Page 62 of Chaos At Second Sight

I was swept off the ground. Logan’s big hands held me up like I was a baby. “Unless you want to miss your family’s farewell dinner and probably tomorrow’s flight too”—he brought his face inches from mine—“stop patching them up. My bite’ll put you down until next week.” I caught a glimpse of his fangs and the burning fire in his irises.

“Your jealousy is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous.” I held his gaze. “And I can’t be with someone so violent. Now put me down before my rejection puts you down.”

We had barely spoken since.

The more I ignored him, the duller the sparks became. I felt hurt, restless, and miserable all evening and well into the following morning.

I wondered what happened to Paul, but every time I brought him up, Logan sidestepped the subject with the same skill he used to avoid my twin. Between saying goodbye to my Scottish family and preparing to leave, the question eventually slipped to the back of my mind.

A nudge jolted me back to the present. Logan’s elbows and arms jerked, shaking my seat again.

“What’s wrong with your arms?” I had to ask. His relentless scratching stopped, leaving me feeling like a tossed salad.

“Oh, we’re speaking again.” He scoffed, eyes remaining shut, his blond lashes resting against his cheekbones.

As I studied the personification of stubbornness, I accepted a simple truth: concern for his health had been written into my genes. The Moon Goddess must have equipped me with antibodies against acute obstinacy.

I slipped my hand in his, locking away the growling pride that insisted he should beg for my forgiveness.

“She just doesn’t want to waste her words on you,” Lachlan muttered, flipping through his copy of National Geographic.

I squeezed Logan’s hand before his insults could start again. The last thing this plane needed was two overgrown wolves wrestling in the aisle until the aircraft tipped sideways.

“You sure you’re okay?”

Logan cracked one eye open and peered down at me. We held our gazes for a moment before he sighed and closed it again. “I didn’t sleep a wink last night.” The pout that followed was hilarious.

The doctor in me took over. Logan tanned easily, but all that redness streaking his forearms and neck wasn’t from the Scottish sun. Inflamed skin meant excess blood had flown to the surface to fight irritants and encourage healing. This was true for a normal patient, but for Logan? That was harder to pinpoint, as lycans weren’t in any of my medical texts.

I decided to use the oldest remedy in the books: my touch. A mate’s touch.

“Sleep deprivation doesn’t explain why you’re scratching yourself raw.” I studied the long red lines his nails had carved into his skin.

“I just feel…” His voice was hoarse, like he had been growling the whole night. “Tense and in a bad mood.”

“You know, airplane seats are made in a way that forces your spine into a sad shrimp posture.”

Logan glanced at me like my words had just assaulted him.

I leaned forward, rummaging through my bag beneath the seat. “Here. This’ll do.” I showed him my folded jacket.

His frown only deepened. “I didn’t say I was cold.”

“You said you were moody. If you align your back by placing something behind your thoracic spine…” I tapped the center of his chest, his gaze flickering down to my finger. “Right behind your heart, you’ll sit more upright.”

I motioned for him to lean forward, and when he obeyed, I balled my jacket and stuffed it between his back and the seat.

“There.” I patted it into place when he reclined back. “The sad shrimp has been linked to lower testosterone levels and more depressive memories than usual. Better posture can improve your mood.”

“So now I’m a sad shrimp?” He cocked his brow. “First a reindeer, then a rabid dog, now a crustacean.” He counted on his fingers. “Wow, thanks. I’m basically a zoo.”

We remained quiet. Then⁠—

“Listen, Logan⁠—”

“Listen, Bunny Doc⁠—”

Logan scratched the back of his neck, bicep flexing. Don’t look.