I’m half-tempted to crack open a bottle of bourbon from the mini-bar, but I need to stay sharp. By the time the water comes up to temperature and I fill her cup, Sloane has the blanket I used last night wrapped around her like a shield and her legs curled up under her.
It’s her eyes that worry me the most. She stares out the french doors at the lake, but I don’t think she’s seeing anything. The tea will give her something to focus on. I hope.
“Here you go, sweetheart.”
Her shoulders jerk, but she accepts the cup and saucer, though they rattle a little as she straightens. I slide my fingers over hers, and though these pants are ridiculously too tight for this move, lower myself to one knee in front of her. “Sloane, you need to tell me all of it.”
“I know.” After a sip of tea, she clenches her jaw so hard, the veins in her temples throb. “Doesn’t make it any easier.”
“Would it help if I asked the questions?” I’ll do anything she wants. Anything she needs.
A single tear spills onto her cheek, and she dashes it away. “Maybe.”
I take a seat beside her and drape my left arm over the back of the plush sofa. The motion takes some of the strain and weight off my shoulder, and I blow out a breath. “When Dimitri was arrested, something happened with Rodney Carriger, didn’t it? The background check showed he was a cop. Retired now.”
“Rodney was in on the raid of the house where Dimitri kept us. For a couple of weeks, he had been one of my regulars. He liked to talk. Always asking questions. I didn’t know until the raid that he was trying to figure out where Dimitri kept us, how many girls were in the house, how many enforcers.”Sloane takes another sip of tea, and her lips twitch slightly. “In Russia, we have mostly black tea. I hated it growing up. The first time I ever had chamomile was at the hospital in New York.”
It takes me a beat to process her words, and a cold knot twists in my gut. “What hospital?”
Setting the cup down, she turns to face me, emotionless, her face—even her eyes—completely blank. “When your entire existence is nothing but fear and pain, you lose hope quickly. No one can live for long without hope. Not unless you have…help.” Her fingers press to the crook of her left elbow, and for a second, shame flickers in her eyes. “Dimitri’shelp? Came from a needle.”
Fuck. I should have known. “Heroin?” Sloane nods, still rubbing her elbow until I stop her. “So, the hospital? That’s where you got clean?”
Another nod. “That’s why I never take anything stronger than aspirin. Except for my anxiety meds. I don’t even drink. Max…he set it up. All of it. He gave me a new life. And in exchange, I signed a contract. Sophianadied, and I became Sloane.”
She’s close to breaking down completely, and I can’t push her for more. Not right now. Instead, I gently ease her against me until she relaxes. “How much sleep did you get last night?”
“A couple of hours.”
The red text scrolls across my lenses, and I start rubbing her back. “We’ll head to theBahnhofstrassein a couple of hours. After we figure out who that asshole is and how he knows Volkov. Until then, why don’t you lie down?”
“I…” she shakes her head and pulls away, giving me a single, desperate look before turning towards her bedroom. “Okay.”
Shit. My inner voice screams at me to stop her, and I catch up to her at the bedroom door. “Wait. What were you going to say?”
Sloane’s lips press together, pursing and flattening like she’s a fish struggling to breathe out of water. It isn’t until I rest my hand at the small of her back that her chest stops stuttering and she tips her head up to meet my gaze.
“I’m terrified, Griff. For fifteen years, I thought I was safe. And that made it okay to be alone. But now?”
Whatever she wants, I’ll give. Even if it scares the fuck out of me. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”
* * *
For two hours,Sloane sleeps, curled against my left side, her head resting on my chest. I wanted to hold her properly, but Wren messaged me just as we tried to get comfortable. A few minutes later, with the help of a couple of pillows, we found a compromise that lets me use my right arm to carry on a painfully slow text conversation with Second Sight’s hacker and still give Sloane what she needs most—a semblance of safety.
The “reporter”? A Russian thug who did time at the same prison as Volkov. She didn’t find any evidence he was involved in sex trafficking, but though his only conviction was for assault, the police tried—and failed—to pin three separate murders on him ten years ago.
The phone slips out of my hand, and instinct kicks in. I try to stop it from hitting the bed, but my sudden movement wakes Sloane, and her entire body tenses.
“Shhh. You’re okay, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
“Oh, God. How long did I sleep?”She wriggles up, and I wince as blood rushes back into my mangled left arm. “Griff? What is it?”
Rubbing my shoulder, I force a smile. “Nothing a few minutes won’t cure. Pins and needles.”
Sloane frowns, then reaches up and trails her fingers over the tingling muscles. “Can I…?”
“Only a fool would refuse a massage from a smart, gorgeous, and brave model sleeping in his bed.” With a grin, I put my glasses on and turn so my back is to her.
