Oh fallen angel of the night
Just take my heart, just rip it out..
This holy skin...
Is for you now
*chapter contains sexuality*
Nightfall came quickly―too quickly.
Logan dreaded what was soon to come. With dismay, she watched how eagerly the sun fell beneath the horizon and how quickly the bright moon awaited her in a clear, starry sky. She tried to sleep, but no avail.
Naturally her last night, unlike John's, would not be heralded in by a storm. There were no ominous clouds blanketing the sky, nor the prattling of rain pelting the roof and running rivulets across the thick windows.
It was time to go.
An old, nondescript '93 Ford F-150 would be her transportation. Reliable, low profile, and painted an ugly maroon, it possessed a sizable, aluminum tool box that could be locked; the perfect, secure place to stash her arsenal.
With her remaining duffel bags in hand, Logan stealthily padded downstairs toward the safe room. Her father still didn't know, but that was only a matter of time.
Despite her silent footsteps, the wooden floors creaked and groaned beneath her weight, and the keypad screeched as she punched in the code. The tumblers disengaged. Gripping the knob firmly, she turned it, and the solid deadbolts slid back into their housings with a hollow report that resonated throughout the quiet home.
Flinching, Logan glanced up the stairway. Surely that had awakened John, at the very least, his damn dog.
Holding her breath, she strained her ears, listening intently for a bed groaning, a door unlatching, or footsteps, a canine whine - anything...
But only silence greeted her.
Relieved, she pushed the heavy vault door wide enough to slip through with her duffel bags in tow.
Logan meticulously ransacked the vault. Grabbing every weapon available would be unwise and impractical. A sturdy rifle, maybe even two, and at most, four handguns would suffice. She gathered every pistol and rifle with a threaded barrel, several suppressors, flash lights that could attach to railings, and enough ammunition to last her the first 48 hours of an apocalypse. In truth, she had no idea what she was getting into. Logan's immediate, short term goal was reaching New York; after that, she would improvise as the situation required. If John's plight began in the city, that's where it should end. The details should, she desperately hoped, fall into place. The mere thought of the bustling, densely-congested city had Logan second guessing her current ammo capacity.
Is there ever such thing as too much ammo? She wondered, grabbing two boxes of MREs. Logan was about to place them by the neatly stacked arsenal and return to grab more ammo cans, when something caught her eye.
Silhouetted against the ominous red lighting the vault possessed, was a figure; the Devil Himself.
Silently startled, Logan flinched while simultaneously dropping the boxes.
Even in the lurid red glow that encompassed their vision, Logan knew it was John. The man had the remarkable, unsettling ability to move about like a phantom.
"Why are you here?" she breathed quietly, certain he could hear her thundering heart.
John reached over and flipped on a workbench lamp. The harsh fluorescence battled against red illumination.
He held her wary gaze with an animal directness and said, "What are you doing, Logan."
It wasn't a question; John knew the answer.
"Reorganizing," she lied, feeling her anger flare in defense. John was not her boss and she did not answer to him; he did not pay for any bills or utilities, much less have the right to question any of Logan's actions.
He'd saved her, Logan tried reminding herself. There was a bitter regard towards San Antonio and his timely intervention, but her anger would not abate. It required a great amount of willpower not to lash out at him, as well. The dim lighting of the vault room made her feel concealed, as if the shadows obscured how ugly she felt and how peculiar she was behaving. In the shadows, you could be anyone you want.
Flexing her jaw, Logan waited in vain. Her furious disposition festered and spread, warming her chest and her face, drawing her hands into tightly clenched fists. This had nothing to do with John; ironically, it also had everything to do with him. This objective was for Logan, and Logan alone; John bridged everything―from the unrelenting attacks, to her mother's death―none of it would have happened had he not arrived. Since he entered her life, John had … done enough. Now her family was dying, arriving in pieces in a box. It should be John slipping away in the still of the night, with weapons in tow and thirsting for blood. Instead, it was Logan.
For a heavy moment, she hated him.
"You can't do this," he stated evenly, "You'll die."
There was too much certainty in his voice to feign indifference. However, revenge was reflexive. He, of all people, knew that.
"That's fine," she spat, before bending down to retrieve the dropped boxes. Moving around him, she laid them aside and then turned for the duffels filled with her choice or rifles, pistols, knives, and grenades.
And most importantly, thick stacks of untraceable cash to fund her suicide mission.
John caught her arm as she passed him. The grip was firm, too firm. It began to hurt; an unmistakable warning.
"Let," Logan seethed through gritted teeth, "Go."
He silently refused, and she yanked against his grip, but was still unable to free herself; it became a battle of wills. Logan's training kicked in―feet pivoting, body twisting and suddenly―she was free, grabbing up the two heavy bags and bolting towards the door. Logan barely reached the top of the stairs when John caught her. She dropped one bag to free a hand, to ward him off. Instead, she lost both of them as John seized her arms. He rushed forward, and they emerged from the stairs. John effortlessly maneuvered Logan's smaller frame, until her back met the wall; the sudden, jarring impact ignited an explosive reaction.
