After carrying our dinner plates into the kitchen and tidying up, I’m restless. That whirlwind run-through of the house this afternoon - half of it spent upside down and slung over Logan’s shoulder - wasn’t the most thorough tour.
Starting with the second floor, I still get the masculine feel, even in the guest bedrooms. Dark wood, grey and blue bedding, more of the big handmade furniture. He’s softened the rooms with a lot of plants and some beautiful pictures of the Scottish countryside. The gym is promising; there’s a long series of windows looking out the back and I can see the blue ribbon of the River Clyde close by and a treadmill to admire the view as you’re running like a mouse on the wheel.
Cranking one of the windows open and taking a deep breath, I feel all the scattered bits of my brain come back together. These last three days are beyond understanding, far beyond my ability to process as casually as these MacTavishes do. Regardless of whether I want this or not, I’m a MacTavish, and I’m in deep.
“Are ye sure that’s the one?”
The study is on the other side of the gym and that window is open too. Logan must be sitting right next to the window. Even so, the only reason I can catch most of the conversation is thanks to how deep his voice is.
“I watched the security footage. He was the motherfucker who dragged my wife out of her classroom after threatening to shoot one of her bairns.”
He’s angry, the sound rolls over me like far-off thunder.
“No, ye chain him down at the west warehouse. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.” He chuckles at something the caller says. “Ye can soften him up a bit, but dinnae ye remove any extremities. I’ve been looking forward to this.”
I’m frozen, staring out at the pretty, pretty view. Just minutes ago, we were talking about pleasantly mundane things such as grocery delivery and the whiskey sauce he’d made for the fish and now he’s going to cut off someone’s body parts.
They were going to do that to me, I know. And I know exactly what man they’re talking about: the blond bastard who threatened my kids, my students. But I dinnae know how to reconcile Logan, my new husband who made me dinner with this darker, terrifying man.
“Ah, there ye are.”
He’s leaning against the doorway, arms folded. “Ye thinking about some weight lifting? It’s leg day for me, so hold off a wee bit and I’ll spot ya.”
Logan’s smile is effortlessly salacious, as if he’d not just talked about chopping someone’s… I dinnae know, do they start with the fingers, or the toes? Is there an order? How can he switch from something so brutal to sexytimes in his gym?
“Hold off? Where are ye going, then?”
His glance moves pointedly from the open window to me again. “I think ye know.”
I take a step back, just one, but his expression darkens, like a shadow over the moon. “I dinnae want ye to hurt people for me, Logan.”
“It’s not just for ye. How many more people will die for their ‘innovative new business model?’ There’s already chatter online about new distribution routes for organ trafficking.”
I sit down abruptly on the weight bench. “And ye think this man has some answers?”
“Aye. He was already gone from the compound by the time we stormed it.”
“I saw him that day, before they did all those tests on me.” The memory of being trapped in that CT machine makes me shudder. “I never got his name. I called him Head Bastard in Charge.”
“I’m thinking he had advance warning that we were close. He skipped out along with a couple of the other key people in the organization. With some… persuasion, he’s gonna be mighty helpful.” He pushes off the doorway, walking toward me slowly as if giving me another chance to back away. My legs really aren’t steady enough to stand up anyway. “This is an ugly part of the MacTavish life. But do ye want more people to be ripped apart for their kidneys, or their liver?”
My hands fly up, palms open and then fingers pressing together as I bring them down again.
Stop!
In my agitation, I’d signed it instead of saying it.
Logan squats down and raises his left hand, curled into a fist. His black wedding ring glints briefly as he puts his hand over his heart and makes a small circular motion.
Sorry.
Then he points to me with his index finger and then a ‘thumbs-up.’
Are you okay?
He’s been practicing. Somewhere, in between bringing a full-on firefight to Anselm’s nightmare compound, marrying me and flying home, he’s learned some basic British Sign Language.
One tear slips down my cheek before I pull myself together. Making a fist, I move it up and down like it’s nodding.
