Chapter 25 Knox #2
Her mouth flattens. She holds back the argument. She never fights it when the job is saving a life, even a bastard's. But her hands tremble for exactly half a second before muscle memory locks everything down.
I've watched her treat gunshot wounds on men who probably deserved them. Watched her dig glass out of kids' palms and stitch Ruby's forehead while Ruby cracked jokes through all eight sutures.
This is different. This is a woman walking back into a nightmare she thought she'd escaped.
"East, keep pressure here," she orders, cutting away Donovan's shirt. "Kyle, get me the second trauma kit. No, the second one. It has the larger-bore lines."
Crisp, precise. Perfectly professional. If you didn't know her, you'd think she was fine. I know better.
She moves around the table, assessing the entry wound, exit wound, depth, trajectory. Eyes sharp, but every now and then a shade too wide as if she's seeing something laid over this scene. Another gurney, another monster, another room that smelled like money and blood.
"Through-and-through," she mutters, more to herself. "Missed the heart by inches. Lucky bastard."
Candace slips down the stairs behind us, quiet as a shadow. She takes the corner, arms folded tight, eyes locked on Donovan. She flinches at "lucky" but doesn't move.
"Out," Sloane barks, snapping like a whip. "If you're not helping, get the hell out of my way."
No one argues. Not even Malachi. We all back out toward the stairs. I linger in the doorway. She knows it. Lets me stay.
Her hands move fast. IV line. Fluids. Tourniquet adjustment. She leans in to listen to his chest, stethoscope against blood-slick skin. For a brief second, when she tips her face away from the table, the mask slips. Eyes squeeze shut a heartbeat too long, a tremor shadowing her shoulders.
The urge hits hard to drag Donovan off the table and let him bleed out on the floor. Another pull rises just as strong to get Sloane out of this basement and keep her far from men like him. Both urges stay locked behind clenched teeth.
I can picture it without being told. A girl in a house too big and too quiet. Trained early to keep steady hands over men who never earned them. Her whole past stays out of reach. Moments like this still sketch the outline of it, sharp as a scar under fabric.
Because Malachi is right; if Donovan talks, we get the names. The routes. The auction houses. The people who took Cornelius from him and put girls like the ones from the docks in cages.
"Vitals are holding," Sloane says finally, stepping back. Hoarse. "He's barely hanging on, but he's hanging on. If you're going to ask him anything, do it now. I make no promises after that."
I crack the basement door and jerk my chin toward the hall. Malachi steps back in, eyes already locked on Donovan. He moves to the table and crouches by Donovan's head like a demon come to collect.
I stay where I am. Close enough to watch Sloane.
"Talk," Malachi growls. "You're not dead yet. And you don't get to die until I say so. You're going to tell me everything. About Alice Brighton. About Cornelius. About the night my siblings disappeared."
Alice Brighton.
I see it land in Sloane's body before my brain catches up. Her head jerks the tiniest bit. Fingers flex. Color drains from her face. She knows that name.
Alice. Donovan. Auctions.
Cold, sick dread unfurls in my gut.
Donovan wheezes a laugh, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Still clinging to that old ghost, huh?"
He keeps talking. Sloane keeps him alive long enough to do it.
I memorize every flinch in her shoulders as Donovan spits out pieces of Malachi's past. Cornelius, a sister and brother stolen. Her eyes never leave the vitals, but I can feel her drifting somewhere else, following her ghosts down a hallway that leads back to Chicago.
When Donovan crashes, Sloane moves in like a machine. Fast and precise. All focus. "He's crashing. Back off."
Malachi doesn't move right away. His voice dips dangerously. "I'll be back. You're not dying until you give me names."
Their gazes lock. Malachi's is feral, Sloane's is sharp with something like accusation she doesn't voice.
Then he backs away. I step in as she starts compressions, as she barks at the prospect to adjust the bag, up the fluids, get the epinephrine.
Her arms shake with effort. Sweat beads at her hairline.
She's bringing back a man who has done nothing but damage this city and the people in it, and she's doing it because that's who she is. Because she doesn't get to choose who lands on her table.
Even when every part of you is screaming to let them bleed out.
When his vitals steady into something resembling a rhythm, she blows out a breath that sounds like it hurts.
"That's it. That's all he gets from me. Next time he flatlines, he can meet whatever's waiting for him."
