I settled down to rest my head against the banging that rioted in his chest. My fingertips fluttered over the rest, exploring the divots and lines and dense, corded muscle. “Happy birthday, Logan.”
He pressed his mouth to my temple. “Is it wrong if it feels almost as good?”
“No.”
Because any day he was holding me? It was.
TWENTY-FOUR
LOGAN
LOS ANGELES, NINETEEN YEARS OLD
Logan checkedto make sure he was alone in the office before he worked to open the carefully folded star that he’d found tucked between two books on his desk.
Seven, was all it said.
To him, it shouted a million things.
I miss you.
I need you.
You’re worth every risk.
It’s your birthday and I cannot wait to spend it with you.
Warm excitement dripped like honey into his bloodstream.
He couldn’t wait to see her. Hold her.
Aster Rose had become the minutes that counted in his day.
The reason he would fight, steal, cheat—anything to find a way to set her free.
She was his soul’s destination.
The three hours passed like oppression. Every second the building blocks of a fortress that endeavored to keep them apart.
He ran his thumb over the star he’d returned to his pocket.
Let it soothe.
When it was finally time, he all but sprinted out of the office, so eager to get to her that he could hardly think straight. He stepped out into the last vestiges of daylight and into the labyrinth at the back of the property. Glittering rays of light slanted in through the drooping branches of the trees that concealed the grounds in obscurity.
The ground below him was soft and damp, and with each step that he took his pulse beat harder.
Anticipation.
A newfound greed.
Aster Rose.
It was all he wanted.
He slinked under the cover of the trees in the direction of their meeting place, keeping low, angling down, his breaths coming shorter and shorter the closer he got.
It was then that he heard the voices.