She swung a knee up, aiming for his groin, but met only air. Wrenching her wrists free, Logan threw fists and elbows in a dizzying flurry, only to have John effortlessly counter her blows with his own as he swatted hers aside. He blocked her punches, and eventually, spun her around. Logan's arms were caught a second time. Immobilized, her face pressed against the wall; she could feel the sweat from her brow and cheek between the surfaces.
"Logan, stop." John growled near her ear. He pressed up against her, anchoring her in place before he freed her hand and twisted the other upward until her knuckles brushed between her shoulder blades. Logan tried to push off with her other hand, but stopped as an intense spike of pain shot through her pinned arm. Panting heavily, her body was aflame from anger, resentment, bloodthirst, and now...something else.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Logan gritted her teeth and desperately struggled against John's tenacious hold, in an attempt to stave her treacherous body's reaction to his strength and prowess.
Why was this happening to her? Was something wrong? Was she broken?
She yelped, stifling the noise with a curse as quickly as she could. A different fire burned into her belly, and each passing second pressed against John stoked the flames. Logan spent years fine tuning her hand-to-hand combat skills and sharpening her gunslinging techniques, convinced doing so proved her worth to Cauldron, and would secure his love and approval. In reality, they were excuses―masking the fact Logan was crumbling from the inside, and yearning for something unnamed to fill the gnawing void.
Between anger and arousal, she couldn't decide which beast to feed.
Perched on her tiptoes to alleviate the pain in her shoulder, she rolled back onto her heels, pressing her backside into John.
She was broken.
She was sick. Even though instincts told her exactly what she wanted to hear; this is you.
John's dramatic entrance was merely a catalyst, blasting open the long sealed chamber of her deepest fears and darkest desires. Then there was the coalescing of it all and, like the tide, there was no stopping it. The changes within her were happening terrifyingly fast. Ever since he arrived, before Logan could prevent it, or mentally process it, she became someone she did not recognize, and she could no longer differentiate between love and hate, heaven or hell.
These people, her family, she cared for them and now they were dying. But unlike the tide, she had control of who the next victim would be and it would not be Caldron or John; this much she was certain.
Logan let them all get too close and now the Ryder death toll was on the rise. The only way to avoid further heartache and loss was to handle matters herself―to distract and redirect the menace upon them, if possible. If not, then she would meet the furious onslaught with extreme prejudice; if forfeiting her life was required to preserve her father's, then she would gladly do so … if she survived, then so be it.
John's deep voice warned again, "Logan, don't do this." It was too late to start over now. No one could run from this.
Without heeding to his warning, she palmed the cold surface of the wall with her free hand as she deliberately and provocatively moved against him. She hated herself for it. She hated John Wick, too.
She waited for him to pull away, to rebuke her for her actions, but he did not.
There was no time for second thoughts, if what she felt was right or wrong, love or hate. It didn't matter. Time was never on her side. She wanted him, and would have him, then it was time to leave. Whatever lie he wished to hear, whatever promises he wanted her to make, she'd make them. She would be who he wanted her to be.
John released her arm. His hands came down and gripped her hips, squeezing them as she rubbed her rump against his groin. It was consuming him, too. His body was responding to hers. He slid his hands beneath her shirt, running calloused palms along her back, around her rib cage, he held her tightly against him, slipping a hand beneath the fabric of her bra. She arched into his warm touch when he gently kneaded and cupped her breasts.
John flicked open the button of her shorts with his thumb and slid them down to her feet. He turned her around, and pulled her up by the waist, before pinning her against the wall. Like a melody, expected and natural, her legs wrapped around his hips as he freed himself from his shorts.
Pushing aside the crotch of her panties, he stroked her swollen nub as he centered himself, and entered her right there in the hallway. He drove into her gently, allowing her body to adjust to his girth as they kissed. Touched by his thoughtful consideration, it was unnecessary, for Logan's body was ready and her warm, wet folds eagerly received him. Logan wrapped her arms around John's solid shoulders while he held her up firmly by the rump. Their lips met in a heated kiss, lapping and nipping soft, tender flesh, sharing the same breath and passion that had always been there, in one fashion or another. Gasping between their lips, feeling breathless and lightheaded, she tipped her head back, inviting him explore with his mouth and tongue. He kissed her throat and tasted her pulse before resting his head between the crook of her neck and shoulder. The coarse sensation of his beard against her skin only added to the sensory overload. She was drowning in it. The rich scent of his carbon black hair engulfed her; jet black like his beard, his eyes, and his heart―a living shadow. Like in the belly of her house, Logan felt like she could be anyone when she was with John Wick.
She gripped his broad shoulders while he worked his hips against her. The well-defined trapezius and deltoids under her palms growing hot beneath his cotton shirt. His thrusts were no longer rhythmic and fell in and out of pattern, slowing down as he tried prolonging their heated moment.
Between each ragged breath, Logan tried breathing around the suffocating pleasure. Their scent filled her lungs, the sound of their passion flooded her ears like a symphony, heart pounding with the speed and ferocity of a war drum.
Finally, the surmounting climax swept through her and she cried out.
The air punched free from her lungs as John drove himself deeply, spilling inside her.
And for an even heavier moment, she loved him.
I hope everyone in Texas and southern parts of Louisiana are well after Hurricane/Tropical storm Harvey moved through. It's been a long weekend for me.
Thanks for reading!