The Blackwell disappears behind buildings, behind traffic, behind distance. Sloane doesn't let go of my hand. I don't let go of hers.
Chapter 49
Knox
ThreedaysafterChicago,the news is running.
We flew back the morning after in Phoenix's jet. The whole team crammed in, silent in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. Sloane leaned into my shoulder for three hours and didn't say a word. Neither did I.
Now we're back at the clubhouse, and the televisions are on. Muted, but the anchors' faces say enough, that practiced composure that only shows up when an explosion just went off. Names scroll across the bottom of the screen. Politicians, judges, CEOs. Men who thought their power was permanent.
Phones buzz across the bar. A few low laughs. Someone mutters a curse.
The Society is exposed. Publicly fractured. The wreckage is spreading.
Phoenix stands near the bar, arms crossed, eyes on the screen. McKenzie stays close, her hand resting on the bar near his elbow.
Nash is on his phone in the corner, voice low, shoulders tight. He's been on calls since we landed. When Ruby appears near the doorway, tablet under her arm, he glances up. Their eyes meet. She holds the look for a second, jaw set, turns away. Whatever the fallout means for her family, she's carrying it without complaint. Nash watches her walk to the bar. His hand flexes around his phone.
Sloane is across the room, drink in hand, shoulders a fraction too tight. Her eyes sweep the space the way they always do. Doors, windows, bodies. I cross to her. My hand settles at her lower back. She leans into it.
The lunch starts loud and uncoordinated. Tables shoved together. Plates appearing from the kitchen. Kyle flicks a napkin at Rider. Rider fires back. East plays innocent while Darla instigates with a grin that should come with a warning label. Candace laughs, head tipped back, unguarded. James shakes his head from the end of the table, and Maggie swats Kyle's arm without looking up from her plate.
Malachi watches from his seat, solid and unmoving.
Sloane gets pulled in without ceremony. Candace loops an arm through hers. Darla puts a fresh drink into her hand. She lets it happen. She stays in the middle of the table, not the edges.
I let her go. Drift back to the bar, pour two fingers of whiskey, and lean against the rail. She keeps finding me anyway. Fingers brushing my wrist as she passes. A pointed hip bump when she laughs. A brief tug at my belt loop that sends a jolt straight through me.
I watch her move through the room.
My hand drifts toward my hip. Empty. I force it back to the whiskey.
My eyes track movement. East shifts toward Darla. Nash's hand on his phone. The angle of the door when Kyle pushes through. Threat assessment. Exit routes. Sightlines.
I know they're safe. My body hasn't caught up.
Every sound is too sharp. Glass clinking, chairs scraping, voices layering in a frequency that sets my teeth on edge.
Measured breath. I loosen my grip on the glass before I shatter it. Sloane glances over from across the room. Her eyes narrow. She's reading me the way she reads vitals. Quick, clinical, cataloging symptoms I thought I was hiding.
She says a word to Candace, excuses herself with an easy smile. Crosses the room with her gaze locked on mine. She steps between my knees where I'm braced against the bar. Sets her hands on my shoulders.
I put the glass down. My hands find her waist.
"Hey," she says, voice low.
"Hey." Rougher than I mean.
Her fingers slide to the back of my neck, thumb stroking the tense muscle there. Her eyes move across my face, checking.
"You're scanning," she murmurs.
"I know."
"Your pulse is racing." Her thumb finds the spot at the base of my skull and bears down.
"I know that too."
