Chapter 23 Knox #2
"Okay, sweetie, look at me. You're not going back in that container.
I've got you. Can you drink this for me?
" Soft voice, but iron under it. The kind of steady tone you get from years of telling people in pain to hold on.
I hover at the edge at first. My size, my cut, my gun all feel wrong in this space.
But she doesn't treat me like an intruder.
Just snaps out orders without looking up.
"Knox, blanket. Thick one. Her fingers are blue. "
I move. Find the blanket. Wrap it around the girl on the nearest cot. She doesn't look at me; she's locked onto Sloane, the only calm in the room.
Sloane's hands move fast and precise. Blood pressure cuff. Pulse check. Quick mental triage. Rattling off vitals to Maggie, rearranging who needs the cot with the space heater. She's in command here in a way I've never seen.
Because this isn't new to her. This is muscle memory.
I'm moving toward the next cot with water bottles when it happens.
A girl—older than some, maybe eighteen, nineteen—stirs. Dark hair snarled around her face, eyes sunken but sharp. She watches Sloane walk toward her, tracking every step. Sloane softens into that gentle, steady professional mask she uses like armor.
"Hey," she murmurs, kneeling beside the cot. "I'm Sloane Turner. I'm a nurse. You're safe now, okay? Can I check you over?"
The girl's throat works. Her gaze flicks to Sloane's hands, back to her face. Lips parting.
"You," she whispers. "You were… Nurse Mercer."
Time stops. Sloane's hands freeze mid-air. Every muscle goes taut. The color drains from her face so fast her lips go white.
I'm moving before I think, stepping between them and cutting off the girl's view of Sloane. "Hey," I say, keeping my voice level. "You don't have to—"
Sloane touches my arm. Just a brush of fingers, but it stops me cold. "It's okay," she says, and it's not. Voice too thin, too careful. "I've got it."
She edges around me, positioning herself back in the girl's view.
Nurse Mercer. My brain latches on and won't let go. Mercer. Her maiden name. The one she carried into my life. The reason we rushed the paperwork and turned a fake marriage into a legal shield so she didn't have to keep wearing the identity her father built for her.
I've never heard someone from her old life say it to her face before.Whatever it costs her to hear it is written across every locked muscle in her body.
Sloane swallows. "What's your name, sweetheart?" Only someone who knows her can hear the crack under the calm.
"Tessa," the girl says, then braces. "Tessa Rios."
Sloane's brow furrows. Professional cataloging. "Rios," she repeats, softer. Her pupils blow wide. Shoulders jerk as if she's taken a punch to the ribs. Small. Anyone else would miss it. "Your sister?" The words sound dragged from her throat. "Her name?"
Tessa's eyes fill instantly. "Elena. Elena Rios. You… you sat with her. At St. Matthew's. You held her hand."
I see it land. Sloane's mouth opens, closes. Guilt, grief, recognition, a flash of anger, all of it flickering across her face in a single heartbeat, raw enough to make my skin prickle.
"I—" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat. "Tessa, right? Okay. We're going to take care of you. Can I check your lungs?"
Tessa nods, tears streaking through dirt.
Sloane gets to work. Stethoscope. Instructions.
"Breathe in. Out. Again." Hands steady again, but eyes too bright.
Jaw clamped so tight the muscle jumps. I stand close enough to catch her if she sways.
She finishes, adjusts Tessa's blanket, offers a small, fierce smile. "You did well. Rest. You're safe here."
Then she turns on her heel and walks away. Too fast. Too straight. Past the supply table. Past Maggie. Just away. I follow.
The hallway is dimmer. Quieter. Sloane leans a shoulder against cinderblock halfway down, eyes closed, one hand braced flat beside her head like she's holding up the building. I slow down, not wanting to spook her. She still jumps when she realizes I'm there.
"I'm fine," she says immediately. Every time someone in this club says those two words, they're lying.
I stop a few feet away, giving her space. "Didn't say you weren't." She drags in a breath. Lets it out slow. Eyes fixed on some point over my shoulder. "Mercer," I say quietly.
Her gaze snaps to mine like I've yanked on a leash. "Don't," she whispers.
I almost obey. Almost. "You knew her sister. Elena."
Her mouth tightens for a second. "Once. I knew her once."
