6. Sasha

CHAPTER 6

SASHA

I slump in the leather seat of Vlad's Navigator, staring out at the neon streets that glow alluringly under the streetlamps. I'm not in the mood to be an arsehole tonight, so I'm in the back. Logan's hands grip the wheel like he's strangling it and I'm glad I'm still pissing him off.

It's been a couple of weeks since the shopping center debacle where I tried legging it, only for Logan to catch me and give me an earful. He lectured me as if I were a bloody schoolboy caught nicking sweets, not a grown man attempting a dash for freedom. Freedom that I deserve despite what my brother thinks.

Fucking self-centered wanker.

"Can't believe you're still here," I mutter, picking at the frayed edges of my ripped jeans. I've tried everything to get rid of him: hiding his keys in the freezer, putting salt in his coffee, gluing his shit together, even threatening him with a lie that my brother doesn’t like him and found a replacement. Yet here he is, mostly unbothered, like nothing's amiss.

I know he's all mad on the inside, but the arsehole won't show it and won't quit. I'm not certain what else to do at this point.

"Your brother wouldn't appreciate me abandoning my post," Logan replies to my earlier comment. Pause. "For your information, going to Vlad's club isn’t a good idea." He glances at me through the rearview mirror.

His gray eyes are too sharp, too knowing. "It’s his place of work. It’s also pretty dangerous for you to be in public places with very little light."

"Vlad said it's fine," I insist, crossing my arms defensively. "I've been cooped up in that abysmal house for weeks. Cabin fever, I suspect."

"Because you tried to run away," he reminds me, his tone even but firm. "Put your life in jeopardy."

The atmosphere between us is heavy, suffocating even, like the city smog pressing against the car windows. I look away, the knot in my stomach tightening. I don't respond. What's the point? Logan doesn't understand the gnawing need for escape that eats at me, the desperation to be free from the literal cage my life has become. The desperation to be someone else, not a member of the Solovey family.

The Navigator pulls up to the club and we silently climb out. A guy in a red vest and black slacks rushes over. Logan hands the fob to the valet and then tells the bloke, "Don't park it too far." His voice is just loud enough for me to overhear.

Bloody control freak.

Inside, the club swallows us like a black hole—the thumping beat of the music, the kaleidoscope of lights, the heat of bodies moving in rhythm. It's a world unto itself, one Vlad inherited somehow from some American who disappeared. I don’t know much about it, just whatever information I could collect by browsing online and eavesdropping on Ivan and the rest of my brother’s help.

I haven’t been to a place like this in forever. The last time was with Alfie back in January when we wolfed down a dozen shots.

The memory is so vivid, so demobilizing.

I’ve been trying to deal with this shit, but it’s not something you just forget—witnessing your best friend’s horrific demise in front of you.

Emotions running high, I stride to the bar, wave down the bartender, and order a shot. I swallow it in one go before the burn can reach my chest. "Another," I demand, slamming the glass on the counter.

"Slow down," Logan says over the noise of the music, but his command is like smoke, dissipating before it can take hold.

I scoff at him. "You’re controlling what I drink now too, Muscle?"

The second shot lands in front of me and I down it without a thought.

"Trying to keep you safe is all," Logan responds with a bored face.

"Can’t hear you!" I yell back at him as the music continues to rage.

"Sure," he drawls.

"This sucks," I announce, not really meaning it. But exhausting Logan seems like a fun idea. "I want to check out the casino."

The hallway connecting the two worlds is quieter, a minimal space where my footsteps echo against polished floors. Clutching a cocktail I bought at the bar before leaving the club, I stagger slightly, the room spinning gently around me. Logan's presence is a constant shadow at my back. Bloody robot in his tight black T-shirt and neatly ironed trousers that hardly hide anything.

"It’s not a good idea, Alexander," Logan warns as we keep on walking.

"Piss off, then," I say, more to myself than to him.

