This chapter is almost 5k damn words, I'm sorry, but Inkandtrees really wanted to know.

grab a beer, change ya socks, and enjoy...for now.

Very carefully, John eased Logan down from his arms and onto the cold countertop of his bathroom. His dog stood outside the doorway, staring down the staircase towards the commotion. Trying her best, Logan bit into her lip to thwart any admissions of pain. Now that her father was here and Kennedy―who she hadn't seen in years―it was time to pretend she was a tough cookie.

A battered, burnt, crumbling cookie with dirt rubbed all over, but whatever.

Logan heard heavy foot falls ascend the steps. On the bottom floor was Kennedy cackling like always, possibly on the phone. John's pet set his ears back, wiggling his whole body as he wagged his tail, obviously pleased with the newcomer.

Pausing on the landing, her father glanced left, and then right, before discovering she was in the guest bedroom while John drew the shower door back and twisted the water on full blast.

As Caldron advanced through the door, Logan witnessed her father visibly weaken at the sight of her, the expression on his face and the way his gray eyes, so much like her own, glistened and almost spilled over with tell-tale moisture. His reaction increased Logan's awareness of the wreck she presented.

"Don't," she grumbled, not wanting any pity from her esteemed father―and certainly not any doting, paternal love―in front of John. Logan was a grown woman with bills and credit and a mortgage, thank you very much. However, there was a small portion in her heart that shriveled up at denying herself her father's comforting affection.

"I know," he sighed, peering at the wounds along her shoulder and legs. "What's the verdict? Anything I can do?"

"No, the bullet just grazed me," Logan muttered softly; her eyes moved quickly over her person, assessing her wounds as she detailed her injuries. "I hyper-extended my knee crashing the bike," she indicated at the side of her thigh a large rash embedded with dirt. "And I've got some bruising on my ribs from when I hit the ground; thankfully, nothing's broken and the motor burned only a small part of my leg―nothing a little R&R won't fix." Logan knitted her brow, perplexed, especially after noting Caldron's shifty expression; she knew that look.

What was her father up to?

"Holy shit, Logan," her father risked glanced at John who rummaged through a cabinet across the large bathroom; Caldron looked uncomfortable. He had something to tell her, for her ears alone; not finding what he sought, John began to search the drawers beneath.

Caldron cleared his throat for the sake of noise.

"But you're alright?" he asked; he obviously was not going to tell her in John's presence. It would have to wait. Fine by Logan. If it was important, Caldron would tell her immediately, of that she had no doubt. Caldron reached for the bathroom cup on the counter, filling it from the tap to the brim with water, before handing it to her. She smiled her thanks, realizing how thirsty and dehydrated she felt.

Eagerly, she drained the cup. "I am; John's taking care of me." Logan assured him with a quenched sigh.

Caldron paled at her words, looking like he was about to be sick. Taking the empty container from her, he filled it again and handed it to her before clearing his throat a second time. He was nervous.

The fiercely protective, paternal side of Caldron wanted to stop all further progress, forcibly take Logan away from him, tend to her himself, but … he remembered that damned lie he told Kennedy. After all his efforts to get Logan a decent country boy, it would be just like her to flutter her lashes at some damned city slicker. And not just any city slicker―it just had to to be John Wick, the underworld's elite. Caldron knew far too much about the Baba Yaga; as her father and righteous protector, allowing something to grow between them galled him deeply and set his nerves on fire.

He hadn't actually thought something was going on. But Caldron knew her better than she knew herself, and was greatly dismayed to see how she practically clung to the man; his daughter, who steadfastly refused all comers, was content to remain in John's arms, even when Caldron was ready to take her from him; his gut instinct stirred in warning when he saw how carefully, almost tenderly Wick held Logan in his arms . . . there was something undefinable about the set of the younger man's face, something in his cool, composed expression, the unmistakable challenge in his dark eyes for Caldron to stand down as he prepared to relieve John of his daughter. Caldron fervently hoped he would not be kicking himself in the ass for speaking his fears into existence, when he uttered those fateful words to Kennedy; hoping against hope the lie will not become the truth.