I wait, giving her silence to fill instead of pushing. A trick that works on witnesses, suspects, prospects who don't want to talk. Works on Sloane, too.
"I did a rotation at St. Matthew's," she says finally, voice small. "Before I came here. Before the club. Before you. It was supposed to be six weeks. I… stayed for three months. They were short-staffed." A humorless smile ghosts across her mouth. "That's what I told myself, anyway."
"What were you really doing?"
Her eyes go distant. "Watching girls who never should've been there die.
Holding hands. Passing meds. Naming bruises no one charted.
" Her fingers twitch, remembering an IV line.
"Elena was… a favorite. If you can call it that.
She was loud. Made the others laugh. Called me 'Nurse Sunshine' when I was being bossy. "
The kind of people who wore white coats at a place like that make my stomach turn. "Your father put you there?" I ask before I can stop myself.
She flinches as if I slapped her. Spine straightening, shutters slamming down. "We're not talking about him." Her expression shuts down.
"Okay," I say, backing off fast. Pushing her here, now, feels wrong. Like kicking at a door that's already splintering. Her gaze sharpens, wary. Waiting for the interrogation that usually follows when someone smells blood in this world.
I give her something else instead. "You know the first time I saw someone from my old life?
" She blinks. Not the turn she expected.
"I was at a grocery store. Right after I got out.
Thought I was doing the 'normal citizen' thing.
Buying cereal. Standing there, staring at twelve versions of the same damn flakes, wondering why the fuck there were so many choices for something that all tastes like cardboard.
" The memory is so clear I can smell the cold aisle.
"This guy comes around the corner with a kid in the cart.
Takes me a second to recognize him. We were deployed together.
I knew him with a buzz cut and sand in his eyes.
All I saw was a worn-out dad with apples, diapers, and a kid in a Spider-Man T-shirt. "
"What did you do?"
"Ducked behind the Cheerios like a coward.
Couldn't make my feet move. Couldn't say his name.
Because if I did, we'd have to acknowledge all the shit between 'then' and 'now.
' And I didn't want to see my war in his eyes.
Or my absence in his." She stares at me as if I've handed her something fragile.
"I still think about it," I say. "That missed moment. "
"In a grocery store," she says faintly.
"In a grocery store. Sometimes the ghosts show up where you stock the bread."
A small sound escapes her. Half laugh, half sob. I take a step closer, leaving space between us. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off her.
"I'm not asking for a confession, Sloane. I just… saw your face when she said Mercer. And when she said Elena. I know what that feels like. Having your old life reach into your new one without permission."
Her eyes shine. "It's not the same."
"No. It's yours. Which means you get to decide when you tell me everything. I'm just…" I trail off. "I'm here. That's all."
She looks at me for a long time. Measuring. Weighing. "I knew her sister once," she repeats, sealing the version she can live with right now. "Now she's here, and I didn't even recognize her. What does that say about me?"
"That you've seen too much. Tonight, you kept going anyway."
She shakes her head. "I need to get back. They still need me."
I nod and step aside, letting her pass. My fingers brush her wrist as she goes. She doesn't pull away.
In the doorway, she pauses and looks over her shoulder. "Knox?"
"Yeah, sweetheart?"
Her mouth curves, brittle-sweet. "Thanks for not hiding behind the Cheerios this time."
A rough breath that almost turns into a laugh escapes me. "Anytime."
Then she's gone, swallowed back into triage, blankets, and second chances. I lean against the wall, let my head thump back, stare at the ceiling. Nurse Mercer. Every thread we pull leads closer to her.
By the time we get home, the sky's graying around the edges.
The ride is quiet. Sloane's arms are tight around my waist, cheek pressed between my shoulder blades.
Usually she's looser back there, hands curious, tracing seams on my cut, fingers sneaking under my shirt when she thinks I'm not paying attention.
Tonight she just holds on like I'm the only solid thing in a world that keeps shifting.
At the house, she doesn't wait for me to take her helmet off.
She yanks it free herself and is through the front door before I've even swung my leg over.
By the time I get inside, lights are on, her shoes kicked off by the mat, and she's already at the kitchen sink.
I find her scrubbing her hands like she can erase skin.
"Hey," I say softly.
She doesn't look up. "I can't get the smell off. It's in my head. I know it's in my head, but—" She scrubs harder. Her knuckles turn pink. The water is so hot there's steam.