The alcohol coils in my stomach, a dragon waking from its slumber, and I feel the walls closing in. Loneliness grips me, a familiar foe, whispering that I'll never belong anywhere—not in London, not here, not in my own bloody skin.

The casino blooms before us at the end of the hallway, like a garden of vice and shiny, neon possibilities. I'm adrift, the cocktail in my hand a lifeline in a sea of chance and chaos. Emotions swell in my chest, threatening to spill over with each sip of the colorful liquid—a poor substitute for the taste of home.

What is home anyway?

Where is it?

"Feeling alright?" Logan's voice cuts through my haze, but I can barely muster the energy to scowl at him. Instead, I sip on the leftovers of my cocktail, finishing up entirely. I even toss an ice cube in my mouth and crunch it with my teeth.

"Never better," I lie, my heart pounding an erratic rhythm as I dive deeper into the night, my steps suddenly unsteady, my legs refusing to follow the command of my brain. I've always been a lightweight drinker but today it's hitting me hard. Plus, I may have had a beer back at the house before we left.

The casino floor is a shimmering mirage of rebellion, and I'm swaying toward it like a moth to flame. The liquor in my veins hums, a tipsy symphony that scrambles my senses and fuels my defiance.

Bar. I need a drink.

I push through the crowd and past the ringing slot machines and toward my destination. A part of me hopes Logan gets lost and I’ll be alone for a while, free of his frustrating ever-present stare and his dumb generic responses to my quips.

"Another here, mate," I slur at the bartender, tapping the counter with impatience, when I finally reach the bar. "Long Island Iced Tea!" I have to raise my voice for the arsehole to hear me. And it frustrates me for some reason.

From the corner of my eye, I can see Logan’s silhouette drawn against the bright collection of colors. He’s right behind me, like a bloody shadow.

Moments later, the bartender slides over a concoction that looks like liquid gold but tastes like piss. It's nothing like the ones back in London. My tongue recoils, a snake bitten by its own venom. "Hey, idiot!" I call. "What did you make me? Are you trying to poison me?" My voice mixes with the electric buzz of the casino but it’s loud enough for some heads to turn. Brilliant. Logan’s going to be pissed.

"Long Island Iced Tea," the bartender says with a bit of an attitude.

"Have you even tasted it, you fucking imbecile?" I slam the drink back on the counter, spilling a good portion of it. "It’s shit!"

There’s a small fraction of me that knows I’m being a diva and asking for trouble. But for the most part, I can’t bring myself to care.

"Alexander." Logan steps closer, looming over me like a mountain. Then he leans in and mutters in my ear, "You’re making a scene."

"Fuck off!" I shove both hands into his chest in an attempt to get him off my case. My palms meet with a wall of solid muscle.

Just then four men in suits spill from each and every direction.

"Excuse me, but I’m gonna have to ask you to leave," one of them barks over the noise.

"He's with me," Logan growls. His back is suddenly blocking my line of vision and is a bulwark against the tide of strangely suspicious-looking bouncers. "I’ll make sure he behaves."

Behaves my arse.

And then an idea flashes through my mind.

The world lurches, a drunken waltz of lights and darks, as I leap forward, my entire weight colliding with one of the burly bouncers, the arsehole who asked me to leave. I imagine it's quite thrilling, watching me do the polar opposite of what’s dictated. Because there's an unmistakable alarm, maybe even a hint of dread coloring the bloke’s face right before I slam myself into him. I’m not a fighter. No one’s ever taught me, especially not when your opponent is twice your size, but I’m fast and creative.

I claw at his hair for good measure. Cropped strands that are marginally sufficient for my grip. He squawks in protest. Mutters some curse words. Something very American I haven’t had a chance to learn yet.

An instant later, hands clamp onto my back and shoulder like vises tugging me off from him. People are shouting all around us.

"I need a backup at the southeast corner by the bar!" I can hear one of the bouncers yelling into the walkie-talkie.

Arseholes. All of them.

"Calm your shit down, you piece of shit," another bouncer snarls, attempting to detangle my hands from the bloke’s currently under-attack hair.