He wearily rubbed his furrowed brow and said, "Well, Kennedy's making a few phone calls―gonna rally his gang together. I'm gonna make some trips around the property, set some traps, check the sensors and all that. Mend that damn fence―bastards ran right over it." Logan nodded as she finished her second cup of water, feeling somewhat better, now that the water cooled her scorched throat.

"There's another body out there," she whispered, "He's over by the creek, nearest the highway―and bring my wheelbarrow back, please. There's a storm coming."

"Well then," he finally muttered, before sighing and turning away. "We'd best get t' work."

Caldron left just as John located the first aid kit in the cabinet; the roar of the shower distracted Logan from her thoughts as he came to her side.

"Are you ready?" he glanced at her with his dark eyes before lowering them to rifle through the first aid kit's contents.

"Normally, I would say yes." Logan swallowed, "But right now, I'm not entirely sure."

Producing surgical bandage scissors from the small kit, John started at the hem of her tank top and cut a path towards her collar. The fabric fell away, slipping from her shoulders as she shed the cloth. Logan's throat felt tight, dreading the inevitable shower. Despite the water she just drank, Logan felt parched; she swallowed, her throat knotting closed from nervous anticipation.

Next were her shorts; encrusted with blood and soot, she carefully leaned back to facilitate his progress, cautious of the scissors, despite the protected tips. John efficiently sliced through one side of the ruined fabric, and then the other, ever mindful of her injuries. Soon, the waistband was severed. That, too, was pushed away from her hips, leaving her in her underwear and bra.

Grimacing as she sat up, John helped her ease off the counter, and helped her to stand mostly on her good leg, as the other leg was unable to bear much weight or movement. Pivoting on the heel of her good foot, Logan turned her back towards John, planting her hands onto the counter top for balance; unfortunately, the mirror revealed her shambled state. She was a mess. Her dark hair was in tangles, the braid barely a braid, resembling more of a frayed knot. Bruising had already claimed her pale, freckled skin, a trait from her father: gray eyes, freckles and the easy-to-bruise disposition.

John stood directly behind her. Face impassive as always, their stares met in their reflection; his eyes gave no indication of his thoughts as his hands gently rested on her hips, his thumbs slipping into the waistband of her lacy underwear.

Mortified, Logan dropped her gaze; resisting the siren's call to lose herself in his eyes, not wanting him to see in her eyes an unrequited desire for him, and how badly her heart was pleading for his touch, or a caressing whisper . . . anything. Logan never longed for such things before.

What made it so difficult now? What made John different than the rest?

Swallowing thickly, the knot in her throat tightened even while her nerves came to life with both fear and desire.

Heat spread across her cheeks as the fabric slowly, gently slipped down, before dropping into a small heap of her feet. Her skin prickled in response, coming to life beneath John's enigmatic gaze.

Say something. . .

Against her back, he brushed his fingertips over the clasp of her bra―Logan slammed her eyes shut, carnal heat soaring into the pit of her belly. She knew she should be ashamed of herself, but she couldn't help it. Why couldn't she help it? Logan was disciplined, but John was dangerous.

Lifting the the straps away from her shoulders, the delicate garment slid down the expanse of her arms. Pulling one arm free, she brought it over her chest, shielding her breasts as the other tossed the article aside.

Now she was completely naked; a chill puckered her skin, even though the room was stifling hot. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel her frenetic heart kicking against her ribs.

John's hands came upon her shoulder, gently steering her from the counter towards the shower. Walled in by stacks of round, smooth river stones reaching the ceiling, the large, waterfall shower head was suspended overhead. Dark, slate tile covered the floor, and a wooden bench jutted from the wall.

