Flash Marriage: In His Eyes-Chapter 254: Sudden Proposal

–Logan–

I finished my job in the vast kingdom of the sea, where one of our satellites was hidden beneath layers of salt and steel. The water had been freezing—biting through my suit, pressure humming in my skull, sonar pings vibrating through my bones. I fixed a few loose ends with the other agents through Lore’s guidance, tightening bolts, rerouting signals, and erasing traces.

Clean. Quiet. Professional.

By the time my boots hit land, the air felt too warm, too loud. My comm vibrated.

Notification received.

Jane was captured.

I froze.

Logically, I knew she’d stay alive. Jane was valuable. Useful. Not disposable.

Emotionally? My chest tightened like a wire being pulled too hard.

I shut my eyes and inhaled sharply. Salt. Fuel. Metal.

If Livana had just let me stay with her, this wouldn’t have happened. Jane wouldn’t have been exposed. She’d been taken by a government-backed gang in Italy.

"Fuck," I muttered under my breath.

"Man, I already prepared your transportation," Lore said through the comm, voice calm and annoyingly composed. "Damon’s with me. Sky too. The Shadows will help you."

"Damon?" I frowned.

"Hey, bro." Damon’s voice in the background.

Of course.

"Foodie!" Sky’s tiny voice chimed in, loud and cheerful. Definitely awake. Definitely thinking about food.

I snorted despite myself. I pulled a chocolate bar from my pouch, tore it open with my teeth, and took a bite as I walked toward the chopper. Bitter cocoa melted on my tongue—grounding, familiar. One of the pawns took my bag without a word.

"Thanks," I muttered.

"I have Shadows waiting for you," Damon said. "They’re wearing gold brooches."

A silent pawn handed me one as an example. The metal was warm from his palm, heavy, engraved with a sigil only our people would recognize.

"They’ll take you to our office. They’re already tracking where Jane was brought," Damon continued, his voice hardening. "No matter what—save Jane."

"Fuck yeah," I replied, sliding the brooch into the pocket of my diving suit.

The chopper blades roared overhead, wind whipping against my face as we lifted. An hour later, the jet awaited—sleek, black, lethal. I showered quickly onboard, hot water pounding against sore muscles, washing away salt and blood that wasn’t mine. I secured the brooch again, checked my weapons by instinct.

The captain prepped for takeoff.

Then I stopped.

Caine stepped into the jet.

"You’re supposed to be with your fiancée," I frowned. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Yes," he said dryly, slouching into a seat. "And you’re worrying me."

The attendant sealed the door. The click echoed louder than it should have. I sat across from him and buckled in.

"I don’t need your concern," I scoffed. "Go back to my sister."

"She’s at the Blackwell mansion," Caine said calmly. "Auntie’s with her. Sky adores her."

I exhaled slowly. "Whatever, bro."

The jet hummed beneath us, engines spooling up. The vibration traveled through the floor, into my boots, into my bones.

I needed this operation clean. Fast. Surgical.

Every second mattered.

"Fuck," I muttered again.

The jet surged forward.

Good.

I stared ahead, jaw tight, fingers tapping once against my thigh—the only tell I allowed myself.

Italy was waiting.

Jane better be unscathed.

Because if she wasn’t—

I’d burn their entire world to hell and salt whatever remained.

–Jane–

My instincts told me to stay unconscious.

The drug flooding my veins was heavy, crude—but predictable. I surfaced earlier than they expected and kept my eyes closed, counting breaths, cataloging sounds. If they discovered my identity now, this would end badly. The face I wore was layered, engineered—skin, bone structure, even pores altered. My hair wasn’t mine either. Different texture. Different weight.

Still, pain cut through everything.

My right rib—no, left. Sharp, stabbing. Broken.

Fuck. How long did they work me over?

My devices were gone. Of course they were. I slowed my breathing, matched the rhythm of sleep. Panic wastes oxygen. I needed clarity.

My wrists and ankles were bound behind me. Rope, synthetic fiber. The floor beneath my cheek was rough, gritty, stinking of dust and gunpowder—an old storage site, recently used. At least five men nearby. I listened.

Italian. Crisp.

Two with Tuscan accents. One Roman. One Sicilian. The last stayed quiet—always the dangerous one.

Accents are fingerprints. Family lines are easy to trace once you know where to dig.

Footsteps approached. Rough hands yanked me upright. I let my eyes flutter open.

"There, there. She’s awake."

English. Italian-flavored. Lazy confidence.

I stared at them, unimpressed.

