I can't breathe. Knox's hand clamps around my waist. "Sloane?" His voice sounds as if he's speaking underwater.
"I-I need a second," I whisper. My throat tightens until the next breath barely gets through. "Bathroom—I just—one second."
I don't wait. Can't. I push through the crowd, not sure if I'm walking or fleeing. The hallway feels too narrow. The lights too bright. Air too thick. By the time I burst into the bathroom, my hands are shaking so hard I nearly miss the lock.
The bolt clicks into place with a sharp metallic sound. I grip the sink so tightly my knuckles go white.
In. Out. You know how to breathe.
But the inhale catches. The exhale stutters. My chest is a fist squeezing tighter and tighter. That name. I didn't know who he was back then. Just a face at my father's events, a voice on the other end of phone calls I wasn't supposed to hear. But after I ran, the pieces started falling into place. Donovan Castiel was the one who supplied the girls. Found them, moved them, delivered them to the prep rooms where I checked their vitals and wrote them off as healthy. My father's pipeline. Here. In Willowridge.
My reflection blurs. My knees wobble. The bathroom suddenly feels too small. I force cold water over my wrists, then my face. The shock bites, but the panic doesn't break. My hands won't stop shaking. I press them flat against the porcelain and hold on.
After what feels like hours, I pull myself together. Or something that passes for "together." I dry my face. Straighten up. Take a breath that doesn't quite work.
I unlock the door. And Knox is there. Leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, head tipped down, but his eyes lift the second the door cracks open.
His chest is barely moving. His jaw is set so hard the muscle trembles. "Sloane," he says. Quiet, but razor-sharp at the edges. My mouth goes dry. "You recognized that name." Not a question.
"Knox—"
He crosses the hallway in two strides, controlled and certain. "That was about you."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying." His voice doesn't rise. That's almost worse. I step back instinctively, spine pressing into the doorframe, and he stops just short of touching me.
"I don't want to do this here," I whisper.
"I don't care where we do it. I care that you looked like you were about to pass out when Rider said his name."
"Please—"
"Tell me what that means." His voice breaks around the edges. "Tell me what I'm looking at." I flinch. It betrays me. His eyes flash with pain. Real pain. "Baby. How do you know that name?"
"Nothing. Nobody," I choke out.
"Don't." One word. Soft, terrified. "Don't disappear on me."
My throat burns. "I can't. Knox, I can't."
"Why?" His voice cracks. "Who is Donovan Castiel to you?" If he knew the truth, he'd look at me differently. And I can't survive that.
"I just can't," I whisper.
Knox closes his eyes as though it hurts to look at me. His hand lifts halfway and stops. He makes a fist instead. "Sloane." My name comes out raw. "I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm protecting you from."
That almost unravels me. Almost. "I'm not ready," I manage.
Pain flickers across his face before he looks away. He swallows hard. Doesn't say anything. I slip past him. He doesn't follow. I keep walking. I don't look back. If I look back, I'll tell him everything, and I'm not ready for what comes after that.
Chapter 17
Knox
I'meagertogoafter her so badly my hands curl into fists. Instead I stand in that hallway, listening to Sloane's footsteps disappear down the stairs and out the door as my nails bite into my palms.
Don't chase. Don't corner her when she's already scared.