My mouth runs ahead of my mind, spitting words like darts. "Back off, you sodding brutes! Do you have any idea who I am? My brother is Vlad bloody Solovey, and he'll kill you all if you lay a fucking finger on me!" It's a dare, a challenge thrown down at their feet as I’m being hauled off to the side.

"Enough!" Logan's voice, both loud and firm, booms nearby. The reverb fights through the muddled bogs of my booze-induced mind, but it fails to inspire control in my legs struggling beneath me. Besides, the damage is done. A storm has been summoned. The entire casino is in upheaval now.

And I'm its creator.

Oh, shit! Logan is livid...and rightfully so, the poor bastard.

My vision blurs, a muddied painting of angry satisfaction and liquor. Logan's grip on my arm is iron as he wrenches me out of the casino vultures’ circle. His jaw locked tight against irritation.

"Let’s go," he grits out. He huffs and puffs, practically dragging me like a deadweight around his hand when Mr. Leather Jacket appears out of nowhere and interrupts us. He's all broad-shouldered menace standing at least three inches over Logan's frame.

He looks dangerous.

He catches Logan by the front of his T-shirt while I’m a flailing drunk doll in Logan’s grip. "Solovey is nothing here," the man hisses. "Crown Tower bows to The Thoreau."

Panic flares, bright and searing. I don’t care about my brother. I really don’t, but hearing some tosser calling him nothing triggers something dormant in me. Despite all the haze in my brain.

"We were just on our way out," Logan replies calmly and stares up at Leather Jacket.

Seconds tick by.

Finally, the arsehole releases Logan’s T-shirt.

We start walking again. I mean Logan starts walking. I’m trying not to fall but my world spins, a carousel of smeared hues and dancing slot machines. Their jingle fades away as we leave the main floor.

My feet trip over each other, and the realization of my self-worth finally hits me like a ton of bricks. I resist Logan's grasp, determined to break free.

"Quit squirming," he commands, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Into the loo we crash, the door slamming behind us with loud finality. And then I’m knocked against the cold wall. Logan's presence is suddenly all-consuming, a gravity I can't escape, as he yanks at the collar of my jacket with both hands and glares at me with those scary gray eyes. My brother has gray eyes too but they are cold. Like metal. Logan's are different– quicksilver burning hot with uncontrolled intensity.

My heart pounds, a drumbeat of dread and something darker, induced by the presence of alcohol in my bloodstream.

"Do you not have any respect for yourself or your own family?" Logan hisses out. It’s a wrathful snake’s hiss—the sounds that come out of his mouth.

"Get off me!" I shout, though my angry command is slurred, powerless.

"Enough, Sasha ," he says, and even through the haze, I hear the steel in his voice.

"No one gave you the right to call me that. Call me by my full name. Alexander ." I don’t know why I say that. It’s in fact the opposite of what my mind wants. The way he said my name, the way the letters rolled off his tongue, it made my mouth dry. Or is it the liquor?

The room spins, and suddenly I'm lost in the storm of Logan McKenna.

The cold tile of the wall sears my back as Logan's grip slackens, only to shove me against it with a force that rattles my teeth. "You're acting like a child," he growls, eyes narrowing into slits of controlled fury. "Makes me want to treat you like one. Maybe I’ll get one of those traction belts they put on kids so they don’t get lost. How about that, huh?" His voice drips with sarcasm, his question rhetorical but heavy with threat.

"Screw you," I spit out, but my voice lacks conviction, drowned out by the pounding in my ears. I'm pinned like a butterfly to a board, wings fluttering uselessly. But this close, I can see the flecks of silver in his irises, the rise and fall of his powerful chest, feel the heat radiating from his body despite the chill in the air-conditioned air.

"Is that what you want?" He leans closer, his breath hot on my face. "For me to put a fucking leash on you?"

I roll my eyes, not trusting my voice right now but things suddenly change between us. The tension in the loo is a living thing. It makes something in the pit of my stomach curl onto itself, this side of him—this raw, unbridled force. And there’s this feeling, this strange sensation, dark and sweet and strange and it whispers through my veins.