The prospect nods, eyes wide, hands still on the bag. Sloane peels off her gloves like they offend her and tosses them. Her hands are shaking openly now.
I move in, slow. "Sloane."
She startles, as if she forgot I was there. Eyes glassy around the edges, pupils blown too wide. "I need a shower. Then I need to eat something before I pass out."
"Yeah. Okay. Let's get you upstairs."
She goes with me as I steer her toward the stairs. Her hands stay at her sides. I stand guard outside the clubhouse bathroom, arms crossed, back to the wall, listening to the thud of water against tile.
Every now and again, I hear the rhythm of her movements. Fast. Rough. Like she's trying to scrub something out of her skin. When she comes out in clean leggings and an oversized tee, hair braided back, her eyes are their normal color again.
"You need to stay?" she asks, nodding toward the basement.
"Malachi's got him. Candace is here. Nash and East are on rotation. You're done down there. If he flatlines again, that's on him, not you."
She nods once. "Then I want to go home."
I don't hesitate. "Let's go. We'll eat there."
I take the truck instead of the bike. Her hands are already shaking; I'm not putting her on the back of a Harley at seventy after the night she's had.
Ten minutes of silence are broken only by the engine hum and the occasional flash of emergency lights still reflecting over the city.
She stares out the passenger window, fingers clenched around the seatbelt.
"You felt the blast at the clubhouse?" I ask quietly.
Shrug without looking at me. "Windows rattled. Floor shook. Got a headache from it, but it'll pass."
"You got pale downstairs."
"Fluorescents aren't flattering on anyone." The joke falls flat. We both hear it.
The truck rolls into the driveway. I kill the engine, and for a second neither of us moves.
Sloane reaches for the door first and heads for the house.
She unlocks the front door, steps inside, and goes straight for the kitchen.
I follow, toeing off my boots and hanging my cut on the same hook as always.
She eats standing up. Toast, peanut butter, a glass of water she drains in three swallows. Mechanical. Fueling, not enjoying. Then she heads for the bedroom.
In the bathroom, she brushes her teeth and reties her braid higher, avoiding eye contact like it burns.
"Sloane. Talk to me."
She pauses, toothpaste mid-squeeze, shoulders tight. "I'm tired, Knox."
"I know. That's why I'm asking now instead of when you're more exhausted tomorrow. Talk to me."
She sets the tube down a little too hard. "There's nothing to talk about."
"Bullshit." Her gaze snaps up in the mirror. "You had to work on the man who's been running half the shit we've been chasing. Had to bring him back when he should have stayed on that floor. You heard Malachi ask about Alice. You—"
"Stop." Her sharp voice cracks. She turns, back bracing against the counter, arms folding. "Don't say that name."
"Why? Because it's tied to Donovan? Because of what we heard tonight? Or because it's tied to something else you haven't told me?"
"You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me. That's what I'm asking for. Let me in."
Her laugh is harsh, humorless. "Right. I'll just… hand you the worst pieces of my life. We can dissect them between brushing our teeth and setting the alarm."
"Sloane."
"No." She shakes her head, eyes bright. "I handled it. Got him stabilized. I did what needed to be done. It's over."
"That's not the question." Reaching out, I hook a finger under her chin so she has to look at me. "I watched you down there. Saw your hands shaking. I know this did something to you."
"Of course it did. There was a bomb. People died."
"And that's the only reason? It's not because this looks a hell of a lot like the kind of shit your father could've pulled? Private rooms, no questions asked, patching up men who shouldn't ever walk free and pretending you don't see what they are?"
Her face goes white. I know I've hit too close when her breath stutters. For a second, I think she might break. Might finally spill everything that's been clawing at her since that girl called her Nurse Mercer. Since before that. Since Chicago. Instead, she shutters.
"You don't get it, Knox."
"Then make me get it. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to carry this alone."
"You say that like it's easy. Like all I have to do is flip a switch and I'm someone who shares."
"You're my wife. You don't think it kills me watching you hold yourself together with tape and coffee, pretending you're fine?"
"I am fine," she spits.
"Stop lying to me."
We stare at each other across the small bathroom, breaths too loud, too fast.
"You want the truth?" she says finally, voice dropping. "Here's the truth: you don't understand. You can't."
"Then help me. Please."