"That's Maggie," Knox says, already standing. "And probably Frankie."
"What—"
"You'll see."
He cracks it open. Maggie breezes in like she owns the oxygen. Frankie follows, a bag slung over her shoulder and a garment bag hooked over her fingers.
"We brought things," Maggie announces.
"What things?" I ask, pulling the blanket Knox must've tucked around me at some point.
"Courthouse things," Frankie says, lifting a garment bag. "Maggie called your sizes in before you finished the chili. Dress. Shoes. Something that won't make the judge wonder if Knox kidnapped you."
I open my mouth, close it, then open it again. "How—"
"Because you deserve to feel like yourself walking in there," Maggie says, already heading to the kitchen to unload another bag. "Not like a runaway with one pair of socks to her name."
Frankie drops the bags on the couch. "Makeup. Toiletries. Couple outfits to get you through the week. And shampoo that doesn't reek of someone else's misery."
I blink hard. "I-I'm not sure what to say."
"Try 'thank you,'" Frankie says lightly. "Then try on the dress."
Knox hovers at my side. Maggie shoots him a look.
"Go." She points. "Malachi wants you. So does James."
Knox bristles. "For what?"
"Doesn't matter. Let us talk to Sloane."
"I'm not—"
"Knoxville Turner, do I look like I'm asking?"
Knox stares at her. Frankie props a hand on her hip. "Go before she calls your mother."
Knox mutters a curse. I touch his wrist. "It's okay."
He studies my face. "You sure?"
"Yes," I whisper. "Go."
He cups the back of my neck once, warm and anchoring. "I'll be right outside." Then he leaves.
The room exhales. Maggie sets a mug of tea in front of me. Frankie sits cross-legged on the opposite couch. Silver rings stack her fingers, and the sleeve winding up her left arm isn't bar flash; it's constellations, nebulae, something cosmic and precise.
"Alright, sweetheart," Maggie says gently. "Let's get everything laid out for tomorrow."
The lump in my throat swells. I step into the bathroom and slip the dress over my head. The fabric settles against my skin, soft and fitted. When I look in the mirror, I almost don't recognize the woman staring back. Maggie smooths the collar when I come out. Frankie lines up the makeup on the coffee table, uncapping an eyeliner to test the shade against my wrist.
"Perfect," she murmurs, capping it again. "We'll do your face in the morning."
Chapter 10
Knox
Iwakeuphard.Because of her. Sloane is wrapped around me the way someone does when they've been doing it for years. One thigh is hooked over my hip, knee pushing into my stomach. Hand fisted in my T-shirt as though she thinks I might vanish if she lets go. Her face is tucked into my throat, breath warm on my skin every few seconds. Every exhale is a stroke along my nerves.
