away the remnants of sleep. It shows a bloke who's more ghost than flesh. My undercut hair is a tousled mess, and the stud in my ear catches the light, winking like it's in on some cosmic joke I'm too knackered to understand.

There are dark crescents beneath my eyes that reflect the state of constant anxiety I’ve been in ever since the day Alfie was blown up to pieces.

I try not to think about it, try to push the images away. Try to tell myself that things aren’t going back to the way they were and I need to move on, but memories are a tricky bit. They have a way of sneaking up on you and refusing to let go.

Stumbling downstairs with a sour taste lingering in my mouth even after I brushed my teeth, I'm still half-dressed in my pajama pants and a wrinkled T-shirt. My heart's a sluggish drummer boy as I see him—Logan bloody McKenna—sitting on the couch like he owns the place. The newspaper in his hands is like a relic of another century. Who does that when there’s an iPad?

I pause for a second on the last step and drink him in. His upper body’s built like a brick shithouse, biceps threatening to tear through the fabric of his plain black tee. Damn long legs. Lean waist. Sure, he’s fit. Probably spends all his free time in the gym. I’m honestly surprised he’s not sporting a suit like my brother. Tattoos snaking around his right arm are intriguing, but they feel like a warning too. His buzz-cut hair is a dark halo around his head and there’s a small crescent moon-shaped scar on his temple.

I realize I’m staring at him longer than I’d typically allow myself. There’s something about his calm, unbothered demeanor that sets me off.

"Ah, you’re here, babysitter," I sneer. "Try not to get lost on the way to change my nappy, yeah?"

"Good morning to you too," Logan retorts, unfazed, eyes barely flicking up from the paper.

Arsehole.

In the kitchen, the bitter brew of coffee promises a semblance of alertness. I pour myself a cup and chug it down like salvation in liquid form, warmth and caffeine spreading through my insides. But even this can't flush out the cold dread that Logan's presence brings.

Like my suffocation isn't already absolute—this claustrophobia that he tacks on top just makes it worse.

Weeks in this place and I haven’t seen anything but Ivan’s mug and my brother’s absurd garden. The ridiculous abundance wouldn't shock me if it gave birth to a riot of flamboyant peacocks one unsuspecting day.

Once during my only outing with Ivan I saw the realest thing in this country. I memorized the name of the shopping center but we never went back.

Cup in hand, I saunter back to the living room, scheming sweet mischief. I need to get rid of this arsehole. And soon. Maybe, if Vlad can't find a permanent guard, I can go back to London. Or go somewhere else. Far from here.

"So, how’s the new job treating you?" I ask casually as I approach Logan.

He finally tears his gaze from the newspaper and looks up at me. Our eyes meet and an unexplained feeling of unease bubbles in my stomach. It’s like this man sees right through me, knows my secret. A bloody X-ray machine in a human form.

I hate it.

I hate this absurdly ripped, hard-faced wanker my brother found somewhere.

As I stand before him, a thought rushes through my mind. My grip on the coffee falters—a splash of dark liquid blooms on the carpet. A few defiant drops fall on Logan's polished leather shoes.

"Oops." I feel victorious all of a sudden, a sensation of triumph washing over me. I even offer up a smile. "I do hope it's not the only pair you own, Muscle," I say, feigning innocence.

Unfazed, he stares up at me with those penetrating gray eyes and then responds blandly, "Your brother will buy me another one." He sets aside the newspaper and inspects the damage with detached calm, then plucks a tissue from the embossed decorative box on the table next to the couch and wipes the coffee off his shoes.

I seethe silently. This man is an immovable mountain, and I'm the wind, howling and raging to no avail. With every thwarted attempt to shake him, my spirit sinks deeper into a quagmire of hopelessness.

Fine.

Incapable to come up with any clever quips fast enough, I huff out some sort of sound and trudge back upstairs, dragging my feet to my room where the silence is deafening. A blank canvas begging for chaos. So I oblige. My fingers slam the power button on the sound system connected to my phone and whatever last song I played, it erupts like a sonic boom through the entire place. Black Sabbath.

Fuck, yeah.

I turn up the volume.

The walls rattle with the bass, vibrating through the floorboards as if the house itself is having a convulsion. I picture Logan down there, fuming beneath that stone facade, trying to read his fucking museum artifact, but when I sneak a glance over the balustrade during my casual walk across the second floor, he's as unruffled as ever, nose still buried in some article.

Doesn't he have anything better to do?

Like polish his gun.

Does he even own one?

Or did Vlad let him borrow a piece from his extensive collection he hides in the glass cabinet in his office?

I shake my head. The man's composure is maddening.

Hours bleed away. Black Sabbath gives room to Sex Pistols, then some raging metal band Alfie always listened to when he was drunk. I'm bored, waiting for the Muscle to break, so I draw some stuff on my iPad to release some of my own tension. Eventually, my ears begin to protest. The pounding in my skull mirrors the beat, and I can't decide which is worse—the headache or Logan's indifference.

With a frustrated groan, I kill the volume. Glorious silence swoops back in. I toss the iPad with an unfinished illustration on the bed.

Fine, so the new guy is harder to crack than the previous two.

