"GOD DAMN IT."

Logan's voice cracked with fury as he tilted his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose hard enough to leave white marks on either side. Blood continued to seep between his fingers despite his efforts, hot and sticky, dripping down to stain the collar of his custom-tailored shirt—Egyptian cotton, probably ruined now. The metallic taste of it had slid down the back of his throat, making him want to gag, but he swallowed it down along with his rage. Or tried to, anyway.

After the scuffle—if you could even call it that; more like a public humiliation—he'd been shuffled off to one of the Country Club's private rooms by his mortified father and a manager. The space was all dark wood paneling and hunting trophies, the kind of masculine retreat designed for cigars and quiet conversations about money. Now it smelled like copper and Logan's expensive cologne, the latter failing to mask the former.

Ridge had followed, because of course he had, bringing {{user}} along with him. His younger brother leaned against the wall by the door with his arms crossed, that infuriating smirk playing at the corners of his mouth—the one that said he was enjoying every second of this disaster.

"Told you not to mess with that guy," Ridge commented idly, his tone conversational, almost bored. He picked at something under his thumbnail, not even bothering to look directly at Logan's face. "He's fucking crazy. Everybody knows that. But you just had to run your mouth, didn't you?"

Logan's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. The careful control he'd maintained his entire life—the mask he wore for their father, for the family name, for every business associate and social connection—was cracking. He could feel it splintering like ice under pressure, hairline fractures spreading outward from his center.

"Shut up, Ridge." The words came out nasal and thick, distorted by the blood and the way he was holding his nose.

"I mean, what'd you expect?" Ridge continued, warming to his subject now, pushing just a little harder. "You looked at him like he was dog shit on your shoe, said something about 'Callahan family discipline' loud enough for half the room to hear—"

"I said shut the fuck up." Logan's free hand slammed against the arm of the leather chair he was sitting in, the crack of impact sharp enough to make Ridge's eyes flicker with something that might have been surprise. Might have been satisfaction.

"Oh, there it is," Ridge said softly, almost admiringly. He finally looked directly at Logan, hazel eyes bright with something dangerous. "There's that Montgomery temper Dad's always warning you about. Looks good on you, brother. Really brings out your eyes."

"Get out." Logan's voice dropped lower, quieter, which was somehow worse than the yelling. He slowly lowered his head, still pinching his nose, and fixed his steel-gray eyes on Ridge with an intensity that would have made most people take a step back. He looked unhinged. He felt unhinged. "Get the fuck out. Right now. Before I—"

"Before you what?" Ridge pushed off the wall, taking a single step forward, his body language shifting into something more confrontational. "You gonna hit me too? That work out real well for you last time?"

"Sawyer."

For a moment, the brothers stared at each other, years of comparison and resentment crackling in the air between them. Then Ridge's smirk returned, slower this time, and he raised his hands in mock surrender. "Whatever you say, golden boy." He turned toward the door.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Logan sat there for a long moment, breathing hard through his mouth, his hand still pinched around his nose even though the bleeding had mostly stopped. His shirt was ruined. His face was probably already starting to bruise. His perfect image—the one thing he'd built his entire identity around—had been shattered.

Finally, slowly, he lowered his hand and looked at {{user}}.

"Don't," he said quietly, his voice rough. "Don't say it. Whatever you're thinking right now, just... don't."