Chapter 11
Boone
I don’t sleep much. I haven’t had a full eight hours’ sleep in years, not since I was a kid.
Too many years of learning that quiet doesn’t mean safe.
That stillness doesn’t mean nothing’s coming.
So, most nights I lie there, staring at the ceiling, listening.
Always on alert, always at war, even when I’m not.
The clubhouse breathes at night. There are the familiar sounds of wood settling, pipes groaning, and the chorus of chirping cicadas outside.
Someone shifts in their sleep down the hall, the bed creaking.
Normal sounds, except tonight something’s off.
There is a subtle shift in the air that has me on high alert.
Perhaps it’s because I know Sloane has been hiding something ever since she went back to work yesterday.
She missed putting Jessy to bed, unheard of since she’s been here, which can only mean one thing, she uncovered something important, something she doesn’t want to share with us.
When she turned Rook away from her bed earlier, I knew something was definitely up.
He drank himself into oblivion, so I know he’s out for the count now.
His snores drifting across the corridor confirm it.
I hear Sloane’s door open, softly, carefully.
It’s not the sound of someone getting up for water or restless pacing.
It’s deliberate, trying not to make any noise.
She’s sneaking out. I sit up without thinking, already moving before my brain catches up.
I don’t turn on a light. Don’t make a sound, I just step into the hallway in time to see her slipping down the stairs, fully dressed, hair tied back, moving like she doesn’t want anyone to notice, which means she definitely doesn’t want anyone to follow.
So, that’s exactly what I’m gonna do. I wait five seconds, just long enough to throw on some clothes and give her a head start, then I follow.
The night air is cooler outside, and the compound is quiet, bikes lined in shadows, security lights casting long stretches of pale yellow across the ground.
She’s already at the gate. She’s moving quickly, her steps purposeful. Any lingering doubt that this might simply be a midnight stroll to get a breath of fresh air is gone. She’s not wandering or unsure. She knows exactly where she’s going. That’s what worries me.
I keep my distance as she heads down the road, staying in the dark where I can, boots silent on the sidewalk.
She quickly covers the four blocks. I know where she’s headed before she even stops.
Harlan Briggs’ office. I’ve been past this building a hundred times.
Brick front, glass doors, the kind of office building that appears on dozens of streets.
It’s clean, respectable, the kind of place that looks like it belongs to someone legitimate.
It doesn’t.
She walks straight up to the entrance, not hesitating when she sees the security guard inside.
She’s prepared for this. The guard is an older guy.
He’s working the night shift, which means he’s probably underpaid and bored, unlikely to ask too many questions, but then again, the fact that he isn’t sleeping on the job suggests he takes it seriously.
Sloane pauses for half a second, perhaps rehearsing her lines one last time, then steps inside. I can’t hear what she says, but I see the guard react. There’s only a brief moment of hesitation before he lets her in.
My jaw tightens. Everything about that is wrong. It’s too easy. It screams trap.
I move quickly, circling the building instead of going through the front.
There’s a side entrance I’ve seen before.
It’s no doubt locked, but locks aren’t infallible.
The main problem is that there’s a camera pointed right at it.
Avoiding the camera, I find a service door where the camera slowly sweeps, creating a blind spot for a few seconds.
I check it, and that too is locked. I glance back toward the street.
There’s no movement, no witnesses. I dart back out of the line of sight as the camera sweeps back around.
Once it’s turned away from me again, I shoulder the door once, twice, and on the third hit, the latch gives just enough for me to force it open with a quiet crack.
I make it inside just before the camera captures me and let out a sigh of relief as I enter the dark corridor. I move quickly but controlled, as I follow the sound of voices.
I slow as I get closer, staying tight to the wall, listening.
“…should’ve stayed out of it—”
“…boss wants the files—”
My hunch that Sloane has uncovered something is right.
I round the corner just enough to see the three men.
One is already down, sprawled near a desk, a fire extinguisher on the floor beside him.
Of course, Sloane isn’t going down without a fight.
Pride swells in my chest that she took one of the bastards on and won.
