Right now, in this hellhole of bass and sweaty bodies, Sloane Heart might be the most extraordinary creature to ever walk the earth.
Not because she’s beautiful—though God knows she is—but because she’s fearless.
I, on the other hand, am terrified.
Panic is a living animal chewing through my stomach.
Grace.
My sister’s name pounds inside my skull louder than the techno blasting through the speakers.
She’s my responsibility.
I promised myself—promised her when she was little—that I would handle everything.
That I would protect her from the toxicity in our family, from our father’s pressure, from the entire damn world.
And instead here I am, searching for her in a grimy club while she’s not answering her phone.
I’ve failed.
I try to scan the room, but my vision is going blurry.
Too many people. Too many faces blurring together, too many drunken laughs.
Every brunette makes my heart lurch until I realize it’s not her.
My chest is tight. I can’t breathe. I feel helpless.
Sloane squeezes my hand—firmer this time—a silent signal:
I’m here. Don’t fall apart.
How does she know exactly what I need?
How does she know that if she let go, I would probably collapse or start swinging at strangers?
Those questions evaporate the second I finally see her.
Grace.
She’s slumped on a half-moon velvet couch tucked into the shadows, far from the dance floor.
Her head is tilted in a way no head should tilt—like a puppet with cut strings.
“Grace!”
The shout tears out of me, raw and animalistic.
I drop Sloane’s hand and sprint forward, knocking into a waiter and shoving past two guys who get in my way. I don’t care.
I reach the couch and sink to my knees.
She’s pale.
Horrifically pale under the neon lights.
Her eyes are closed, mascara streaked down her cheeks.
