Chapter 6: Morning Wood and Thin Walls
The dream was always the same.
A field of black glass stretching to a horizon that never quite resolved itself. The sky above was the color of old blood, and somewhere in the distance, something enormous was breathing. Slow and deep. The sound of it rattled through her bones like thunder rolling through a canyon.
Ashanti stood barefoot on the glass. It was warm beneath her soles. Alive. The reflections staring back at her weren't quite her own—same face, same body, but the eyes were wrong. Too bright. Too hungry.
She tried to speak, but her mouth filled with the taste of copper and salt.
Then the breathing stopped.
The silence that followed was worse.
She woke with a gasp trapped somewhere between her throat and her lungs.
The first thing she registered was heat. Not the oppressive, humid heat of a summer night, but something else—something solid and radiating and distinctly alive. The second thing was the smell. Musk and pine and the faint metallic bite of blood that never quite washed out of Logan's skin no matter how many times he showered.
Her face was pressed against his chest. The scarred one.
The scars were old and pale against his tan skin—a jagged roadmap of violence that started somewhere near his collarbone and disappeared into the tangled sheet pooled around his waist. She'd traced them with her fingers once, drunk and curious. He'd let her. He hadn't said a word.
That was Logan. Silent and still and waiting.
Through the thin wall separating their room from Jackie's, Ashanti heard a moan. Low and drawn-out and utterly shameless.
"Oh god," Jackie's voice floated through the plaster, breathy and broken. "Right there. Right fucking there. Don't stop."
The rhythmic slap of skin against skin followed. Steady. Punctuated by James's low grunt and Jackie's escalating cries.
Ashanti closed her eyes.
She should have been annoyed. The walls in this shithole apartment were thin enough that you could hear someone breathing in the next room, let alone getting railed into next week. But the sounds weren't annoying. They were something else entirely.
They were a reminder.
Her body was already responding—nipples hardening against the thin cotton of her tank top, a slow, liquid heat building low in her belly. This was the problem with waking up in a house full of people who fucked like rabbits and didn't care who knew it.
Logan was awake.
She could tell by the way his breathing had changed. Deeper. More deliberate. The kind of control that meant he was aware of every inch of his body and every inch of hers.
His morning wood pressed hard and thick against her thigh through the thin fabric of his boxers. She could feel the heat of it, the weight of it, the way it twitched when she shifted.
He didn't move.
He never moved first.
That was the thing about Logan. He would wait. He would wait until she made the decision, until she crossed whatever invisible line existed between them, until she was the one who reached out and touched him. As if giving her that power absolved him of something. As if it made it her fault.
Fine.
Ashanti ground her hips against him. Slow. Lazy. Still half-asleep and not entirely sure she wasn't still dreaming.
His body stiffened beneath her. Not in surprise—Logan didn't do surprise—but in acknowledgment. His grey eyes were fixed on the ceiling, watching nothing, seeing everything.
"Morning," she murmured against his chest.
He didn't answer.
Jackie screamed through the wall. Something between a word and a prayer. James grunted in response, and the slap of their bodies grew faster. More frantic.
Ashanti ground against Logan again. Harder this time.
His hand moved. Just one. He hooked his thumb into the waistband of her panties and dragged them down her legs. No preamble. No ceremony. Just a slow, deliberate pull that left a trail of fire in its wake.
She kicked them off the rest of the way.
He still hadn't said a word. Still hadn't looked at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling—on the water stain shaped like a hand, on the crack that ran from one corner to the other—as if he was seeing something beyond the plaster. Something only he could see.
Ashanti rolled onto her stomach.
The sheets were tangled and gritty beneath her. She could smell herself on them—the faint, musky evidence of last night's solo release, the morning-after residue of a body that never quite stopped wanting. She spread her legs just enough. Just enough for him to know.
Logan moved.
He rolled onto his knees behind her, and she felt the weight of him settle there, heavy and patient. His boxers were gone—she hadn't heard him take them off, hadn't felt him move, but that was Logan. Silent as a ghost when he wanted to be.
His hand found the back of her neck.
Warm. Calloused. Fingers wrapping around her throat just below her jaw, not squeezing—not yet—just holding. A reminder. A claim.
She held her breath.
He pushed into her in one slow, devastating thrust.
"Fuck," she gasped.
Her fingers clawed at the sheets, twisting in the fabric. He was thick—thicker than she remembered, or maybe her body had just forgotten. Either way, it was a stretch. A burn that lingered somewhere between pain and pleasure.
He didn't move. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, his hips pressed against her ass.