The shower door was already open as he gently helped her in. Reaching through the falling water, Logan palmed the wooden bench beneath it, carefully lowering herself onto its perch.

Though it fell gently, the water still assaulted her injuries, wounds flaring to life, but it did not affect Logan so; her heart sang a different tune as she adjusted the temperature. The hot deluge bit sharply into her open wounds. Around her, John stepped away, closing the glass door behind him. He left, shutting bedroom door close. Logan began gingerly began to clean herself as best as she could. As the water flowed soothingly over her body, Logan forced herself to relax. As her dark hair soaked, she freed the tie and pulled the braid apart.

Moving hurt. Breathing hurt and Logan could not bend her knee, which had turned an angry dark reddish purple and swelled around the edges of her knee cap.

In spite of the pain, she gritted her teeth and worked away the remaining filth, vigorously scrubbing for and rubbing until her skin flushed. Removing all traces of the remaining dirt and blood from beneath her scraped hands and ruined fingernails required more effort, before she moved onto other parts. Lathering her hair with shampoo, Logan carefully worked to unsnarl the tresses, the water sluicing her road rash and bullet wound, the injuries stung smartly as she worked. Beneath the steady water fall, Logan sat and sighed deeply, hanging her head low as the suds and falling water traversed her bruised figure.

What a day...

Now finished, the tension and pain that reigned her began to lessen. Though the immediate threat was over, Logan knew it would be the first of many; that this was just the beginning. Luckily none of her injuries were debilitating. A compression wrap could be applied to her knee. If she kept it iced and elevated, in a week it should be healed enough to function adequately. The bullet wound could be stitched and easily hidden from sight. The challenge was finding a plausible excuse for missing work while she healed.

Finally, she needed to remain focused and stop pining and obsessing over John Wick―it wasn't going to happen. Logan was very foolish to allow herself to entertain the possibility of having a chance with the complicated, mysterious man who suddenly came into her quiet, structured life with the hounds of hell nipping at his heels. Now was not the time for romance, not in the least. There was much on the man's mind certainly. Not when a horde of mobsters and crime lords were foaming at the mouth for his outrageously high bounty. How much was he worth anyway? she wondered. Was it better if it remained unknown? If she was risking her life for his safety, Logan thought, she needed more answers.

Such a silly girl...she chided herself.

In time, John returned. A small pile of clothes in his hands.

Seeing that Logan was cleaned, he turned the shower off and proffered a towel, keeping his eyes politely averted. Logan wordlessly took it from him and wrapped it tightly around herself. He drew the door open, effortlessly scooped her up from the bench and slowly backed out, careful to not jostle or bump her injured leg. When they entered his bedroom, Logan saw what kept John occupied while she showered. Across the bed were bandages, gauze, and a small first aid kit. The dog was gone, perhaps downstairs with Kennedy and her father. It felt like hours since her home was literally invaded; death lay at her doorstep, her haven's peace was violated with destruction . . . so much bloodshed in mere minutes.

Easing her down gently, she lifted her feet as John helped her don a clean pair of panties. Logan blushed at his selection. There was not much to the lacy confection; Logan splurged on her intimate wear, purchasing matching sets in colors and styles flattering her skin tone and figure. It pleased her greatly, her little secret―beneath her flight suit and clothes, knowing er foundation garments were utterly feminine and how they made her feel . . . desirable. Logan wondered what John thought as he searched her dresser drawers for the items he brought. Beyond her coarse exterior, she was still a woman; a woman who wanted to be desired.

Now was not the time, she sternly told herself when frustration crept in the back of her mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted when he pulled the delicate fabric up, past her thighs and hips, his hands disappearing beneath the edge of her concealing towel, and just as quickly, they were gone. Logan poked her head through a baggy t-shirt, as John guided her arms through the short sleeves, until the fabric hung over her towel. With Logan's help, he managed to dress her without seeing her naked a second time; together, they did a remarkable job of simultaneously preserving her modesty and dressing her without further injury.

