“Grace… Gracie, look at me.”
I touch her face. Her skin is cold and clammy at the same time.
She forces her eyes open. Thin slits. Glazed. Confused. Wet with tears.
“C… Cohen?” she slurs. “I…”
“Shhh. It’s okay. I’m here.”
“Everything’s spinning… I wanna go home…”
She starts crying—quiet, broken sobs—and her body trembles in uneven jerks.
Something inside me snaps clean in half.
Seeing her like this—reduced to this—kills me.
And beneath the devastation is a cold, murderous rage I didn’t know I was capable of.
“We’re getting her out. Now.”
Sloane’s voice appears at my shoulder. I didn’t even hear her come up.
She crouches beside me, and there’s no judgment in her expression—only competence and genuine concern. It hits me right in the chest.
I press my forehead to Grace’s for a second.
“I’ve got you, baby. I’m taking you home.”
I stand and scoop her into my arms—one arm behind her knees, the other around her back. She curls into me automatically, just like she did when she was little, burying her face in my shirt.
“Let’s go,” Sloane says.
She steps in front of me without hesitation. No asking, no second-guessing. She cuts through the crowd using elbows, intention, and pure force of will.
“Move! Let us through!” she commands a group blocking the exit.
They scatter instantly.
I follow, clutching Grace to my chest.
I look at Sloane’s straight spine, her hair swinging as she leads us, and I know—without question—I would follow this woman anywhere.
Even into hell.
And honestly, I think we’re already there.
We burst through the VIP exit.
The freezing night air hits like a slap, but it feels like salvation.
Clean.
Quiet.
Grace sobs against my neck, soaking my skin.
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry, Co…” she repeats in a broken loop.