This calls for a new tactic.

When I get downstairs, Logan’s in the kitchen, munching on the massive sandwich and chatting up one of Vlad’s countless housekeepers, Rosario. In Spanish. She laughs at whatever he says and sets a glass of orange juice in front of him.

"Would you like one too, Mr. Alexander?" Rosario asks immediately in English when she sees me. I’ve told her multiple times to drop the "Mister" part and just call me Sasha. It’s weird when someone who could be your mother addresses you this way.

I’m hungry and angry. I think Americans have a word for it. Hangry.

But something a lot like pride has my tongue all twisted up and instead of saying "yes," I say, "No. Not in the mood." Then I walk up to the fridge and pull out an unopened bucket of ice cream.

Rosario immediately offers a spoon and a small bowl, but I ignore the bowl and only grab the spoon. "Thanks."

Throwing a quick glance at Logan eating his lunch, I leave the kitchen.

After aimless wandering through the upper floor and occasionally peaking at the couch Logan occupied all morning, I change the tactic again.

I walk to the main balcony on the second floor overlooking the backyard and climb over the balustrade, settling onto it with the careless grace of a cat to spoon ice cream from the bucket like it's the last meal on earth.

Afternoon light slants across the garden below where Ivan paces with his phone glued to his ear like an insistent leech. He’s probably engrossed in who knows what. Some dodgy business deals you're better off not knowing about.

Inspiration—or perhaps sheer idiocy—strikes me like lightning.

"Hey, Ivan! Privet , mate!" I call out, licking at the melting mess of ice cream and swinging my legs.

Ivan halts to a stop and looks up. His face remains the same. Arsehole doesn't bat an eyelid, too wrapped up in his conversation or perhaps too used to my antics.

Either way, I'm invisible, a ghost literally on the precipice.

The wind whistles a warning, tousling my hair. I should care more about this balancing act, teetering on the brink between sky and earth, but the thrill of potential catastrophe pumps through my veins. It's exhilarating and desperate—a perfect cocktail of self-destruction.

I scoop another spoonful, defiance and dairy dripping down my chin. If Logan won't rise to my bait, maybe gravity will.

Maybe, there’s afterlife and maybe Alfie’s waiting for me there.

"You planning to audition for the role of Humpty Dumpty?" Logan's voice comes from behind, laced with dry humor.

"Thought I'd give you an easy day, Muscle," I retort without looking back, my voice lingering on the edge just as much as my body. "No need to exert yourself."

"Right, because a splattered heir of the Solovey family makes for light paperwork." Logan steps closer, his shadow falling over me like an eclipse. "Get down from there, Alexander. This isn't a circus act."

"Maybe not, but it's certainly more entertaining than your newspaper."

"Entertaining? You're one misstep away from breaking your neck," he counters, his voice low and steady. "Rich kid stunts don't impress gravity."

"Nor do they impress big, bad bodyguards, apparently." My heart thumps a reckless rhythm against my chest as I shift slightly for effect. The railing is slippery and unforgiving beneath my palm.

And then, the precarious balance I've been toying with tilts toward disaster. My hand slips, a silent gasp escaping me. The ice cream bucket abandons ship, plummeting downwards—a creamy comet tail following in its wake.

Oh how I wish Ivan was in its way.

"I don't—" The rest of my bravado chokes off as a stark realization hits me: I'm flirting with death, and suddenly she's not as seductive as she seemed earlier.

Logan is there—instinct and muscle probably honed by years of protecting ungrateful sods like me—and his arms are steel bands around my chest. He pulls me back, away from the yawning abyss that almost claimed me.

"Didn’t I tell you to get down?" he grunts out, hauling me over the railing and onto solid ground. His grip is a lifeline, dragging me from the brink of eternity back to the harsh reality of the living.

"Unhand me, you cretin!" I snap, the surge of adrenaline morphing into anger and embarrassment. But even as I fight against his hold, part of me—a very small one—is grateful for the solidity of his presence, anchoring me amidst the chaos of my own making.

"Next time, stick to the ground level for your dramatics," Logan mutters, finally releasing me as if I burn him.

I stagger back, lungs heaving, feeling a strange cocktail of relief and resentment.

With caution, I approach the balustrade and peer over it. The ice cream is a casualty on the concrete below, a melting tribute to my folly.

And Logan is an unexpected savior I never asked for, yet somehow needed.

I guess the right thing here would be to thank him for doing his job, but I’m tongue-tied again, glaring at him for a moment while my pulse is raging. Finally, I mumble, "Didn’t need your help."

"Not that I wanted to save you," he replies with a poker face. "But if you’re dead, I lose my job." He pauses. "Next time, I might just let you fall."

We both know it's a lie.

"Piss off," I spit back, but my words lack their usual bite. The adrenaline ebbs away, leaving me hollow, exposed like a nerve scraped raw.

I pivot on my heel, each step away from him heavy with defeat. My room beckons—a cave to lick my wounds, a stage with curtains drawn against the act I've just botched. I slam the door behind me with a force that echoes like a gunshot, sealing myself within the dark cocoon of my thoughts.

Getting rid of this Logan McKenna needs some serious planning.