Page 39 of Bound By Thorns
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When I woke up, I was still on the floor. A dull throbbing pain hitting my temples. But I felt a semblance of normalcy I had been desperate for.
As I wandered the halls aimlessly, I hadn’t planned to find myself outside Logan’s room, but there I was, hesitating at the door.
I’m a masochist.
I pushed the door open gently and slipped inside. The room was dim, dusk light seeping through the edges of the drawncurtains. Logan was sprawled on his stomach, the lines of sleep marking his face softly. I tiptoed closer, my movements cautious—more out of respect than fear.
The scars on his back glinted golden in the dim light, each mark a harsh reminder of the torture he had endured. I found myself captivated, unable to look away from the brutal testament to his past.
Despite the terrifying encounter where he had nearly choked me, my trust in him hadn’t wavered. I hoped deeply that he was trapped in a dreamless rest, free from the shadows of Ravenrock.
Sitting down at the edge of the bed, the mattress dipped under my weight. He looked different in sleep—peaceful, almost boyish with his beard trimmed down to a stubble, his long dark lashes casting shadows on his cheeks.
A part of me longed to touch him, to offer some comfort, but I held back, hovering just inches from his face. I pulled my hand back, not wanting to overstep, not now. I stood to leave, stepping quietly towards the door, but the slight rustle of sheets stopped me.
Turning around, I saw him stirring. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then widening slightly as they adjusted to the dim light and recognized me. I braced myself for anger, for shouting—or worse, the silence of resentment.
But none came. He just looked at me, his expression unreadable, no trace of anger or warmth. Just a blank, tired acknowledgment.
SIXTEEN
Logan
I was frozen, just staring at her as she stood there in the doorway. At first, I thought I might be dreaming, that the nightmare was about to twist into something dark, but the look on her face stopped those thoughts. She looked scared, almost terrified, as if she was bracing for me to strike. The guilt that I had instilled that fear in her settled heavily on my shoulders.
The room was so thick with tension I half-expected her to turn and leave, but she didn’t. Instead, her eyes flickered down to my lips for a fleeting moment, sending a jolt through me. Memories of that brief, confused kiss we’d shared flashed through my mind, and I desperately tried to grasp the fleeting emotions of that moment, but they slipped through like sand.
Breaking the heavy silence, I managed to croak out, “How long was I out?”
“Almost thirty-seven hours,” she replied, her voice steady but her body language hesitant.
I blinked. Enough time for her to have gone to Boston and back. Relief washed over me knowing she was unharmed and standing here in front of me.
“Did you sleep okay?” she asked unexpectedly.
“Yeah, it was… needed,” I admitted, feeling a bit more grounded.
She just nodded, and in a moment of thoughtless honesty, I blurted out something I instantly regretted, “Better than sleeping on the cold stone floor. Bet you didn’t have to worry about that.”
The pain that flickered across her face was immediate and sharp, like I’d physically struck her. I cursed myself internally; here she was, having just lost her parents, and I was adding to her burden with my careless words. I was hurting a hurt woman.
“Kaylan—” I started, wanting to take back my words, to make things right somehow.
But she cut me off with a sad smile, her eyes not meeting mine, “It’s okay. I am your tormentor. I am the whore of Ravenrock. I know who I am. What part I played.”
Then she turned and left, leaving the room and me in a heavy silence. The door clicked softly behind her, and I was left sitting there, reeling with guilt. Out of all the things I could have said, ‘sorry’ should have been the easiest and yet, it never came.
She called herself a whore because not too long ago, I had hurled the word at her. She had willingly accepted the mantle of my tormentor, yet I knew she had only ever saved me. Why did I keep doing this?
Whore.
The word gnawed at me. I felt a fit of rage whenever I recalled why she was called that. She wasn’t a whore. She was Garret’s whore. The fact that Garret had her, touched her, fucked her, made my blood boil to a crisp.
At that moment, a realization dawned on me. I wasn’t enraged because I thought she was my tormentor. I was enraged because I was simply… jealous. And due to sheer stupidity and misguided rage, I had almost ended her life. Not that my squad would’ve let that happen.
Fucking hell, Logan!
