"Knox?" I say quietly.
He exhales hard, controlled. "Just—fuck. Her own father—" He doesn't finish. "She fought," Knox continues, refocusing. "Two men came to her place. He must've told them how to get in. She's a black belt. They didn't see that coming. She fucked them up and ran. Made it here."
Two men. A father spending his daughter like cash. A girl running toward the only people who might protect her. My skin goes cold. I don't draw the line all the way from here to Chicago. I don't let myself. But the shape is there.
"Bruised. Shaken," he says. "Malachi wants you to check her over. Make sure we don't need scans."
"Okay. I've got her."
His gaze sharpens. He sees the way my fingers won't unclench around the helmet strap. "You sure?" he asks quietly, and there's more in the question than are you okay to work.
Airway. Breathing. Circulation. Neuro. Musculoskeletal.
"I'm sure. This is what I do."
He nods once. "Malachi's outside her door. Second floor, end of the hall. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."
He trusts me to handle this. I hand him the helmet and head inside.
Nash catches me at the bottom of the stairs with a canvas bag. "Got her stuff from the house." He shoves it into my hands gruffly. "Don't ask how the dresser looks."
The hallway outside Candace's borrowed room smells like old wood, soap, and faint smoke. The door is shut. Malachi is a solid wall of muscle and ink beside it, arms crossed. He looks up at my footsteps. His eyes soften a fraction.
"Thanks for coming, Sloane."
"Of course." My voice is steadier here, wrapped in purpose. "How long since she got here?"
"Late last night. Barely got three words out before she crashed. I looked her over myself." His jaw tightens, eyes flicking toward the door. "No signs of head trauma. No fractures I could find. But…" He exhales hard through his nose. Anger and something close to fear twist under the surface. "I want your eyes on her too. Make sure I didn't miss anything."
His shoulders are carved from granite, and the tendon in his neck hasn't stopped jumping since I came up the stairs. He arrived after. That's the part eating him alive.
"I'll check her over," I say gently. "If anything looks off, we take her in. If not… rest, ice, hydration, and people around her who give a damn."
His shoulders drop a fraction. "Good," he mutters. "She'll let you in more than me."
I reach for the door, hitching the canvas bag higher on my shoulder, then knock softly. "Candace?"
A pause. Soft movement. The door cracks open, and the chain rattles. One wary eye appears before the chain pulls free and the door opens wider. She looks smaller today. Shoulders tight, eyes ringed with exhaustion and something hollow.
"Hey," I say. I shift the bag off my shoulder. "Malachi asked me to check on you. I'm a nurse at the hospital."
Her gaze flicks to the bag, then my face. Instead of slamming the door, she steps back. No words. Just a small, brittle nod.
I step inside. The room is dim with one lamp on. The bed is rumpled, sheets twisted as though she's tried and failed to rest. She pads over and sits on the edge, bare feet curling against the cool floor. I set the bag beside her.
"Nash brought some stuff from your house," I say quietly. "Clothes. Toiletries."
Her throat works. She doesn't reach for the bag.
I don't comment. I move around her, checking the space the way I always do, cataloguing exits, obstacles, what I've got to work with.
"Mind if I take a look? Make sure nothing needs more than rest and ice?"
Another beat. "Sure."
I wash my hands in the small adjoining bathroom, then come back and sit on the mattress beside her. Close enough to work but not crowd. My hands are steady when I reach for her, even though my heart beats a little too fast.
"Any dizziness? Nausea? Blurry vision? Headache worse than a hangover?"
