Chapter 16 #2
Frankie's smile is bitter. "So it doesn't matter how much I—" She cuts herself off. "It just doesn't matter."
"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard. You like him. He clearly likes you. What else matters?"
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."
Frankie's voice sharpens. "Ruby, drop it."
Ruby's mouth snaps shut, eyes wide.
Candace reaches across the bar and squeezes Frankie's hand. "You okay?" No answer. Just staring at the spot where Leo disappeared, hands tight around her drink.
Darla's voice is gentle. "For what it's worth? He seems like one of the good ones."
Frankie's laugh is hollow. "Yeah. That's the problem." Ruby nudges a plate of nachos toward her. Frankie picks one up, tears it in half. "The good ones are always the ones you can't keep." Her voice cracks on the last word.
Ruby slides the plate closer without a word. Candace doesn't let go of her hand. Darla shifts closer, shoulder pressing against Frankie's.
Knox eventually drifts back from the pool table, sliding behind my barstool, and loops his arms around my waist. He drags me against his chest, anchoring. His lips brush my ear. "You good?" he murmurs.
"Mm-hm."
"Because I'm two seconds from dragging you to that hallway and making you scream."
I choke on air. "Knox."
"What?" he whispers, amused. "Telling you my hopes and dreams."
My face flames. Frankie smirks knowingly. Ruby fans herself dramatically and announces to anyone within hearing distance, "See? This is why once you get a biker, you never go back."
Candace snorts behind the bar so hard she almost drops a glass. Darla giggles into her drink, face crimson.
I elbow Knox weakly. "Behave."
He laughs, low and dark. "Absolutely not."
The chaos swells as the night gets louder. East and Ruby end up in a mock arm-wrestling match. Nash gets roped in to ref because he's the only one who doesn't rise to Ruby's bait. Darla steals Frankie's hoodie, and Frankie threatens to tattoo an insult across her forehead.
Across the room, Malachi's watching Candace behind the bar. His face gives him away. Protective, careful, as though he's mapping every exit in case she needs one. He knows what Chuck tried to do to her. Knows she was sold, packaged, presented to men who thought they could own her.
And he's still here. Still looking at her like she's something precious instead of something broken.
Candace fought back. Smashed a dresser. Ran. She was the victim in her story.
The thought lands like a fist under my ribs. I wasn't just a victim in mine. I checked their vitals. Wrote the reports. Certified them as "healthy" and "auction-ready" while my father shook hands in the next room.
Knox's thumb traces my rib, and I close my eyes.
He doesn't know that. He married the girl from the parking lot.
The runaway. The nurse. I lean back against Knox's chest, his arms banding around me with easy, unconscious possession.
His hands slide beneath the hem of my shirt.
Warm, rough, familiar. Thumbs tracing lazy circles against my ribcage… then just a little higher.
The brief brush beneath the underside of my breast steals my breath. He pretends it was accidental. It wasn't. Heat curls low in my stomach, and I bite down on a smile.
The clubhouse door swings open with a crack of warm night air, and Rider strides in.
Not running, not shouting, but moving with a precision that cuts through the laughter clean and sharp.
He breathes fast, like he ran to get here.
His eyes scan the room once, then lock onto Malachi.
Knox straightens behind me, muscles tightening against my back.
Malachi steps forward. "What is it?"
Rider glances at me for half a second before turning to Malachi.
"Donovan was spotted," he says. "Outside the Holloway building. Heading south. Alone."
My hearing dims. The edges of the room blur and the noise around me dulls. Knox is saying something, maybe my name, but my pulse roars too loud. My fingers go numb. Rider keeps talking about what time he was spotted and who saw him, but it washes over me in fragments.
"…not sure if he's looking for someone…"
"…could be coincidence…"
"…Malachi, we should—"
I can't breathe. Knox's hand clamps around my waist. "Sloane?" His voice sounds as if he's speaking underwater.
"I-I need a second," I whisper. My throat tightens until the next breath barely gets through. "Bathroom—I just—one second."
I don't wait. Can't. I push through the crowd, not sure if I'm walking or fleeing. The hallway feels too narrow. The lights too bright. Air too thick. By the time I burst into the bathroom, my hands are shaking so hard I nearly miss the lock.
The bolt clicks into place with a sharp metallic sound. I grip the sink so tightly my knuckles go white.
In. Out. You know how to breathe.
But the inhale catches. The exhale stutters.
My chest is a fist squeezing tighter and tighter.
That name. I didn't know who he was back then.
Just a face at my father's events, a voice on the other end of phone calls I wasn't supposed to hear.
But after I ran, the pieces started falling into place.
Donovan Castiel was the one who supplied the girls.
Found them, moved them, delivered them to the prep rooms where I checked their vitals and wrote them off as healthy.
My father's pipeline. Here. In Willowridge.
My reflection blurs. My knees wobble. The bathroom suddenly feels too small. I force cold water over my wrists, then my face. The shock bites, but the panic doesn't break. My hands won't stop shaking. I press them flat against the porcelain and hold on.
After what feels like hours, I pull myself together. Or something that passes for "together." I dry my face. Straighten up. Take a breath that doesn't quite work.
I unlock the door. And Knox is there. Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, head tipped down, but his eyes lift the second the door cracks open.
His chest is barely moving. His jaw is set so hard the muscle trembles. "Sloane," he says. Quiet, but razor-sharp at the edges. My mouth goes dry. "You recognized that name." Not a question.
"Knox—"
He crosses the hallway in two strides, controlled and certain. "That was about you."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." His voice doesn't rise. That's almost worse. I step back instinctively, spine pressing into the doorframe, and he stops just short of touching me.
"I don't want to do this here," I whisper.
"I don't care where we do it. I care that you looked like you were about to pass out when Rider said his name."
"Please—"
"Tell me what that means." His voice breaks around the edges. "Tell me what I'm looking at." I flinch. It betrays me. His eyes flash with pain. Real pain. "Baby. How do you know that name?"
"Nothing. Nobody," I choke out.
"Don't." One word. Soft, terrified. "Don't disappear on me."
My throat burns. "I can't. Knox, I can't."
"Why?" His voice cracks. "Who is Donovan Castiel to you?" If he knew the truth, he'd look at me differently. And I can't survive that.
"I just can't," I whisper.
Knox closes his eyes as though it hurts to look at me. His hand lifts halfway and stops. He makes a fist instead. "Sloane." My name comes out raw. "I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm protecting you from."
That almost unravels me. Almost. "I'm not ready," I manage.
Pain flickers across his face before he looks away. He swallows hard. Doesn't say anything. I slip past him. He doesn't follow. I keep walking. I don't look back. If I look back, I'll tell him everything, and I'm not ready for what comes after that.