“I can help,” I offer, surprising myself as much as them. “Clean and bandage the wounds, at least. I did it for Cillian when his stitches tore.”
Logan’s golden eyes meet mine, something vulnerable flickering in their depths before his mask reasserts itself. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve had worse.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I say, irritation flaring at his stubborn pride. “I can see you’re still bleeding. Come let me bandage you, at least.”
A startled laugh escapes Ares, quickly smothered when Logan glares at him. “She’s right,” Ares says, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Grandmother or not, the Queen Mother is evaluating every move you make. Showing up looking like you lost a bar fight isn’t going to inspire confidence in your leadership.”
Logan’s jaw tightens, but I can see the moment he acknowledges the logic of our argument. “Fine,” he concedes.“But be quick about it. Keeping my grandmother waiting isn’t a good idea.”
“I’ll have supplies sent to your room,” Poe says, already moving toward one of the servants hovering at the edge of the hall. “Ares and I will unpack the essentials and join you for the audience afterward.”
Logan nods, his gaze returning to me. “Lead the way, then. Apparently I’m in need of your nursing skills.”
The words could be mocking, but there’s something in his tone—a weariness, perhaps, or a vulnerability—that takes the edge off them. I turn without responding, leading him up the grand staircase toward the wing where we’ve been housed.
The summer palace is a maze of corridors and hidden passages, but I’ve spent the past five days exploring, mapping its layout in my mind. I lead Logan through the less traveled routes, avoiding the main hallways where we might encounter staff or, worse, the Queen Mother herself.
“You’ve learned the palace quickly,” Logan observes as we slip through a servant’s passage that cuts the distance to my assigned chambers in half.
“I like to know my escape routes,” I reply, not slowing my pace.
He makes a sound that might be a laugh if it didn’t catch on what I suspect is a broken rib. “Always planning for the worst. I appreciate that about you.”
We reach my room without further conversation. A servant is already waiting at the door with an armful of medical supplies.
Logan enters slowly behind me, as if still unsure of his welcome despite my express invitation.
“Let me see,” I say, setting the medical supplies on a nearby table and approaching him.
Logan’s golden eyes meet mine, something complicated passing through them. “See what, exactly? I have a collection of injuries for you to choose from.”
“Start from the top,” I say, keeping my voice practical.
He hesitates, then gestures to his ribs. “At least one is broken, I think.”
I nod, moving closer. “I need to see. Take off your shirt.”
A hint of his old smirk touches his lips. “So demanding. I like this side of you.”
“Shut up and strip,” I reply, rolling my eyes to hide the heat that rises to my cheeks. “Or I’ll call Ares back to do it for you.”
Smile still lingering, Logan begins unbuttoning his shirt, his movements careful and controlled.
The sight of him steals my breath for a moment. His torso is a canvas of bruises, purple and black against his tanned skin. The worst of it centers on his right side, where a massive contusion spreads from his lower ribs almost to his hip.
“Gods,” I breathe, moving closer without thinking. “What happened?”
“Car crash,” Logan says, his voice tight with pain as I gently probe the injury. “Willam’s men ran us off the road. Then there was the fight itself. He got in a few good hits before I put him down.”
I work in silence for a few minutes, cleaning small cuts, applying salve to the worst of the bruising. My fingers move with a confidence that surprises me—when did I become so comfortable with this? With touching him, with caring for his injuries? When did the fear that once defined our interactions give way to this strange, tentative trust?
“This is going to hurt,” I warn as I prepare to wrap his ribs. “I need to bind them pretty tight if you want the breaks to heal cleanly.”
Logan nods, bracing himself. “Do what you need to do.”
I work quickly but carefully, wrapping the bandage around his torso with firm, even pressure. Logan’s breathing remains steady despite what must be significant pain, his discipline impressive even to my critical eye.
“There,” I say, securing the end of the bandage. “That should help with the pain and prevent further injury. Now let me see your face.”
