The room goes still.
Olivia breathes between us. That soft, shallow sound keeps me where I am.
Logan’s voice lowers. “You deciding for an unconscious woman that you don’t know is a problem.”
“She was targeted.”
“We don’t know why.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not an argument for keeping her here.”
“It is.”
“Explain.”
I look down at her again. Her face is turned slightly toward me now, probably from how I laid her down. She looks too pale under the bright infirmary lights. Too clean for the violence that brought her here. Too soft for this room, this club, this life.Doesn’t matter.
She’s in it now. Because someone put her there. Because I saw her. Because every instinct I have went still and certain the second she stepped into that street. I don’t debate that internally. There’s nothing to debate. Some truths don’t need permission from reason.
Logan waits.
I lift my eyes to his. “She’s mine.” The words land flat. Not loud. Not defensive. Not heat thrown in anger.
Just truth.
Logan doesn’t move. For one full breath, neither of us does. Then his expression goes dark in a way that tells me he heard exactly what I said, exactly how I meant it. “You don’t even know her name.”
“Olivia.”
His jaw ticks. “That doesn’t make this better.”
“It makes it accurate.”
“Cobra.”
I step closer to the bed, not away from Logan, but nearer to her. “She’s mine.”
“You say that again like repetition makes it less insane?”
“It’s not insane.”
“You saw her for what? A minute?”
“Enough.”
“That isn’t how this works.”
“It is for me.”
Logan stares at me like I’ve just handed him a live grenade and told him not to worry about the pin.
From the hallway, voices move closer, then stop. The women are probably hovering. Brothers too. The club feels shifts like weather, and this one just rolled through every wall.
Logan lowers his voice. “You understand what claiming means here.”
“Yes.”
