The penthouse was suffocatingly quiet when we got home.
I sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, staring blankly at my hands. A smear of Greyson’s blood had dried on my coat sleeve—a stark, violent reminder of how easily Logan had dismantled the man who had haunted my thoughts for years. My knees wouldn't stop trembling. Every time I blinked, I heard the sickening crunch of Logan's knuckles against Greyson's face.
Logan didn't look like a man who had just committed aggravated assault. He had calmly washed his hands, changed into low-slung grey sweatpants, and was now pouring two fingers of whiskey at the kitchen island. He looked entirely domestic, completely relaxed.
"He's alive," Logan said, breaking the silence as he walked into the living room. He didn't sound angry; his voice was smoo
