She pointed at Caden, her finger trembling violently.
“Caden?” I asked hesitantly, confusion clear in my tone. What the hell was going on? She’d never even met him before.
Then Emma’s voice, filled with panic, turned my world upside down when she said, “James, that’s Logan!”
THIRTEEN
EMMA
James’s head jerked up, his expression hardening as he sprang to his feet, instantly positioning himself in front of me. No one could match his reaction time. I blinked, trying to process what was happening, my heart slamming in my chest as all the air left the room.
“James, calm down,” Stephen commanded, clearly attempting to defuse the situation.
“Logan fucking Stark,” James growled, the name uttered like a curse. “As in the soon-to-be-dead fucker who sedated and tortured my girlfriend. Yeah, I’m not calming down for shit.”
“It’s Caden, actually. Caden Colt,” Logan—Caden—replied, his voice dark velvet, smooth and low, in contrast with his tone of total boredom. My mind struggled to make sense of the sudden shift, the ground beneath me feeling less solid by the second.
He has a British accent?
“James,” Stephen murmured softly, trying to break through the rage, consuming him.
“He’s a Radical,” James spat, his focus locked on Caden. My own gaze followed, but my body refused to respond. My brain was fogged, and in the chaos of fight, flight, or freeze, I was firmly trapped in the latter.
Caden snorted, the embodiment mocking indifference. “Right, I forgot about that flattering label.”
“Those are some disappointing last words,” James snarled, before his Skindo appeared in his hand, ready to strike down the man who had haunted my nightmares.
The man I couldn’t help but stare at.
The last time I’d seen him, his features had been hidden behind violence and chaos. Now, with his true name hanging in the air, I took in his appearance with fresh eyes. The sharp angles of his jaw, the olive tone of his skin, and his slightly disheveled black hair were painfully familiar, as was the menacing scar tracing the side of his neck.
But his eyes caught me off guard, lighter somehow. Last time, they’d reminded me of polished obsidian, almost black and impenetrable, like staring into a void of darkness and danger. Now, though, they gleamed with a different hue—more like the warm, deep brown of a Macallan 30-year Sherry Oak, smooth yet with a burn that lingered beneath the surface.
Terrifying and magnetic, he was still every bit the danger I remembered—yet somehow, this version felt even more intense. My pulse quickened, but I forced myself to meet his stare, refusing to back down.
James straightened his arm, the tip of his Skindo barely piercing Caden’s neck, just enough to draw a bead of blood. Caden didn’t even flinch and stayed annoyingly stoic.
“James, we’ll explain everything,” Stephen said, sounding strained as his patience wore thin. “Put down the Skindo and listen to us before you do something rash.”
What the hell was happening here? I really was trying to make sense of the situation, but nothing was adding up.
I tugged at James’s sleeve, trying to ground him, then gave him our look—a silent signal we’d perfected over time. He gave me a single nod back, then reluctantly sat down beside me, though his posture was still tense, ready to spring. Caden took his seat next to Stephen, a smirk playing on his lips.
“One of you better start talking,” James demanded, his arm hovering protectively near mine.
I caught the older man’s gaze, and forced out the words I was desperate for him to understand. “He tortured me.” My hands were shaking, rage burning right beneath my skin. “He’s the one who sedated me. Who’s responsible for the scars on my arm!” The words came faster now, spilling out before I could stop them, heavy with the pain I’d buried for too long.
How could he sit there and act like this was normal? Like it didn’t matter?
Caden, completely unbothered by my accusations, simply shrugged, his attitude a portrait of indifference. “And for ordering your first abduction, if we’re going to get technical,” he added casually, detached even, as if reciting a recipe for apple-pie.
James’s fists were clenched so tightly I could see the whites of his knuckles. It clearly took everything in him not to lunge at Caden, and I knew he was holding on by the thinnest thread.
“Emma,” Stephen began hesitantly, his expression soft, almost pleading. “Caden works for me.”
“That might be, but I am telling you I am one hundred percent sure he’s the one−”
“No!”