"Oh, such a fine face."

They untied the rope binding my limbs together, shoved me onto a chair, and secured me again—arms tight, torso strapped. I lifted my head, blinking slowly, scanning faces. Counting exits. If my ring was still on me, I could signal my location—but escape came first. Devices. Cameras. Anything.

The door opened.

I knew him instantly.

The agent I’d paralyzed with a needle. Alive. Angry. Here for his lover’s revenge.

"So," he said in French, voice smooth, almost amused, "this is your real face?"

Sharp man. He must’ve tracked me backward—patterns, gaps, instinct. I looked up at him and smirked.

He reached out, brushed his fingers along my cheek. It felt real. Too real. Livana’s technology never failed.

I answered in French.

"How long was I out?"

He tilted his head, smiling.

"Twenty hours, my dear."

He grabbed my hair and wrenched my head back.

Still real. Extensions woven perfectly. Spray-dyed. Pain authentic.

"I’ve already contacted Interpol," he continued. "Who are you working with? The Devil’s Syndicate—or the White Queen’s?"

My lips curved. If only he knew.

"Why do you want to know?" I asked softly.

The slap came hard. My head snapped to the side. I bit my cheek, tasted blood. Spat it onto the floor and glared up at him.

The second slap evened it out.

I laughed. Slow. Deliberate.

I imagined Damon and Livana together—efficient, merciless—tearing this man and his pets apart. The thought warmed me.

Then Logan crossed my mind. Would he do the same?

I shoved that thought away. The bastard who almost impregnated me didn’t deserve space in my head. When this was over, I’d disappear. Vanish. Rest.

They laid out the torture tools.

I stared at them, expression empty.

Then—

A vibration. Deep. Underground.

I shut my eyes just as the explosion tore upward. The floor buckled. I hit the ground hard, dust choking the air, gunfire cracking like thunder.

"Don’t kill them."

That voice.

"I’ll play with them later."

Through the haze, I saw Logan emerge—dressed in black, cinematic, dramatic as hell. I almost rolled my eyes.

He lifted me, and I hissed. Fuck—my ribs.

"Where are you hurt?" he asked, already cutting my restraints. His hand brushed my face. "Who did this to you?"

"Get me out," I said coldly. "My right rib is broken."

"Fuck."

He turned.

The man who’d interrogated me was coughing on the floor. Logan kicked his ribs—once, twice—like he was punting a ball. Then he planted his foot and ground it in. His punches came next. Brutal. Methodical. His eyes were ice.

"Stop," I said.

He did.

They transferred me onto a stretcher. Logan held my hand as we moved—barking orders, controlling everything. I tried to pull away. He didn’t let go until they wheeled me into Damon’s underground hospital.

Doctors were already waiting.

Safe.

Morphine blurred the edges. I turned my head and caught a glimpse of Caine behind the white curtains, waving casually.

When I woke again, tubes ran into my arm. A catheter burned uncomfortably. Unnecessary, but protocol. Caine leaned over and patted my hair.

"Hey. We had them clean up your face. Logan even wiped you all—"

"Why is he here?" I muttered.

"Damon and Livana sent him."

"He didn’t need to."

Caine grinned. "He likes you."

Then, "What do you want to eat?"

"A lot," I said. "I want to eat a lot."

"Got it!"

He clapped. The door opened. A dining cart rolled in.

I stared.

Logan.

In an apron.

"Are you trying to kill me early?" I said flatly. "That man doesn’t cook."

Caine laughed. "He didn’t cook it."

"Stop being picky," Logan said. "I don’t plan to kill you."

Caine was still laughing as he left. Even breathing hurts now. Logan fed me slowly, carefully, refusing to let me lift my hands. I didn’t fight it. I didn’t understand him.

I remembered how he’d reduced a man to pulp earlier—and then nothing.

After the meal, he cleaned up. Took his time. Came back.

"Call the nurse."

"Why?" he asked, leaning down to kiss my temple.

"I need something removed."

Without hesitation, he called her.

Later, free from the catheter, I brushed my teeth, wiped my face. Logan stepped in behind me, hands careful at my waist.

"There’s trouble at the California branch," he said. "Auntie and the newlyweds are focused on Hawaii. Let’s stay there for a few weeks. You heal. I’ll handle everything."

I rinsed my mouth.

"Are you proposing?" I asked.

I couldn’t bend. He wiped my lips gently.

"I want you," he said quietly. "I want to be with you. Always."

And all I could think was—

Why would someone love me when I can’t give it back?