Underneath it all, though, was a dull, nagging ache. I knew what I’d seen on that footage, and yet I still missed Logan. I wanted to hear his voice. I wanted to turn around and see him sitting on the window seat and smiling at me. Was this all merely the result of our compatible genomes? Were these my hormones talking, or did I really care for him?
You’d better hope it’s just hormones, I told myself. Because he was, as they say, just following orders, or at least following what some implanted conditioning told him to do.
When that dreary thought crossed my mind, I could feel the tears begin to well up. This time, I didn’t bother to stop them. I was alone, and no one would even see me crying my eyes out. Who knows — I might even feel better when it was all over.
So I crawled up onto the