Rolling her sleeve up, John sprinkled powdered antibiotics into her flesh; Despite her condition, Logan was able to hide any expression of discomfort as he sutured her arm. He gently smoothed antibiotic salve over her road rash and applied silvadene ointment to her burn wound before dressing and wrapping them with clean gauze bandages. John efficiently wrapped her sore knee, compressing the injury before he once more lifted her into his arms. The heat of his body further relaxed her; weary, she rested her head against him, and laid in his arms, quieting her mind as her body welcomed his warm proximity.

A level of fatigue that Logan had never known before, came like the day's fast approaching storm. Her eyelids drooped shut as John carried her towards her bedroom. Despite the fact her father was home and downstairs having―what sounded to be―a jovial time, sleep was the only thing Logan wanted for the time being.

Sleep and John Wick.

Having the foresight to prepare her room while she was in the shower, John wordlessly put Logan gently into her bed, elevating her bad leg with pillows before he drew the covers over her. To be cleaned and bandaged was one thing; to be off her feet and gently tucked into bed by him was entirely different matter.

Gratitude warmed her cheeks as she snuggled comfortably under the weighted blankets. A part of her wanted to take his hands and pull him beneath the sheets, to share her bed and the warmth of his body. For everything he'd done for her, it was the least she could do. Albeit, the more insecure part of Logan reminded her; John was not hers to be had.

"Thank you." she quietly murmured, her eyelids were simply too heavy to keep open. Unable to draw back the heavy curtain of sleep descending upon her, she slipped away into a dreamless slumber.

Pulling up a chair to her bedside, John sat quietly, watching her body relax. He waited until Logan's breathing slowed to a deep, steady rhythm when she fully succumbed to her exhaustion. He knew he must leave and head downstairs, but his feet were rooted to the floor. Reaching over, he brushed a tendril of hair from Logan's cheek.

Outside, dark clouds hung low, obscuring the moonlight and muting the stars' brilliance. A flicker of lightning illuminated the distant hills. As he sat in the dark, John contemplated Winston's ominous warning.

"Have you thought this through . . . ? You dip so much as a pinky back in this pond, you may well find something reaches out―and drags you back into its depths . . ."

In time, John knew better than Caldron, that they would find him―and they had.

Everything's got a price…

He got up from his chair and eased himself down onto the edge of Logan's bed.

Tending to her was as simple as sutures and gauze. Life was never that easy. It was unforgiving, especially to Helen. If only what was required to mend Logan would be the remedy for his wife's illness, John would be ecstatic; Helen would still be with him today.

And he wouldn't be here now...

Half of Logan's face was turned toward him, burrowed into the soft pillow; one arm tucked beneath it, the other carelessly draped across the dark gray, down comforter, palm down, fingers slack, as if unconsciously reaching for him.

John wished it was Helen he was touching; he remembered when they met with her team of physicians; how with somber voices, and clinical detachment upon their care worn faces, they delivered the devastating news,

"...prognosis is irreversible . . . terminal,"

They held each other tightly as they braced for the inevitable end; in the small conference room, surrounded by medical grade disinfectants permeating the air, masking the odors of illness and death, the awful spectre of Helen's illness loomed over them. Their once-bright future was forever dimmed and cast in shadows.

At that moment, John was determined to pack as much life and love into the remaining time together, while Helen could still live . . . When they were strolling the boardwalk together one night, Helen collapsed into his arms. The last stage of her illness had arrived. Later, the doctors medically induced her, slipping her into a quiet, painless coma. For weeks, John did not hear her laugh or watch her lips curl into a smile. There was nothing more to be done, but keep his heartbreaking vigil at her bedside, the silence broken when the intercom system announced orders and paged doctors and nurses to patients' rooms, the hushed conversations of the staff.

They could not talk about their lives, recall fond memories, or appreciate all that Helen had brought into his dark world.

