"Out," Sloane barks, snapping like a whip. "If you're not helping, get the hell out of my way."
No one argues. Not even Malachi. We all back out toward the stairs. I linger in the doorway. She knows it. Lets me stay.
Her hands move fast. IV line. Fluids. Tourniquet adjustment. She leans in to listen to his chest, stethoscope against blood-slick skin. For a brief second, when she tips her face away from the table, the mask slips. Eyes squeeze shut a heartbeat too long, a tremor shadowing her shoulders.
The urge hits hard to drag Donovan off the table and let him bleed out on the floor. Another pull rises just as strong to get Sloane out of this basement and keep her far from men like him. Both urges stay locked behind clenched teeth.
I can picture it without being told. A girl in a house too big and too quiet. Trained early to keep steady hands over men who never earned them. Her whole past stays out of reach. Moments like this still sketch the outline of it, sharp as a scar under fabric.
Because Malachi is right; if Donovan talks, we get the names. The routes. The auction houses. The people who took Cornelius from him and put girls like the ones from the docks in cages.
"Vitals are holding," Sloane says finally, stepping back. Hoarse. "He's barely hanging on, but he's hanging on. If you're going to ask him anything, do it now. I make no promises after that."
I crack the basement door and jerk my chin toward the hall. Malachi steps back in, eyes already locked on Donovan. Hemoves to the table and crouches by Donovan's head like a demon come to collect.
I stay where I am. Close enough to watch Sloane.
"Talk," Malachi growls. "You're not dead yet. And you don't get to die until I say so. You're going to tell me everything. About Alice Brighton. About Cornelius. About the night my siblings disappeared."
Alice Brighton.
I see it land in Sloane's body before my brain catches up. Her head jerks the tiniest bit. Fingers flex. Color drains from her face. She knows that name.
Alice. Donovan. Auctions.
Cold, sick dread unfurls in my gut.
Donovan wheezes a laugh, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "Still clinging to that old ghost, huh?"
He keeps talking. Sloane keeps him alive long enough to do it.
I memorize every flinch in her shoulders as Donovan spits out pieces of Malachi's past. Cornelius, a sister and brother stolen. Her eyes never leave the vitals, but I can feel her drifting somewhere else, following her ghosts down a hallway that leads back to Chicago.
When Donovan crashes, Sloane moves in like a machine. Fast and precise. All focus. "He's crashing. Back off."
Malachi doesn't move right away. His voice dips dangerously. "I'll be back. You're not dying until you give me names."
Their gazes lock. Malachi's is feral, Sloane's is sharp with something like accusation she doesn't voice. Then he backs away. I step in as she starts compressions, as she barks at the prospect to adjust the bag, up the fluids, get the epinephrine. Her arms shake with effort. Sweat beads at her hairline.
She's bringing back a man who has done nothing but damage this city and the people in it, and she's doing it because that'swho she is. Because she doesn't get to choose who lands on her table.
Even when every part of you is screaming to let them bleed out.
When his vitals steady into something resembling a rhythm, she blows out a breath that sounds like it hurts.
"That's it. That's all he gets from me. Next time he flatlines, he can meet whatever's waiting for him."
The prospect nods, eyes wide, hands still on the bag. Sloane peels off her gloves like they offend her and tosses them. Her hands are shaking openly now.
I move in, slow. "Sloane."
She startles, as if she forgot I was there. Eyes glassy around the edges, pupils blown too wide. "I need a shower. Then I need to eat something before I pass out."
"Yeah. Okay. Let's get you upstairs."
She goes with me as I steer her toward the stairs. Her hands stay at her sides. I stand guard outside the clubhouse bathroom, arms crossed, back to the wall, listening to the thud of water against tile.
Every now and again, I hear the rhythm of her movements. Fast. Rough. Like she's trying to scrub something out of her skin. When she comes out in clean leggings and an oversized tee, hair braided back, her eyes are their normal color again.
