“Clean up?” I frown.
“Hired personnel who specialize in dealing withmessysituations.”
Right. I forget what these guys actually do.
“We need to get you checked out,” Dean says gently.
“What?” I panic, “I can’t. The hospital will need my ID.”
He softens, “He’s gone, Sloane.”
I blink up at him, and as all the pieces of the puzzle slot together, clicking into place, I buckle.
He catches me as my knees collapse, bringing me down onto the floor and into his lap. It’s over. It’s all over.
My torment is over.
The nightmares and the fear, and the constant need to check over my shoulder — it’s over. He’s dead.
He didn’t win.
Dean’s hand strokes down the back of my hair, and his arms remain firm and steady, holding the pieces of me together.
Eventually, the sobs quieten, and the tears dry up, but on the floor we remain, the guys standing like guards, quiet but watchful. My anxiety twists and writhes, all those what ifs settling like a lead weight in my stomach.
“What happens now?” I whisper.
“We take you to the hospital,” He strokes back my hair, “And then we go from there.”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say to my sister.”
“Whatever you want, or nothing at all,” Malakai says from behind me. “Clean up will make it disappear, like he never existed, which is what needs to happen.”
“I feel like it’s unfair to her.”
“You don’t have to decide now,” Dean assures me. “Let’s get you cleaned up and to the hospital to be checked out, and we can move from there. How does that sound?”
I nod in agreement and accept his hand when he offers, both of us rising to our feet.
“Lily?” I question.
“She’s okay,” Dean guides me from the house, “She’s with Savannah.”
I loosen a breath, a link in the chains that bind me coming unstuck. Dean and I climb into the Porsche while the other guys get into Sebastian’s SUV, and we pull onto the empty road.
A silence settles around us, the warmth of the car a balm on my skin, but it’s going to take a while to thaw the ice inside my veins.
Chapter Forty-five
Sloane clasps her sister’s hand, tears tracking down both of their faces. It wasn’t hard to see the resemblance when Shelly Harding turned up at my door two hours ago after three days of turmoil from Sloane.
I gave her the space to decide what was best for her, and she’s decided to tell her sister everything, minus a few incriminating details.
“I’m sorry,” Sloane whispers, which has my back stiffening. She’s apologized countless times over the past few days for things out of her control and not her fault.
“I just–” Shelly sighs loudly, “I can’t believe it.”
“Neither could I,” Sloane says softly.
