Logan's POV
The silence in Noah's car is suffocating.
It smells like vanilla and the sharp, clean sting of antiseptic—probably from Oliver's endless supply of toy sanitizing wipes. It's clean and cold and there's a booster seat in the back and a wolf charm hanging off the rearview mirror. It's so Noah that for a second, I forget the throbbing in my shoulder, the crusted blood under my nails, the way my shirt sticks to my skin with sweat and street grime.
It's so quiet that all I can do is stare out the window like it might give me answers, like the blur of trees and streetlights will tell me what the hell I should do next. But all I get is my reflection in the glass.
Alfred was right. I look like shit.
Busted lip, scratch marks on my jawline from where Elliot's claws raked down my neck, bruises ring my throat where Elliot choked me, my cheekbone sports a nasty scrape, and my hair is matted with dirt and dried blood.
