What the fuck is Logan Everett doing at my door?
No, back up.
How the fuck does Logan Everett know where I live? Stalker vibes much?
And yet I'm still scrambling to open the door, my body not on the same wavelength as my brain.
Said brain short-circuits at the sight before me. Logan stands in my hallway like some divine punishment for my sins. His worn t-shirt clings to his chest, outlining every ridge and valley of his sculpted torso. The jeans riding low on his hips aren't helping my mental state either.
Or the pheromones wafting my way, practically oozing out of his every pore.
Get it together, Nicole. You're not some hormone-addled teenager.
I clear my throat, aiming for stern professionalism. "Sergeant Everett. To what do I owe this... unexpected visit?"
My voice wavers, betraying me. Dammit.
A floorboard creaks behind me, and I know without looking that Penelope's curiosity has gotten the better of her. I wave her off, praying she takes the hint.
Logan's jaw clenches, the muscles in his neck taut. His eyes, usually a mesmerizing green, now shimmer with flecks of gold. It's hypnotic, dangerous. I force myself to look somewhere else. Like his forehead.
Who the hell has the audacity to have a beautiful forehead? He does.
"You're Scott's fiancée", he says, his voice rough.
The statement hits me like a bucket of ice water.
"Excuse me?"
Logan's eyes narrow, searching my face. For what, I'm not sure. "Scott Bower, of the Anti-Magic Security Division. I've been informed that you are, in fact, his fiancée." His eyes slide down to my hands, which are bare of the ring he's probably searching for.
I was never one for rings, but I'd definitely not be wearing one now that I'm not fucking engaged.
Resting my shoulder against the doorframe, I stare at him, unblinking. "Is that so?"
"You and I..." He hesitates. "It was a mistake."
What the fuck?
"Excuse me?" I repeat, flabbergasted. "A mistake?"
It was a one-night stand. Did I ask him for more? I think back to our awkward afternoon encounter. Nope. Not a word about our sexcapades. So why is he acting like I'm desperate for a relationship with him?
Am I missing something?
Logan's posture shifts, his spine straightening as if bracing for impact. The golden flecks in his eyes intensify, swirling like molten metal. His jaw tightens, and I can practically hear his teeth grinding.
"I have a code," he says, his voice low and strained. "A moral code that I've lived by my entire life. It's kept me sane, kept me... human."
The irony of a werewolf talking about staying human isn't lost on me, but I'm too stunned to appreciate it.
"Infidelity," he continues, spitting the word out like it's poison, "is something I cannot and will not tolerate."
My brain aches, threatening implosion. Is he seriously implying what I think he's implying?
"What happened between us," Logan's voice drops even lower, "it was a mistake. A lapse in judgment that I deeply regret."
My chest tightens, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. Heat flushes the back of my neck, climbing up my scalp. The fucking audacity of this man.
"I should have verified your relationship status. I didn't. That's on me."
And there it is. He thinks I cheated on Scott. He thinks I'm the kind of person who would do that.
Rage bubbles up inside me, hot and fierce. How dare he? How fucking dare he come here, to my home, and accuse me of something so despicable without even bothering to get his facts straight?
I want to scream. Of course I want to tell him about walking in on Scott fucking a woman on my bed, about the shattered Meissen vase we're currently putting back together, and how I told Scott in no uncertain terms that we are over.
But the words don't come. They're trapped behind the fury clogging my throat, behind the hurt and indignation that threaten to choke me. My jaw clenches so tight I can hear my teeth creaking.
Logan continues talking, oblivious to the storm raging inside me. "I understand that what happened between us was intense. But it can't happen again. I won't be party to destroying a relationship, no matter how tempting the circumstances might be."
Tempting? Fuck off.
He's riding high on his moral high ground, refusing to be the 'other man'. Each word is a nail in the coffin of my rapidly dwindling respect for him.
Because here's the thing: if he'd bothered to ask, if he'd taken two seconds to verify his information before storming over here to deliver his self-righteous speech, he'd know the truth. He'd know that there was no infidelity, no cheating, no betrayal of trust.
But he didn't ask. He assumed. And in doing so, he's revealed more about himself than he probably intended.
Penelope's probably sharpening a damn knife in my kitchen, ready to stab the man in his heart.
Logan clears his throat. "I'm not judging you. I understand that every relationship comes with its own issues."
Not judging me? Bullshit. Every word drips with judgment, coated in a thin veneer of false nobility.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, nails biting into my palms. The pain grounds me, keeps me from doing something stupid. Like punching him.
I've never been a violent kind of person, so I would never actually punch him. But I can dream about it.
I want to snarl, to bare my teeth and growl. But I'm not a wolf. I'm just me, standing in my doorway, being lectured on morality by a man who didn't even verify the story he was given.
He takes a deep breath, looking absolutely agonized over this B-grade movie he's cooked up. "Nicole d'Armand, I formally reject the bond between us."
The world tilts on its axis. A searing pain rips through my chest, stealing my breath and buckling my knees. My fingers scrabble against the doorframe, desperate for purchase as I slide to the floor.
What the hell?
Logan's voice fades to a distant hum, drowned out by the thundering of my own heartbeat. My vision blurs, dark spots dancing at the edges. I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't—
"Do you accept?"