Chapter 24 Sloane
Sloane
By the time we pull into the clubhouse lot, the sun's barely up and my stomach's already on its second shift.
I climb off Knox's bike and my legs remember last night before my brain does.
Hours of standing over cots, the sting of antiseptic, the weight of too-light girls leaning into my hands, one of them looking straight at me and calling me by a name I don't wear anymore.
Mercer. I shove the memory down with the rest of the things I keep buried and follow Knox inside.
Malachi and Candace are already there. Candace at the counter, lining up mugs like she's building a wall out of cheap ceramic and caffeine.
Malachi is close enough behind her that his presence is a shield, palm splayed low on her back as he says something too quiet to catch.
She tips her head just enough to lean into it.
The door shuts behind us, muting engines outside as the others roll in.
Knox's spine straightens as we step into the main room. He goes from husband to vice president in a handful of breaths.
Candace glances over her shoulder and forces a smile. I give her one back. Probably about as convincing as hers feels.
The front door opens again and the space fills. Nash prowls in, nodding once in that calm, unshakeable way that says he's already cataloged exits, windows, and who looks like they might snap first.
Ruby breezes through next, heels ticking against wood in a bright, defiant rhythm.
She smells like sugar and trouble. Darla follows, quiet but alert, hand brushing East's knuckles for a heartbeat before letting go.
Frankie slips in last of the inner circle, pen behind her ear like it lives there, gaze too observant for anyone's comfort.
Maggie and James arrive together, James moving stiffly like sleep didn't stick and his back's paying the price. Kyle's right behind them, shoulders set in "ready for whatever fresh hell this is" mode. More patched members filter in. Prospects hover at the edges, watchful.
I shrug out of my jacket and drift toward Maggie and Candace near the couches. Ruby throws herself across one end of the biggest couch with a dramatic groan.
"Well," she says, stretching. "Nothing like a dawn-of-destruction staff meeting to start the day."
Darla snorts, sinking into the cushion. "You say that like you didn't beg Nash to let you bring snacks."
"That's called boosting morale, Darla. Look it up."
Frankie drops cross-legged to the floor at the coffee table, notebook open, pen tapping her lip. "Something's shifting," she murmurs, almost to herself. "I can feel it in my teeth."
A chill runs down my spine. "Healthy," I say dryly, easing onto the loveseat beside Maggie. "Really comforting thing for our maybe-witch to say before a club war meeting."
Frankie lifts one shoulder. "I didn't say it was bad. Just big."
"Big is usually bad in my line of work."
Knox appears at my elbow, his big hand wraps around the back of my neck. His thumb brushes the edge of my jaw, calluses grazing right under my cheekbone. Holding me steady. "You good?" His voice is pitched low for me alone.
Lies rise automatically. I'm fine. Just tired. It's nothing. I give him half the truth instead.
"Med supplies are restocked. I can handle whatever stupid thing you all decide to do today."
His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. Not quite not. "That's not what I asked, Turner." Of course it isn't.
I hold his gaze a second too long, the weight of everything I'm not going to talk about sitting between us like a third person. A girl on a cot. The name I swore I buried. A father who can turn bloodshed into good press before the smoke clears.
"I'll be fine. Just… don't make my day interesting, okay?"
His thumb skims my cheek once more, slower. "No promises."
Then Malachi's voice cuts through. "Brothers."
Every male spine snaps straight. Knox squeezes the back of my neck, once, then lets go. The core guys move toward the war room. Malachi, Knox, East, Nash, Kyle, Rider, a few older patched members. James with a grim roll of his shoulders. A couple of prospects follow, quieter than usual.
The door swings open and swallows them. When it shuts again, the sound echoes.
Ruby blows out a breath, rolls onto her back, and flings her arm over her face. "Well. That's not ominous at all."
Maggie rises as though she's done this a thousand times. "I'm putting on more coffee. No one say the word decaf in this house today. I will smite you."
Frankie lets out a quiet laugh, pen still tapping. "You don't smite. You nurture with aggressive casserole offerings."
"Same thing," Maggie calls back.
Candace settles onto the couch opposite ours, both hands wrapped around her mug like if she lets go she'll float away. Skin under her eyes bruised with exhaustion. There's a tremor in her fingers she's pretending isn't there.
I know that look. I see it in the mirror more than I like. "You sleep at all?"
The tiniest shrug. "Define sleep."