But there are still two against one; it isn’t a fight she can win.
She’s backed up against the wall now, breathing steady, eyes sharp, cornered like a rabbit in a snare.
The second man stands between her and the exit.
The third is holding a knife, the blade glinting in the fluorescent overhead lights.
He steps closer, his body language leering and excited, the kind of sick fuck that gets off on this.
I’ve known plenty of guys like this. When shit hits the fan, they claim they were just following orders, but they take pleasure in torturing others, in abusing power. “End of the road, sweetheart.”
Even now, Sloane remains strong, refusing to let them see her fear.
I admire her strength, her bravery, but even the best soldiers need their unit to defeat the enemy.
I move before the men can react, stealthily moving through the shadows of the corridor, becoming one with the darkness. Silent until the last second.
I strike like a viper, lashing out before they even notice I’m there and grab the nearest one—closest to the door—arm around his throat, pull him back hard, cutting off air before he can shout, and he drops like a sack of cement. I don’t try to soften his fall.
The one with the knife turns, almost in slow motion, confusion making him lethargic, giving me the upper hand.
With my size, people don’t expect me to be fast. I use that to my advantage, letting him think he has time before I close the distance in a flash.
I drive all three hundred pounds of my bulk into him, knocking the wind from his lungs and throwing him off balance.
But he recovers faster than I expected. He’s considerably shorter than me, ducking under my fist as I swing for him. The blade flashes, and hot pain immediately rips across my ribs. I don’t stop. I can’t.
I catch his wrist and twist hard until I feel it break like a twig with a satisfying crack.
He howls, dropping the knife and sending it skittering across the floor.
I kick out behind his knees and drive him down into the floor.
One sharp blow to the back of his head and his eyes roll back, showing only whites before he crumples to the floor and goes still.
The room falls quiet except for the labored sounds of mine and Sloane’s breath, mine from exertion and hers from shock, coming in short, sharp gusts.
I straighten slowly, one hand pressed to my side, a bloom of blood wells on my shirt, spreading slowly.
I shouldn’t have worn gray, I think absentmindedly, the stain will never come out.
I lift my shirt, wincing as the fabric that has stuck to the wound peels away painfully.
A quick glance confirms what I already knew—it’s not deep. Hurts like hell, though.
“Are you okay?” I ask Sloane, more concerned about her than me right now.
“I’m fine,” she says, then her eyes go to my shirt. “But you’re not.”
I shrug, even though the movement causes me to wince in pain. “Been worse.”
She steps closer, eyes scanning the cut, jaw tightening slightly. “We need to go.”
She’d make a damn good military commander. “Yeah.”
I offer no argument. It’s obvious that this was a trap, which means that more will no doubt come soon if they don’t hear from their goons.
How did they even know she was coming? I need to ask her once we’re out.
We move quickly and quietly, slipping out the way I came in, not caring if the cameras see us now.
The wail of a siren rings out, piercing the still night air.
I suspect that the guard won’t come after us himself, but I brace myself to duck and cover should shots follow.
I breathe a sigh of relief when none come.
If we’re quick, we’ll be back in the safety of the clubhouse before reinforcements arrive.
The darkness embraces us like an old friend, shielding us and allowing us to move through the streets unseen. The walk back is quiet and contemplative, both of us poised to run or fight at any moment, should Briggs’ men catch up to us before we reach our home territory, safety.
Sloane stays close, one hand hovering near my arm like she’s ready to steady me if I falter. I don’t. But I notice the concerned glances she steals my way when she thinks I’m not looking.
Back at the clubhouse, she doesn’t ask permission, she doesn’t hesitate, she pushes me into a chair in the main room and disappears, returning seconds later with a first aid kit. “Take your shirt off.”
If I were Cruz, I’d tell a flirtatious joke to ease the tension. But I’m not, so I silently do as she commands. I know by now there’s no point arguing with Sloane. Besides, my wound needs to be taken care of, and it will hurt like a bitch trying to do it myself.
She works quickly and efficiently, her hands steady as she cleans the cut, the sting sharp enough to pull a low breath from my chest. “You need stitches,” she says.