He was alone, so very alone.

John was unaware of time's passing, as he listened to Helen's often labored breathing―now accompanied by the soft whirring and beeping of machines artificially extending her life, doing what her heart, lungs and kidneys could no longer do on their own.

John wondered if this made her suffer. If, beneath her peaceful exterior, she was begging to die, to be freed. The thought would seize him with a fearful sense of loss and then immediate regret. There was no part of John that wished to lose her, yearned to remain hopeful and optimistic.

But the inevitable moment arrived, when John had to make that terrible decision. The doctors provided him the answers he desperately wanted to hear:

"...irreversible...terminal…"

John never imagined he would watch his wife, his very heart, perish before his eyes. She deserved a quiet, peaceful passing.

He turned his eyes back to the sleeping figure.

Logan was not tethered to a machine. Her breathing was natural and strong―not meticulously calculated, entered onto a keypad, and monitored by medical staff; death did not hover over her, edging closer with every rise and fall of her chest. Machines did not measure and drip-feed man-made nutrients into her depleted body, in order to prolong the inevitable, the irreversible, the terminal.

To 'retire' and marry the woman who loved him, John literally killed to build a life with Helen. In order to live his dream and protect her, to spare her the ugly truth of his dangerous past and lethal profession, John carefully kept it hidden by burying it. As if the shadowy underground and its lucre could be easily concealed beneath a slab of concrete. Keeping it, John knew his calm future with Helen could never be completely severed from his insidious past.

It was a life that was better than he deserved.

John determinedly pushed his grim thoughts away, before an all-consuming guilt could take hold and settle within him.

He thought of nothing, felt nothing; he couldn't allow himself to, as he slipped the wedding ring from his finger and quietly placed it on the nightstand next to Logan's bed. The blue light from her digital clock bathed the tungsten ring in its lurid glow, as it rested upon the dark wood. John brought his gaze back to the sleeping woman.

In the darkness, against the pillow, Logan's hair flowed like black flame, much darker and longer than Helen's shoulder length tresses. Her eyes, so unlike the steady, warm, chestnut brown Helen possessed, alternated from pale and alluring, to the color of a brewing storm; Helen's nose was not dusted with freckles, like Logan's. Tall, refined and educated, Helen was closer to John's age, and they enjoyed many common interests; petite and athletic, the top of her dark head just barely reached beneath his chin; Logan was as wild as the Texas land, fiercely independent and . . . much younger than he. Though vastly different from one another, the two women shared one thing in common―they would both die knowing John.

Downstairs, Caldron and his cohort howled with laughter. Logan twitched but did not wake.

John thought nothing, felt nothing, but one thing.

Helen…

In a moment, though infinitesimal, it felt the equivalent of another lifetime: John granted himself a moment to feel. Helen's soft voice, her gentle words, spoken with great affection, was an echo of distant memories conveying the warmth of her love and friendship that grounded him, reminding him of his humanity.

". . .what are you doing, John?"

Her images―their images of a life shared, was utterly consumed in the fire devouring their once beautiful and happy home. It was becoming increasingly difficult for him to see Helen's likeness in his mind's eye, as clearly as he had before. Unfortunately, and with great sadness, he could feel her image softly blur, fading from him; yet the feeling of comforting assurance remained.

Before his phone was destroyed, and the last images of Helen with it, he frequently took solace in that precious moment, how she often looked at him, her eyes tender and adoring; that too, was taken from him.

Pain, his old friend, sank its sharp, serrated teeth into his heart, chewing until it took firm hold. It traced his spine like cold fingers, wrapping around his neck and whispering death's litany against his ear: the end was near.

From the swamp and mire of the underground, Death would come calling; not only for John Wick, but for all who dared to intervene―for whoever possesses the certain audacity to place themselves between the unrelenting gathering of Assassins, and the Baba Yaga .

Caldron, Logan, Kennedy…

Everything's got a price . . .

