MADDOX
I sat in my father's study with chlorine dripping from my hair onto his very expensive leather chair. My jaw was throbbing where Logan's fist had rearranged it, and the taste of Summer Henley were still on my lips.
Logan sat in the chair beside me. Soaking. Bleeding from the cut above his eye — my handiwork, which I was trying not to feel satisfied about and failing. He hadn't spoken since we'd hauled ourselves out of the pool. He was doing the Logan thing — jaw locked, eyes forward, radiating controlled silence like it was a job.
Classic.
"Alright. Explain," Dad said with that Alpha voice — the real one, not the warm version he used at dinner or the patient version he used with Mom.
He was behind the desk, standing rather than sitting, which was never a good sign.
Neither me