“I’ll live.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “You should go to the hospital.” Her words lack conviction; we both know I can’t do that, not without raising too many questions and landing us in a whole heap of trouble.
I won’t patronize her by pointing that out. “It’s just a nick. There’s superglue in the garage,” I offer.
She grimaces at the thought but goes to fetch it anyway. Silence settles between us as she cleans up the wound. The bleeding has slowed down, but I squeeze some glue along the seam. We do have a medic we can call on, but for something like this I’m not gonna wake him up.
I watch the way her brows pull together slightly as she tapes the wound up.
“How long have you been following me?” she asks without looking up.
I could lie and tell her this was the first time.
She would have no way of knowing otherwise.
“Since the second day,” I admit. Before this, the only thing she’s left the compound for was her runs, which were far less eventful but too risky for me to want to let her go alone.
“Only when you leave the clubhouse. And I’m not following you, more making sure no one else follows… ”
She pauses, taking in my confession, considering the implications. She doesn’t hesitate for long, just for a second. “Good,” she says quietly. “Thank you,” she adds.
That was not what I expected. Just when I think I have Sloane figured out, she surprises me. I’ve never heard her thank anyone.
I shrug slightly. “Part of the job.”
“No,” she says. “That wasn’t the job.”
No, it wasn’t. I don’t answer, there’s no need to.
She finishes wrapping the bandage, smoothing it into place with careful pressure. “You took down those two men like you were swatting flies,” she says. “How?”
I hesitate; my past isn’t something I like to discuss. “I was a Marine.”
She stills, studying me with fresh eyes. Has the gentle giant she saw me as been replaced by a killing machine? “For how long?”
“A while. It was a long time ago, I’m not that person anymore.”
She leans back slightly, studying me now. “You don’t move like someone who retired.”
“The training and years of combat aren’t easy to forget, but I try not to use them.” I meet her eyes. “Unless I have to.”
Silence again as she processes this new version of me. I expect her to ask me how many people I’ve killed. That’s what most people do when they find out. To my surprise, she doesn’t. Instead, she asks, “Why did you leave?”
“They gave me a Silver Star.” Sloane’s eyebrows shoot up in surprised confusion, wondering how being awarded such an honor would make me quit.
I answer her unasked question, my voice quiet and mournful, thinking of those I lost. “My men all died, my friends, and they gave me a fucking medal. I couldn’t do it anymore, I was done with fighting, with losing people. ”
Sloane nods, but doesn’t ask any more questions, which I’m grateful for.
She silently reaches out and takes my hand in hers, the gesture saying more than words ever could.
The feeling of her small, soft hand in mine unlocks something in me.
“I don’t know what I would’ve done if they’d hurt you,” I say before I can stop myself.
The words feel heavier than anything else I’ve confessed tonight.
Something in her expression shifts, softens, and then she leans forward and kisses me. It’s not rushed or sharp like everything else in this place, but gentle and soft.
Real.
My hand comes up instinctively, settling at her waist, holding her there for a second longer than I probably should. I want more. God, I want more. But we can’t, not like this. It takes every ounce of my control to pull back. I rest my forehead briefly against hers.
“I want you,” I say quietly, the confession making it real.
Her breath catches. “I want you too.” The words nearly unravel me.
“But we can’t do this, not like this.”
Her brows draw together slightly. “What does that mean?”
“It means we talk to Rook and Cruz.”
Her expression shifts at his name. Things have gotten complicated, more complicated than they should have if we’d all been upfront and honest about our feelings in the first place, if Cruz had shown a bit more self-control.
I can’t make the same mistake, even if it pains me.
I step back fully, even though it takes more effort than it should.
“Nothing can happen without all of us knowing where we stand. If we go any further, it will only make things more complicated.”
She studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. She understands, but there’s something else there, too—something I can’t quite name.
I sit back, pain settling into a steady burn under the bandage.
She stays close, almost closer than I can bear. For the first time since she walked into this place, I’m not sure I can keep my distance. If we can’t find a way for us all to have her, Sloane Mercer just might tear us apart.