When We Met

CH 19 Rosaline

I watched Logan's retreating form disappear through the heavy door, the sound of the lock clanging into place behind him echoing hollowly in the stark interrogation room. Despite his departure, the intensity of our physical altercation still seemed to crackle through the air like a live current.

Gingerly, I probed the already blossoming bruises along my jaw and ribs - mementoes from where his powerful strikes had landed true. A bead of blood trickled from the split in my lip, the metallic tang bitter on my tongue as I swept it away with the back of my hand.

Logan had thoroughly trounced me in that brief burst of violence. My ego still smarted from the decisive defeat, shaken by how swiftly and decisively he'd seized control once our heated exchange crossed that line of brutality.

And yet, even in the wake of that bone-deep ache of failure, my mind kept drifting to those fractured moments burned into my memory. The scorching brand of his iron grip as our bodies strained together. The feral light blazing in those pale eyes of his as we teetered on the edge of something primal and untamed.

I shuddered, unable to quell the memories or the involuntary reactions they seemed to trigger low in my core. What was wrong with me? This man was my sworn enemy, bred for the same violence and chaos that stole everything from me. And still...

Sucking in a ragged breath, I forced myself to my feet, clenching my fists against the lances of pain that shot through my battered frame. Logan's parting promise still rang in my ears with ominous clarity. This wasn't over between us - not by a long shot.

My jaw clenched with grim determination. Next time we clashed, I would be ready. I would dive into the deepest, darkest recesses of my training to unleash every last brutal skill required to break him in turn.

Logan thought he had witnessed the depths of my savagery. He had just caught the barest glimpse of the monster lurking beneath. I would rip away every last one of his affectations of civility until all that remained was the remorseless beast within - just like the one being meticulously sculpted inside my soul.

Backing away from the door, I sank into a defensive crouch to begin working through my katas, my body pushing past its limits as sweat beaded along my brow. The aches and pains dissolved into white noise, drowned out by the singular need thrumming through my veins.

Survival. Dominance. Victory, no matter how high the cost.

Logan wanted to break me, Then he had better prepare himself for the battle of his life. Because this time, I would be the one drawing blood.

After a few minutes of his departure, there was a muffled shuffle of approaching footsteps that drew my attention to the door. I tensed, instinctively sliding into a defensive crouch as the lock disengaged with a heavy clunk.

The door swung inward to reveal not Logan's imposing form, but rather a diminutive older woman in nurse's scrubs clutching a basic med kit. She startled at the sight of me coiled like a wildcat poised to strike.

"Oh! I didn't mean to frighten you, dear," the nurse said in a soothing Southern lilt, holding up one hand in a placating gesture. "Mr. Walsh sent me to see to your injuries, is all."

I stayed tense for a beat, warring between deeply ingrained suspicion and the enticing prospect of having my wounds properly tended. Ultimately, curiosity over Logan's motivations won out.

Keeping a measured distance, I straightened from my stance, folding my arms across my chest. "Walsh sent you? Just like that?" I arched an incredulous brow. "After what just happened between us, I'd think he'd want to leave me to suffer."

The nurse clicked her tongue as she set down her bag, fixing me with a look somewhere between chiding and motherly concern. "That boy may act the hardened criminal, but I've patched him up enough times to know there's still some good tucked away in that heart of his."

Her words gave me pause, finding an unexpected resonance. Could Logan truly not be as soulless as the tales of his family's brutality suggested? Or was this simply another layer of manipulation to lull me into a false sense of security?

Indecision warred within me until a fresh flare of pain lanced through my battered ribs, reminding me of my need for aid. Trying to ignore my instincts screaming of danger, I settled gingerly onto the edge of a table, keeping one eye trained on the nurse's movements like a hawk.

"How bad is it?" I asked, more out of obligation to make conversation than any real concern. Physical pain was a constant companion - this was nothing new.

The nurse's lips thinned into a grim line as she gently probed my injuries. "You'll be feeling those punches for a few weeks, I'd wager. And that cheekbone looks...unpleasant."

I barked a mirthless laugh, unable to help myself. "Trust me, it could have been much worse." My eyes cut briefly to the discarded hairpin resting in the corner, half-coated with my own dried blood.