Lynn's POV
"Wait."
My hand comes up to his chest. I press firmly.
He stops. Immediately. Pulls back, lifts his head. I turn to face him.
His eyes are wrecked. Blue swallowed almost entirely by something molten, pupils blown, chest still heaving. He's looking at me the way someone looks when they've been stopped at the edge of something they've wanted for a very long time, and the stopping hurts more than they expected.
He doesn't hide it. That's the thing about Logan — when something lands on him, it sits right on the surface, visible, whether he wants it there or not. And right now what I see is disappointment, real and unguarded, and underneath it something that looks very close to pain.
My chest tightens.
"I know what that means," I say. "The marking. What it means to your kind."
