But I can only look on in horror as the cops finally get Logan face down on the ground. Only barely, by the looks of it, and it’s taking several men to restrain him there. And then one of the men in scrubs approaches, something in his hand I can’t make out.
Until he raises it to Logan’s neck and with a sickening realization, I realize exactly what it is.
A syringe.
He presses it to Logan’s neck and within thirty seconds, my big, beautiful, virile brand new husband is passed out, sedated like a large, dangerous animal on the floor. Of his own wedding.
And the news cameras were rolling the whole time, capturing the entire thing.
Seventeen
Daphne
Logan had no chance. Not with the video from the wedding. Not just on all the news stations playing 24/7, but also all over the internet.
It would have gone better for Logan if he wasn’t so damn strong. But he just kept knocking them down. Even I haven’t been able to avoid the videos. I was there and they make it look so much more dramatic, maybe because of the filters and the cinematic music always layered on top—
And the fact that an ambulance had to be called for four of the policeman didn’t help his case—even though I know for a fact that none of those supposed ‘terrible injuries’ actually lead to anyone needing to be taken to the hospital and that it was likely all just more fanfare and showcasing by Adam to win points in the press.
“It’s a mess,” I confess to Armand, face in my hands.
“It’s bullshit is what it is.” Armand stands and paces back and forth in my beautifully restored Thornhill living room. Every day I’m living in the reminder of Logan’s love and every day it pierces all the deeper that he’s not here with me to enjoy it.
We should be on our honeymoon right now, and instead, he’s locked away in some cold, padded cell at Maniae Hospital for the Criminally Insane.
Just, what the fuck, world? Why can’t we get a damn break? Incurable cancer wasn’t enough? Separating us for almost a decade? Fighting past misunderstandings and insecurities and finally finding our way to each other, having the wedding of our dreams only for it to be stolen away before we even get to our wedding night?
I officially give up on fairness in the universe.
Armand is feeling less despair and more righteous indignation.
“Cora wants to get involved. She and Marcus have wanted to clean up that corrupt police force for years.”
I just gape at him.
“Oh darling, haven’t you realized that the Ubelis are the real power in this city? Metropolis, too.”
I look around uncertainly, not wanting to gossip about my friends. “But aren’t they sort of…I mean I’ve heard rumors that… Aren’t they sometimes involved in some criminal things… Occasionally, I mean?”
Armand laughs out loud, a full-bodied chuckle. It goes on for several minutes and he’s wiping his eyes by the end.
“Cora would die laughing if she heard that description of their businesses.”
“Oh please don’t tell her. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to malign—”
But Armand just sits beside me on the couch and puts an arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “I’ll let you in on a family secret. I think you’ve earned it. Cora and Marcus are the criminal underworld, darling. And they aren’t ashamed of it. They’re on the side of the people. On the side of good,” he says earnestly in the way only a true friend can.
“They know that if they are running it, the whole world is a lot safer than if the truly evil fucks had their hands on the pulse.”
Finally, his jovial expression collapses. “Like those dick-faced cunts at the Metro police that Archer has bought out. Nobody likes a sellout, least of all the Ubelis.”
He talks about them like they’re all-powerful. “So can they help Logan?”
His lips tighten into a hard line. “Archer’s not a complete idiot. He knows aligning himself against you and Logan means making an enemy of them. But there’s plenty in this city who think it’s time the reign of the Ubelis came to an end and are willing to back him. With his money and his name and frankly his boy-next-door good looks—”
I slam my hands down on the coffee table in front of the couch. “That’s such bullshit! He’s a monster on the inside and Logan is so wonderf—”
Armand takes my hands in his and looks at me gently, his eyes full of compassion. “I know. I know. We’ll find a way out for him. This isn’t the end. I promise. All I’m trying to say is you have friends in high places. And we’ll do everything in our power to help.”
But all I hear is what he isn’t saying. He isn’t saying he has a direct way to help. He isn’t saying they can get Logan out now. All he has are wishes and half-promises. And I appreciate where he’s coming from, I really do. Everyone wants to help.
But it doesn’t mean they can.
I stand on wobbly legs. “Thanks for coming by, Armand. It really means a lot.”
Armand stands and hugs me, but as he does, his hands pat down my back, especially around my shoulder blades. “Are you getting enough to eat? Taking care of yourself?”
He pulls back and holds me by my shoulders, inspecting my face even as I roll my eyes.
“I’m fine, I swear.” It’s mostly true. I’m mostly remembering to eat.
Armand gives my shoulders a slight squeeze. “You have to stay strong for him. Otherwise he’ll go crazy. The only thing keeping him sane is knowing that we’re out here looking out for you.”
I roll my eyes again, because that’s so Logan. Worrying about me when he’s the one stuck in an insane asylum.
I walk him to the front door. “How about this? I promise to go eat the biggest lunch possible, and you promise to keep working every connection you have to get Logan out. Deal?”
Armand watches me with that all-too-assessing gaze for another half a minute, then he nods. “Deal."
I wave at him from the doorway before deciding to make good on my promise and head for the kitchen.
I’m opening the refrigerator door to see if anything is left inside or if I need to order more groceries, when a movement catches my eye in my periphery.
I yelp and slam the refrigerator shut when I realize that the movement is a person.
A stranger. In my house. In my kitchen. With me. While I am alone.
“Who are you?” I shout even as I reach in my pocket for my phone. Where the hell is my phone? Were they here the whole time Armand was? Why didn’t the security alarm go off if they broke in?
The person is short and their back is to me. They’re wearing a hoodie and I can’t even tell if it’s a man or woman, or maybe a teenager, they’re so slight. Maybe 110 pounds soaking wet.
Not that I’m taking any chances. I start backing away, my hand scrambling on the counter for anything to protect myself. Naturally, the block of knives is on the opposite counter, closer to my intruder.
My hands close around a rolling pin just as the stranger turns my way.
My fingers lose their grasp and the rolling pin topples to the ground with a loud clatter as I whisper, “Rachel?”