Raw, savage terror.
“Stop,” he whispers, voice shattering. “I told you… it’s not…”
He shakes his head, breath coming in short, painful bursts.
“It’s my sister, Sloane. It’s Grace.”
The world stops.
Traffic.
Music from inside the club.
The wind.
All of it disappears.
“What?” I whisper.
“She’s my sister,” he repeats, and a single frustrated tear freezes on his cheek. “She’s eighteen. She called me half an hour ago. She was sobbing. She could barely talk—slurring—I think she’s drunk out of her mind or someone gave her something.”
Cohen releases my shoulders like his strength has evaporated. He scrubs his palms over his eyes, doubling over, shaking uncontrollably.
“She said she was here, that she didn’t feel good and wanted to go home. Then the line dropped. She’s inside, Sloane. She’s in therealone, with those predators, and I’m stuck out here like an idiot who can’t get past a bouncer. I… I promised I’d protect her…”
My stomach drops to the pavement.
Nausea hits fast and sharp.
His little sister.
All my paranoia, my jealousy dressed up as ‘professional concern,’ my accusations…
I feel small.
Dirty.
Like the world’s worst human.
I look at Cohen—the man I assumed was just an egotistical player—now shaking in fear because he can’t reach the person he loves most.
“Cohen,” I say, steadying my voice even though my hands are shaking.
He lifts his head.
His eyes are red, bloodshot.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admits—soft, broken, terrifyingly honest. “If I try to force my way in, they’ll call the cops. I’ll be in cuffs before I find her. But I can’t leave her. I can’t.”
Instinct takes over.
I am Sloane Heart.
I solve problems for a living.
And this man—this brilliant, infuriating, terrified idiot—needs me.
“They’re not calling the cops,” I say, grabbing his hand.