"You need to start behaving," Logan grumbles. "Do you understand me? Maybe it’s a game for you. It’s a job for me. My livelihood."

I'm silent and fuzzy and a little bit rattled, studying him—the crescent scar bisecting his temple and his hairline, the hard curve of his jaw, the storm brewing in his eyes, the shape of his mouth that speaks of sin. My heart hammers a dangerous rhythm, and in this charged silence, I wonder if it's just the adrenaline, the alcohol, or something far more dangerous stirring within me.

"Are you even listening?" Logan’s voice booms, snapping me back.

"Of course, I am," I lie, but my gaze lingers, tracing the ink that spills down his arm.

"Then get your shit together," he orders, stepping back, finally releasing me from the wall's unforgiving embrace.

"Or what?" The question slips out, reckless, tinged with the hopelessness of a man walking the edge of a blade.

"Or you'll find out exactly how far I'm willing to go to keep you in line. And your brother won’t help you."

"Yeah, whatever," I mutter under my breath. A prayer. A curse. Logan McKenna, the bane of my existence, might just be the most attractive bastard I've ever laid eyes on.

Eyelids heavy as fuck, I rouse from a restless slumber the following morning. The remnants of last night's liquor and lunacy still cling to my consciousness like cobwebs in the corners of an abandoned house.

I'm sober now, but sobriety does nothing to cleanse the confusion that muddies my thoughts. The confusion that sparked yesterday in the loo of my brother’s place of work during my drunken confrontation with Logan. Well, I could be exaggerating. It wasn’t a confrontation. It was more of a situation where he yelled at me like a parent whose fuse was blown and I was just a disobedient child, ogling him, counting his bloody lashes, and checking out his scar.

I roll in my bed and toss the pillow away. It slips to the floor with barely a sound. Curiosity gnaws at me with sharp little teeth. I can't shake off the image of Logan—his scarred temple, the mercury-gray eyes, the tattoos tracing his skin like battle maps.

It’s frustrating.

I’m hungry and hungover, I realize. I have no choice but to get out of bed. I know he’ll be there. Sitting in the living room, waiting to see where I want to go today or what trouble I’ll get into.

I don’t want to see him.

Still, I shuffle downstairs, each step an echo in the hollow quietude of the late morning. The grandeur of Vlad's mansion is lost on me, my focus tunneling in on the sofa below where he’s usually reading his newspaper. And there he is—Logan, the man who split my world into a before and an after with nothing but a gaze.

"Morning, Alexander," he greets not looking up from whatever it is he’s checking on his phone.

I stop in my tracks, halfway down the stairs, thinking that’s a novelty—Logan without a newspaper. His voice is gruff as gravel, the same as always. What did I expect really?

My dumb heart starts beating faster and faster with each step I take.

"You don’t sleep?" I reply, my own voice betraying no confusion in me.

"I do," he mutters and finally shifts his gaze to me and it’s that stupid dark and sweet and…forbidden something coiling at the base of my spine. I feel naked all of a sudden. Naked and on display. Like one of those mannequins in the store that someone forgot to dress.

It's ludicrous, this odd pull toward him, as if gravity itself has been redefined in his favor. Because that’s what my body wants to do instead of consuming coffee—press up to him like it was last night where his heat enveloped mine.

"Sleep well?" Logan questions. It might be casual, but I can sense the scrutiny behind it and a little sarcasm.

"Like a baby," I lie smoothly, keeping my distance and swerving in the direction of the kitchen.

To let him close would be to let him see—and what then? If Vlad finds out, I’m dead. Will be buried next to my fucking father.

"Rosario has some aspirin for you," Logan comments and goes back to his phone’s screen.

Bloody hell!

What is happening to me?

Do I really find Logan McKenna sexy now?

"Fuck," I whisper to the empty space as I shuffle toward the kitchen to get that aspirin.