Ruby peels her arm off her face and squints. "Define honest answer."
Candace huffs out a small laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "I'll let you know when I have one."
The war room is too quiet. Heavy silence fills the air, the kind that means they're talking about things that stick with you.
My mind drifts, uninvited, back to last night.
I haven't been Mercer in years. Changed it the second the ink dried on the marriage certificate.
Buried it so deep I thought it would stay dead.
But names like that don't die. They just wait.
Tessa Rios, looking at me as though I was someone kind. Like "Nurse Mercer" was a good memory.
I'd smiled. Checked her pupils. Counted respirations. Wrote nothing of my reaction down. Elena. Her sister. Loud, bright, the one who made the others laugh even when everything was terrible. Who called me "Nurse Sunshine" when I sat with her at St. Matthew's.
She died three weeks after I left Chicago. I didn't know until I saw it in the news. Overdose, the article said. But I knew better. I knew what happened to girls who fought too hard. Who wouldn't cooperate.
Tessa doesn't know that I was there when it mattered and still ran. That I got out clean while her sister didn't get out at all. Now Tessa is here, and all I could do was check her pupils, count her respirations, and write nothing of my reaction down.
Ruby nudges my foot. "Earth to Sloane. You look like you're halfway through a mental breakdown and forgot to send a calendar invite."
"Just thinking."
Darla tilts her head. "Thinking about last night? Or thinking about whatever Knox and Malachi are cooking up in there?"
"Yes." They accept that.
Time stretches. Maggie moves around the kitchen, the clink of mugs and smell of coffee filling the space. Frankie scribbles in her notepad. Ruby scrolls aimlessly. Candace watches the war room door as though she can burn a hole through it with sheer will.
The door creaks open. The men file back out.
Malachi first, eyes sharper, that storm under his skin pushing closer to the surface.
Knox beside him, posture locked, mouth set in a line I know too well.
Nash, East, Kyle, Rider, James, the rest of the inner circle.
Even the prospects look different; serious, ready.
No one speaks right away, but electricity hums between them. A decision has been made.
Ruby pokes the tension first. "Well? Do we at least get a PowerPoint?"
Nash doesn't look at her. "No one is giving you a laser pointer again."
"That was ONE TIME. And the wall recovered."
"The wall still has scorch marks," Darla mutters.
The banter skims over a deeper current. Malachi moves toward Candace, then touches her cheek with rough gentleness. She leans into it.
Knox catches my eye.
Before I can dissect it, Ruby claps her hands, too loud in the charged air. "Okay, this vibe is rancid. We need joy. I demand joy."
"Ruby," Nash warns.
"No, hear me out. War's coming, trauma everywhere, the patriarchy's out there buying bombs or girls or both. You know what we need?"
"Therapy," Frankie offers.
"Therapy and game night," Ruby corrects. "Pictionary. Charades. Losers clean the bathrooms."
Darla pins her with a look. "Ruby, it is not even noon."
"So? Joy knows no curfew, Darla."
Groans roll through the room, but none are real. They all know what she's doing.
Knox exhales, long and put-upon. "Someone hide the markers before she tries to reenact Die Hard again."
"That was iconic and you know it. My Bruce Willis was flawless."
"It ended with you somersaulting into a coffee table," I remind her.
She points at me, vindicated. "Committed acting." Against my better judgment, my mouth curves.
Game night happens in a rush. Ruby digs out an old pad and half-dried markers. Frankie claims scorekeeper. Maggie declares it girls versus guys. Nash insists he's been coerced under protest as he takes a seat anyway.
Nash turns out to be disturbingly good at drawing farm animals. East guesses "threesome" for at least four separate prompts. Frankie's doodles look like eldritch horrors, and Darla somehow guesses "croissant" in under three seconds.
Ruby yells, "It's clearly a fire hydrant in distress!" while everyone stares at a drawing that looks like a crying phallic mushroom. My medical brain catalogs the anatomical inaccuracies against my will.
"Frankie, if that's what you think a human heart looks like, I am scheduling you a consult."
She grins. "It's interpretive."
Maggie takes the marker, draws something that becomes unmistakably a pair of boobs with a smiley face and an appreciative hand.
Knox chokes. "Maggie."
"What?" Completely unbothered. "Life doesn't end at fifty. Or thirty. Or ever." She caps the marker like she just dropped a thesis statement, then saunters back to her spot while half the room tries to decide if they're scandalized or taking notes.