Chapter 42 Sloane
Sloane
The floor hums under my shoes. It's a low vibration I barely register anymore. The rhythm of twelve-hour shifts, double backs, and late charting. Fatigue settles into my bones instead of knocking me over. I move with it.
"Room four's pressure's been creeping," Jenna murmurs as she passes.
"I'll recheck after rounds."
Chart. Vitals. IV line. The tubing is warm under my fingers. The monitor ticks steadily. A patient asks for ice chips; I promise and mean it. I exchange a look with a nurse I've worked beside long enough that we don't need words, just a lift of brows in the narrow corridor.
Everything functions because it has to.
I'm tired. The kind that lives in the shoulders and the base of the neck. But I stay upright. Drink lukewarm coffee from a reheated paper cup. Burnt and thin.
"Still alive?" someone calls from behind the desk.
"Debatable," I reply.
A monitor alarms down the hall. My body pivots before thought catches up.
"False alarm," Jenna calls from the doorway. "He rolled over."
"Tell him to stop," I call back.
I finish charting at the station, tapping the last entry, eyes flicking to the clock. Meds. A discharge that's going to drag. A family meeting scheduled too close to lunch.
Knox texted an hour ago. Picking you up tonight. Don't argue.
I didn't argue.
Between entries, my gaze drifts left without permission.
Fire exit. Stairwell. The elevator bay with its silver doors.
I've worked this floor for months, and my body still runs the inventory every time my hands go idle, counting steps, measuring distance, cataloging which routes have blind corners and which ones don't. At the grocery store, it's a habit. Here it feels a betrayal.
Movement in my peripheral pulls my attention up.
The waiting area is busy. Chairs scrape. Someone paces with a phone. A volunteer pushes a cart of folded blankets.
Normal motion. Stillness.
One man stands where people don't linger, just off the corridor toward staff-only doors. Posture too composed for the space, shoulders squared, hands folded loosely, waiting to be acknowledged. Dressed too well for a hospital. Tailored coat, polished shoes untouched by parking deck oil.
My fingers pause on the keys. Harrison Mercer. My father. The first time had been shock. This is confirmation.
He hasn't looked at me yet. Or he has, and he's choosing when. He studies signage, the wall directory, orienting himself. Acting as though he belongs.
I close the chart and straighten. Spine aligned. Chin lifted. I hold my ground.
A unit clerk leans over. "Sloane, can you—"
"In a minute." Sharper than intended. She nods.
Harrison turns. His eyes find me instantly and lock in. His satisfaction is contained. He inclines his head. Small, precise. A boardroom acknowledgment.
A gurney rolls between us, orderlies talking about lunch, and he disappears. When he comes back into view, he's taken one step forward. Testing.
I stay where I am, palms flat against cool laminate. Phones ring. Someone laughs near the elevators. A doctor calls my name and gets distracted before I can answer. Harrison waits. Patient. Certain. This isn't an interruption to him. It's a continuation.
I step forward on my terms, pace measured, badge clipped to my scrub top, a line drawn in ink. He waits until I'm close enough to speak without being overheard, and people pass on either side. He's learned.
"Sloane," he says, shaping my name carefully. "I was hoping I might see you."
I stop walking. Feet planting where I want them. "You shouldn't be here."
A faint smile. "I'm visiting someone." He doesn't elaborate. Plausible deniability has always been one of his favorite tools. "I thought perhaps we could talk."
"No. This isn't the place."
He accepts that with a tilt of his head, as if it's a reasonable boundary instead of a rejection. "Of course. I wouldn't want to cause a problem for you."
The word you lands heavier than it should. My mind runs its silent inventory: exits at either end, security desk two turns down, foot traffic dense enough that he won't risk anything overt. He's calculated the same odds I have. That steadies the ground.
"You need to leave." Flat. Controlled.
His attention moves over my face in short passes, efficient, practiced, cataloging instead of lingering. Searching for any crack worth exploiting, any sign the café loosened a fissure he can use.
"You've always been good at shutting doors," he says, voice low. "Even when it doesn't serve you."
I turn to walk away. His hand catches my wrist with pressure to stop me. His fingers wrap the joint with practiced certainty, steadying me instead of restraining me. That's how he'd frame it.
My body goes rigid. Every trained instinct screams. His grip isn't painful, but it's firm. Possessive. The kind of touch that says I decide when you leave.
I yank my arm back. He holds on one beat longer than necessary, long enough to make it clear he could keep holding on before releasing. My wrist burns where his fingers were.
"Don't touch me." Shaking now. Fury barely leashed.
He lifts both hands, palms out, the picture of reasonableness. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"Leave."
"You can't avoid this forever. I've been patient, Sloane. I'm willing to forgive—"
The air shifts before I hear his voice. A presence entering the corridor behind Harrison, large and pulling the attention of everyone nearby without making a sound.
