Logan's knuckles were still raw.
His shirt clung to his back, soaked through with sweat and streaked with the remnants of his fight. Blood—not his—marked the collar, a testament to just how far from Hollywood he'd fallen. But when he looked at Aurora, nothing else mattered.
She was calm now, too calm, like the aftermath of a storm that had passed and left behind wreckage. Her face betrayed nothing, but Logan knew her well enough to see the tightness in her jaw, the stiffness in her movements. She was angry—not just at their enemies, but at him.
The silence in the car was oppressive. They were speeding away from the Black Orchid Club in an armored vehicle arranged by her contacts. She hadn't said a word since they got in.
"Aurora," Logan said quietly, reaching for her hand.
She pulled away.
The rejection hit harder than a punch to the gut.
He exhaled sharply and turned to face her. "You're angry."
Her gaze flicked to him. Controlled. Cold. "You disobeyed me."