I move in cautiously. Slide in behind her. Wrap my hands over hers, stilling the frantic motion. "Enough, nurse. You did your job. You don't gotta sand yourself down too."
Her shoulders shake once. Just once. "She called me Mercer. Like that's who I still am."
"Maybe to her, that's who you were when you kept her sister from dying alone. Could be worse things to be remembered for."
"Elena died anyway."
"Yeah." I'm not gonna lie to her. "But she didn't die alone."
Silence. Only the faucet running over our joined hands makes noise. I reach past her and turn it off. Her fingers tremble against mine. I bring one wet hand up, brush a damp strand off her cheek with my knuckles.
"Look at me." She does. Her eyes are wrecked.
Mascara smudged from hours ago. Tiny lines of exhaustion carved around the edges.
But underneath? Fire. Stubborn, stupid, beautiful fire.
"You held that room together. Those girls?
They're gonna see your face when they close their eyes tonight, not his. That matters."
"Why do you always know what to say?"
"I don't. I just say what I wish someone had told me back then."
Something cracks. Her chin dips, shoulders sag. Then she's turning, stepping into me, hands fisting in my shirt, forehead pressing into my chest like she's been walking against the wind all day and finally found somewhere to stop.
My arms go around her without asking permission. If there's one place I know what to do, it's this. Hold. Anchor. Breathe. We stand in the kitchen for a long minute with my chin on her head. Her heartbeat against my ribs eventually matches mine.
"I'm so tired," she murmurs against my shirt. "Of feeling like the past is always waiting in the next room."
"I know. Come to bed."
She tilts her head back, eyes searching. The look in them is raw and hungry tonight. The familiar heat between us burns brighter than usual. It feels like she's trying to take this day and force it to end differently.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I take her hand, lace our fingers, and lead her down the hall. In the bedroom, pretense falls away. Teasing disappears, along with any slow undressing. She climbs onto the bed and reaches for me with both hands, like I'm air and she's been underwater too long. I go willingly.
The kiss is unhurried. Deep. Her mouth is soft and sure, fingers sliding into my hair, tugging closer. I taste coffee, exhaustion, and the sweetness that is purely her.
Clothes land in a messy trail. Everything between us stays quiet and close, skin against skin, the weight of the world slipping off her shoulders with every touch.
I keep my touch reverent, careful even when things get heated.
She clings, legs wrapped around me, breathing my name, a whisper, a curse, and a vow all tangled together.
When she collapses against me, muscles loose, breathing heavy and even, I roll us so she's sprawled on my chest, hand tracing lazy lines down her spine, feeling each vertebra.
She's asleep within minutes. I'm not. I stare at the dark ceiling. Hear the tick of the old clock in the hall. Her soft snore-that-isn't-a-snore when her nose gets stuffy. The echo of a girl's voice from earlier.
Nurse Mercer.
Mercer. Castiel. Graves. Brighton. Vassallo.
The names keep circling in my head. Donovan Castiel.
I pulled that name out of Whitcomb's server in a Chicago office building two years ago.
A silent partner funneling slush money into a Mississippi real estate fund that existed only on paper.
I flagged it. Sent it to Malachi. Treated it as a financial threat.
Turns out I was staring at the receipt for all of this and didn't know it.
The fraud fund was the pipeline. The money bought the containers, paid the guards, greased the politicians.
Everything we just hit at Pier Four grew out of the same rotten seed I dug up the night I met Sloane.
Every line I add drifts closer to the one person in this bed who still won't say her father's name out loud.
I think about the tools at my disposal. The shit I used to do overseas, the databases I can still access, the way money leaves fingerprints if you know where to look. I could have answers in a week if I turned that part of my brain on her family.
I promised myself I wouldn't. I promised I'd never make her a target. Never take something she wasn't ready to give. My fingers curl against her spine, anchoring me to the promise I made.
"If this circle touches your father…" I whisper into her hair, the words so quiet they're for me more than her, "I'm gonna burn it down, baby. I just hope you're still standing on my side of the fire when it's over."
She murmurs in her sleep and burrows closer, fisting the sheets like she heard me somewhere deep down. I lie awake until dawn, holding her while the ghosts pace the edges of the room, waiting for their turn.