"Step back." Knox. Low. Final.
Harrison's attention snaps sideways with sudden rigidity in his posture. Knox moves into my periphery, positioning himself between us with trained precision. Controlled. Violence held on a leash.
"She told you to leave." Quiet. Dangerous in its calmness.
Harrison's expression holds, but the recalculation happens behind his eyes. He straightens, adjusting stance, measuring.
"I was just speaking with—"
"You were touching her." Knox's focus drops to my wrist, back up. "Without her permission."
The air thickens.
Harrison's mouth curves. "I think there's been a misunderstanding."
"No misunderstanding. You touched her. She pulled away. You're still here."
Harrison's expression flattens. He looks Knox over, the way you'd appraise something brought in on someone's shoe.
"And you are?" He knows exactly who Knox is. The question is the insult.
"Leaving," Knox says. "That's what you are."
For a long moment, no one moves.
Harrison inclines his head. Polite, dismissive. "Of course." His eyes find mine. "We'll talk again, Sloane. When you're ready." He turns and walks away, pace unhurried, posture unchanged. The crowd absorbs him.
Knox's attention stays locked on me. On my face, my breathing, the way I'm holding my wrist.
"Did he hurt you?" His voice is low, controlled, and strained underneath.
"No." I drop my hand. "He just grabbed me."
His jaw works. Palm to my lower back, warm and steady. "Come on. Let's get you away from this hallway."
I nod. He walks me back toward the station, body angled protectively. At the desk, he squeezes my shoulder once and steps back. Gives me space to work.
I log in. Answer a resident's question. Recheck room four's pressure. My hands don't waver. My voice stays even. I push through the last three hours of my shift because that's what I do.
Knox disappears for a while. I feel the absence in my periphery, at the spot near the wall where he'd been leaning. But I keep moving. Chart. Meds. Discharge paperwork that drags. A family meeting that runs long.
When I'm down to my last thirty minutes, he reappears with a paper bag and coffee. The smell hits first. Real coffee, not the scorched ghost I've been reheating.
He sets it on the counter beside me, watching, tracking whether the last few hours cost me anything.
"You okay?"
"Better now that I'm almost done."
"Your wrist."
I glance down. Harrison was too careful to leave a mark. Knox saw him grab me anyway.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. He put his hands on you."
"He let go."
"Because I was there." His jaw tightens. "He's learning, Sloane. Testing boundaries. Seeing what he can get away with."
I curl my hand around the cup. "This is the second time. He isn't letting this go."
"No. He's not." He nudges the paper bag closer. "Eat. Even just a bite."
"You always do that."
"Because it works."
I peek inside. "You remembered the mustard."
"Of course I did." His mouth tips, sobers. "Did security see him?"
"I didn't call them. You were there."
His brows draw together. "Next time, call them anyway. I want a record."
"Okay."
I clear the last chart, hand off my final patient, answer one more question from a nurse.
Knox stays near enough to feel when I glance up, far enough that no one looks twice.
When I clock out and unclip my badge, he's there, falling into step.
A nurse calls my name. I answer and promise to follow up tomorrow.
Outside, the evening air washes cool against my face. Knox stops beyond the threshold, turning to face me fully.
"You kept your ground." His fingers brush the inside of my wrist where Harrison grabbed me. Gentle, certain.
"He thinks time is on his side."
Knox's mouth curves with intent. "He's wrong." I search his face. I can see what he's already done with the hours since Harrison walked away. Every angle of this situation mapped, every cost weighed, every move planned before he opened his mouth. "I will keep you safe. No matter what it costs."
My chest loosens. The weight stays, but it distributes. I lean into him without thinking, forehead to his collarbone, his arm coming around instantly. The world narrows to his warmth and the even beat under my ear.
He draws back first, hand at my jaw. "Let's go."
We cross the lot toward his bike. Knox unclips my helmet from the back, fits it over my head, tugging the strap snug. Knuckles down my jaw. I swing on behind him, arms locking around his waist, cheek to his shoulder blade. His hand drops to my thigh. Squeezes once.
I see it. Across the lot. Far corner. A black sedan, parked where the overhead lights don't reach. Engine off, but the driver's window is down.
Harrison is sitting behind the wheel. Hands on his lap.
Face turned toward us. Knox goes still under my arms. He's seen it too.
The lot is quiet. Wind pushes a receipt across the asphalt.
A streetlight hums. Harrison watches. Chin level.
Eyes unblinking. The patience of a man who has nowhere else to be.
Knox's hand tightens on my thigh. He starts the engine. The bike rumbles beneath us, low and certain. He pulls out at his own pace, his own terms. I keep my eyes forward. But I feel my father's gaze on my back the entire way to the gate.
He stayed. He waited.