Through the wall, Jackie's cries had reached fever pitch. "I'm gonna come—James, I'm gonna—"
Logan's other hand braced against the headboard.
Then he started to move.
Slow. Deliberate. Every thrust was measured and controlled, a slow drag out and a slow push in that made her feel every inch of him. Her body clenched around him, trying to pull him deeper, and his fingers tightened on the back of her neck in response.
Ashanti bit the pillow.
It was instinct—the need to stay quiet, the need to keep this contained. She could feel James and Jackie in the next room, could hear their bodies slapping together, could taste the sex in the air like humidity before a storm. The last thing she wanted was to add to the noise.
Logan leaned down.
His breath was hot against her ear. His dreads brushed against her shoulder, rough and familiar. When he spoke, his voice was a low, rasping growl that vibrated through her spine.
"Don't."
His hips snapped forward. Hard. She yelped against the pillow, and he rewarded her with another thrust, faster this time.
"I want to hear you."
Jackie screamed something unintelligible through the wall.
Ashanti let the pillow go.
The sound that escaped her was raw and animal. He fucked her harder and faster, both hands now gripping her hips with enough force to bruise tomorrow, and she arched beneath him, meeting every thrust with one of her own.
The bed creaked. The headboard smacked against the wall in a rhythm that competed with Jackie's. Somewhere in the apartment, a door opened and closed—Logan's brother, probably, going to the bathroom or the kitchen or anywhere else that wasn't drowning in the sound of people fucking.
"Sounds like a goddamn orgy in here," James's voice boomed through the wall.
Logan's response was to fuck her harder.
"Logan," she gasped. Not a question. Not a plea. Just his name, pulled out of her like a confession.
His hand slid from her neck to her hair. He gathered it into a rough fist, pulling her head back just enough to expose her throat.
"Mine," he growled.
She was close. So fucking close. Every thrust hit something deep inside her, something that made her vision blur and her toes curl. The hand on her hip slid lower, fingers finding her clit, and she sobbed at the contact.
"That's it," he murmured. "Come on my cock, Ashanti."
His thumb pressed down.
The orgasm hit her like a freight train.
She came screaming, his name and nothing and everything, her cunt clenching around him so hard that he groaned—actually groaned—one of those rare sounds that she'd only heard a handful of times and never stopped thinking about.
He fucked her through it. Every aftershock, every spasm, every helpless little sound that escaped her throat. And then, when she was limp and shaking and barely holding herself up, he let go.
His hips stuttered. His grip tightened. He came inside her with a low, rumbling growl that she felt more than heard, his cock pulsing deep, filling her with heat.
For a moment, neither of them moved.
The room was quiet now.
Through the wall, Jackie was laughing. James was saying something low and satisfied.
Logan pulled out slowly. She winced at the sensation—cold air against wet skin, empty where he'd been full.
He rolled off the bed and stood, naked and unashamed, his back to her as he walked toward the door.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Coffee."
He didn't look back.
Ashanti collapsed onto her stomach, her face pressed into the pillow that still smelled like him. Her thighs were slick. Her cunt was sore. Her heart was beating too fast and too loud.
The sheet was tangled around her ankles. The morning light filtered through the dusty blinds, striping the wall in pale gold. Somewhere in the apartment, she heard Logan's heavy footsteps, then the clink of a mug, then the hiss of the coffee maker.
Jackie's door opened. Bare feet padded down the hallway.
"Morning," Jackie said, her voice bright and hoarse.
"Morning," Logan grunted.
Ashanti closed her eyes.
She could still taste the copper and salt from the dream.
And somewhere beneath it all, something was still breathing.
The coffee was bitter and black and exactly what she needed.
Ashanti padded into the kitchen fifteen minutes later, her hair a wild tangle around her shoulders, her thighs still slick with the evidence of Logan's release. She hadn't bothered to clean up. There was something satisfying about walking through the apartment with his come drying on her skin, a secret that only the four of them shared.
Jackie was perched on the counter, her silk robe hanging open to reveal the constellation of hickeys blooming across her collarbone. Her dark hair was a mess, her lips swollen, her eyes bright with the particular glow of someone who'd been thoroughly and repeatedly satisfied.
"You look pleased with yourself," Ashanti said.
"I look like I got fucked for three hours straight," Jackie corrected. "Because I did."
James was at the stove, shirtless and barefoot, flipping eggs in a pan that had seen better decades. He was lean where Logan was broad, wiry where Logan was thick, but there was a similarity in the shape of their jaws, the set of their shoulders, the way they moved through the world like they owned it.
"You two are disgusting," he said without turning around.
