Switched Bride, True Luna - Chapter 41: Chapter 41

Emily
“This place does luxury picnics. Private chefs. Press exclusives if we want them,” Logan said, sliding the portfolio across the counter.
It featured a glossy estate overlooking a lake, all manicured gardens and glass pavilions. It looked exactly like something his circle would devour—visibly expensive and painfully impersonal.
I didn’t even pretend to look at it.
“You want to stage another performance,” I said flatly.
He arched a brow. “You think everything I do is staged?”
I glanced at the proposal again. “When there’s a photographer assigned before the location is picked, yes.”
Logan exhaled slowly through his nose. “Fine. Then pick something else.”
My fingers paused over the edge of the folder. I expected him to argue. To insist. But his tone wasn’t irritated. It was… curious.
“You want me to choose?”
“I want it to feel real,” he said, then added, after a beat, “Or at least not feel hollow.”
So I picked a place.
And three hours later, we were pulling through the crumbling gates of an abandoned park at the edge of Blackwood territory.
It didn’t look like much—just overgrown grass, rusting fencing, a swing frame swallowed by vines. The kind of place people passed without seeing.
But it had been mine, once. My mother’s favorite place. The only corner of Blackwood that ever felt like it belonged to both of us.
“It’s not glamorous,” I said as I stepped out of the car.
Logan followed, glancing over the surroundings. “You’re right. It’s not.”
I expected judgment. But despite his words, he seemed open to whatever I wanted to share with him.
We walked through the tall grass together. I pointed out what had once been a fountain, a stone arch now buried in ivy, benches warped by weather. “She used to bring me here,” I said. “Before my father started hiding her.”
“She—your mother?” Logan asked.
I nodded. “She wanted this park restored. Said joy and play shouldn’t be a luxury.”
Logan’s jaw shifted like he wanted to say something but didn’t. I didn’t press. I just kept moving.
“I want to bring it back. Not just for her, but for the kids. The ones who don’t get taken in by Packs. The ones who feel forgotten.”
“You’re not asking for my help?” he said after a while.
“No.” I paused. “But you can be part of it. If you want.”
We reached a curved trail near the old playground. My boot snagged on a root, and I stumbled forward—but Logan’s hand shot out, steadying me by the arm.
The contact jolted something in me.
His grip was firm, fingers curled just tight enough to ground me. He held my gaze for a breath too long. The tension between us wasn’t new, but here, away from the estate, it felt different. Less performative. More dangerous.
He let go first.
“Thanks,” I said quietly.
Instead of replying, he stepped ahead, pushing aside a tangle of low-hanging branches. When he held them for me to pass, I brushed his hand accidentally.
And let it linger for a moment before stepping through the path he opened for me.
From the corner of my eye, I spotted the press team lingering near the tree line. They weren’t intruding—just catching their angles, just close enough. They’d get what they came for: Logan stepping ahead, clearing the way, me laughing at something just after.
But for once, it didn’t feel like a scene. It felt like something real.
By the time we circled back to the car, the sun had dipped low. Logan offered me his jacket without a word, draping it over my shoulders like this were a date. Like it were nothing.
But it didn’t feel like nothing. And I don’t think it did to him, either.
When we got back home, the walk back through the halls was quiet. Not awkward—but not easy either.
Logan walked slightly behind me, his stride relaxed, hands in his pockets, as if he wasn’t aware of how close he was or how the heat from his jacket still lingered on my shoulders.
He hadn’t asked for it back. And I hadn’t offered.
I wasn’t sure either of us knew what we were doing anymore.
The estate staff we passed didn’t say much—just bowed heads or polite greetings, stepping back with the kind of practiced deference that always made me uncomfortable.
I wasn’t one of them, and I wasn’t Logan’s either. Not really. Not like they all seemed to think.
By the time we reached the corridor that split toward our respective rooms, I could feel the pull in my chest like a clock ticking down.
We slowed together, footsteps quiet against the floor, until we both stopped just outside the door to my room.
“I meant what I said earlier,” Logan said, his voice as soft as the lighting. His voice broke the hush—not loud, but steady. Low.
I turned slightly toward him. “About what?”
“That you could’ve picked anything today. And you picked something… real.”
I didn’t answer right away. My fingers toyed with the edge of the jacket still draped around my shoulders.
“It wasn’t a performance,” I said softly. “I wanted you to see something that means a lot to me. I didn’t think you’d want to come. It’s no luxury picnic.”
“I came,” he said. “And I listened.”
That part was true. He hadn’t interrupted. Hadn’t redirected the narrative. Just… stood beside me. Moved branches out of the way. Offered me warmth without saying a word.
I looked up at him, and for once, he wasn’t wearing that blank expression he so often reserved for press briefings and internal strategy sessions. He just looked tired. And thoughtful.
And maybe… hesitant.
He stepped closer, the space between us narrowing like the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
“I should let you rest,” he said.
My heart sank a fraction. Not because I wanted more—but because I wasn’t sure what more would even mean.
“I’m fine,” I said instead, the words quiet and neutral.
He reached up slowly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingertips didn’t linger, but the touch left a trail of heat across my cheek.
And then, with a gentleness that caught me off guard, he leaned in and pressed his lips to my cheek.
It was... sweet. Measured. Like he was testing the weight of something fragile.
His breath warmed my skin for a split second longer than the kiss lasted. And then he pulled away.
I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t trust myself to say anyting.
“Goodnight, Emily,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded once, afraid my voice would crack if I opened my mouth.
He turned and walked away, his footsteps receding down the hall.
I stood there until the sound disappeared completely, my hand lifting on instinct to brush the spot where his lips had touched.
I wasn’t shaking. But I wanted to be. I remembered the feel of those lips on other parts of me.
I slipped into my room and closed the door behind me with more force than necessary. I shrugged off Logan’s jacket slowly and folded it over the back of a chair, the scent of sandalwood and sage – Logan’s scent – still clinging to the fabric.
And then I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor like it might offer clarity.
He’d kissed me.
Not like a man claiming something. Not like a politician solidifying an alliance. But like a man who wanted to and promised he would when it was right.
And somehow, that was worse. Because I wanted more.
And I knew—deep down, bitter and sharp—that I probably wasn’t allowed to ask for it. Not yet.
Maybe not ever.