As Logan slumbered on, John pondered her motives.

Was it still her father? Not anymore.

During the early days after his . . . arrival, John patiently endured the young woman's contempt and open resentment at his interrupting her solitary, ordered life. Logan avoided him most of the time, and he rarely saw her, respecting her unspoken request for solitude. A virtual prisoner of circumstances, John could not leave the house, not even to explore the surrounding property, lest he be discovered. Restless, frustrated and filled with impotent rage at his impossible situation, there were many occasions, when―rather than deal a moment longer with Logan's churlish attitude and outrageously rude behavior, he was sorely tempted to take his Dog, and leave. But that was not an option. Not when his Dog depended up him, the way Daisy depended upon him. John would not allow his Dog to suffer and perish as Daisy had. John had no choice but to stay, and contemplate how to survive . . . if that were even possible.

Fortis fortuna adiuvat

Were his actions bold enough that fortune would still favor him? As John considered his very limited options, something changed between he and Logan; thrown together by necessity of his pressing circumstances, and living in close quarters, in time, they fell into a pattern of a semi-peaceful coexistence, except for her markedly dwindling and occasional snide comment or caustic remark. With nothing to fill his days, save rest, heal, train and play with his dog, he contributed to their keep, preparing meals for Logan, and by keeping the house spotless; John minimized his presence and footprint upon her life. He was well aware when she became less prickly, less contentious, and when she began to seek him out.

Instead of leaving the meals he prepared for her untouched, eating alone in her room, or waiting until after he'd eaten and left the kitchen, Logan emerged from her hiding places, or remained in the same room as he and his Dog. A keen observer of human behavior and well versed in all matters of the flesh, possessing intimate knowledge of human anatomy, John had already shown Logan his use of major pressure points, and how he can easily inflict great pain. His arsenal of devastating weapons, combined with lethal physical abilities and terrible knowledge of effective torture methods, are an integral part of him; however, it was set aside, for love of Helen . . . and Daisy; their loss created within him, an abyss, the vast chasm of which threatened to pull him into its bottomless, infernal chaos. However, Logan's fateful choice caused him to . . . perhaps reconsider, if only for a moment.

What she remained innocent of, is his ability to give much . . . pleasure. John was neither ignorant, or unaware, when Logan's feelings for him evolved from disdain, to guarded interest, and now, something else entirely; today, she revealed more―much more than when they kissed, much more than even she realized. When she looked at John, he could see her heart in her eyes.

When the time came for Logan to choose―to fight or take flight, without hesitation, she chose John. Logan had no reason to fight for him. They wanted him, not her. They could have had him, or tried to, at least. Logan would gain nothing; she had no vested interest in his welfare, much less his life. In truth, John's presence was threatening; the danger unavoidable. Anyone who involved themselves was forfeiting their lives, the odds of surviving this . . . situation, was slim to none. The stakes were unimaginably high . . . winner takes fourteen million dollars, losers pay in spades.

Did she know that? How much did she know?

Was she aware how every moment brought her a little closer, a little quicker to death? Would she still fight for him knowing this?

Regardless, given Logan's fateful decision, John could no longer allow it to go unacknowledged. If they were to survive, trust must be established . . . it should have been established from the very beginning. Instead, they avoided each other like the plague.

John knew time was of the essence, and trust was vital. He also knew sending Logan away was not an option; this was her home, and she made it very clear she wouldn't leave. John would secure her trust, and prepare her for what is to come; he must teach her all he can, and perhaps, in time, give her his trust.

Maybe . . .

John reached for her a second time, intent on picking up an inky tendril, but stopped himself, eyes locking onto his naked ring finger. John curled his hand into a tight fist.

Forcing himself, he turned away and headed downstairs.

Si vis pacern, para bellum

two hefty chapters in JUAN DAY! can you believe?!

Tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, here in the states at least. I'm ignorant elsewhere. So Happy Early St. Patrick's day!