"You're the one who was yelling my name," Jackie shot back.
"I was yelling at you to shut up. Different thing entirely."
Logan sat at the tiny kitchen table, a mug cradled in his massive hands, his grey eyes fixed on some middle distance that didn't include any of them. He'd pulled on a pair of sweats but nothing else. The scars on his chest caught the morning light, pale and raised against his tan skin.
Ashanti grabbed a mug from the cabinet and poured herself coffee. Black. No sugar.
She sat across from Logan. He didn't look at her.
"So," Jackie said, swinging her legs. "What's the plan today? More pharmacy drama? Another married orc who can't keep it in his pants?"
"His name is Gotherik," Ashanti said. "And we're not talking about him."
"Fine. What about the guy from the corner store? Derrick? The one with the greasy hair and the sad little mustache?"
Ashanti took a sip of coffee. "What about him?"
Jackie grinned. "You gonna see him again?"
"I don't know. Maybe."
"You're such a slut."
"Takes one to know one."
James slid a plate of eggs onto the table. "Both of you are sluts. Eat your breakfast."
The eggs were rubbery and oversalted. Ashanti ate them anyway.
The morning passed in the particular rhythm of a household recovering from the night before. Jackie showered first, then James, then Ashanti. The water ran cold by the time she got in, but she didn't care. She stood under the spray and let it wash away the sweat and the sex and the lingering unease of the dream.
When she got out, Logan was gone.
She found him on the fire escape.
The apartment was on the fourth floor of a building that should have been condemned a decade ago. The fire escape was rusted and creaked with every shift of weight, but it faced east, and in the mornings, the sun rose over the industrial sprawl of the South Side like something out of a painting.
Logan was sitting on the metal grating, his back against the brick wall, a cigarette burning between his fingers. He didn't smoke often. Only when something was bothering him.
Ashanti climbed through the window and sat down beside him. The grating was cold through her thin leggings. The city stretched out below, a patchwork of warehouses and tenements and the distant gleam of the river.
"You're brooding," she said.
He took a drag of the cigarette. Exhaled. The smoke curled upward and disappeared into the morning sky.
"I'm always brooding."
"More than usual."
He didn't answer.
She reached over and plucked the cigarette from his fingers. Took a drag herself. The smoke burned her lungs, sharp and familiar.
"Talk to me," she said.
His grey eyes slid toward her. There was something in them—something patient and predatory and utterly still.
"The pack business," he said finally. "There's a problem."
"What kind of problem?"
"Marcus."
The name landed between them like a stone dropped into still water.
Marcus was the alpha of the Black Aces—a werewolf with a reputation for cruelty and a smile that never reached his eyes. He'd built his empire on blood and fear, and he didn't appreciate anyone who threatened his control.
"What about him?" Ashanti asked.
"He's been asking questions. About you."
"Me?"
"About the coven. About why you left."
She felt her spine stiffen. The cigarette burned unnoticed between her fingers.
"What did you tell him?"
"Nothing." Logan's voice was flat. "But he's not gonna stop asking."
The wind picked up, cold and sharp off the river. Ashanti shivered.
"I didn't leave the coven because of anything dangerous," she said. "I left because I couldn't stand their rules. Their ceremonies. Their—"
"I know why you left."
She looked at him. He was staring straight ahead, his jaw tight.
"How?" she asked.
"Jackie talks when she's drunk."
Of course she did. Jackie talked when she was drunk, when she was high, when she was bored. The girl had a mouth that never stopped moving and a memory that never forgot a single detail.
"What exactly did she tell you?"
Logan stubbed out his cigarette on the railing. "That you fucked your way through the entire male population of the coven. That the elders found out and gave you a choice. Leave or be bound."
The word hung in the air between them. Bound. It was a pretty word for a brutal thing—a magical lobotomy, a severing of the connection between a witch and her power. It left the body intact but hollowed out the soul.
"They were gonna make me a husk," Ashanti said. "A shell. I would've been alive, but I wouldn't have been me."
"And Marcus knows about this?"
"He knows something. Probably heard it from one of his informants. The covens don't exactly advertise their failures, but rumors spread."
Logan was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached over and took her hand.
His palm was rough and warm. His fingers wrapped around hers, firm but not crushing.
"I won't let anyone touch you," he said.
It wasn't a declaration of love. It wasn't a promise of forever. It was a statement of fact, delivered in the same tone he used when discussing drug shipments and territory disputes.
But from Logan, it meant everything.
She leaned into him, her shoulder pressing against his arm. They sat like that for a while, watching the sun climb higher over the city.