Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 70801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 354(@200wpm)___ 283(@250wpm)___ 236(@300wpm)
Ozzy does not answer right away. He just looks at me like he hates the world for making me ask. Then he nods once, slow. “I’m not sure.”
And as the ambulance doors swing open, my father’s weak hand grips my sleeve for a second, fingers trembling. He whispers, barely audible, “She’s closer than you think.”
The doors close. The sirens rise. And my stomach drops, because I know he is not talking about Serafina being close. He’s talking about the mole.
TWENTY-SIX
OZZY
Hospitals have a smell that never leaves you once it gets in your lungs. Bleach, antiseptic, rubber gloves, and something faintly metallic that makes your stomach think of blood even when you cannot see any. The fluorescent lights are too bright and too flat, like they’re trying to erase every shadow a person could hide in. The floors shine from constant cleaning, but the place still feels dirty because fear has walked these halls a million times.
I hate it here. Not because of needles or doctors or paperwork. Because hospitals are where you wait. Waiting is torture when the person you care about is behind a curtain, and you do not know what they will look like when the curtain opens.
Salem sits on a narrow bed in a small exam room, wrapped in a hospital blanket that does nothing to warm her skin. Her hands are trembling slightly, and she keeps flexing her fingers like she’s making sure they still belong to her. The ropes left red marks around her wrists. Her cheek has a faint handprint bruise that is already darkening. She looks furious and exhausted at the same time, and the combination makes her eyes bright and dangerous.
I want to go back to the warehouse and break every single man who touched her.
I also want to pick her up and take her somewhere quiet and safe and warm, where no one can reach her again.
Neither option is available.
Across the hall, through a half-open door, I see Salem’s father on a gurney surrounded by staff. His shirt is cut open, wires stuck to his chest, blood pressure cuff cycling around his arm. A nurse presses gauze to a wound at his temple while another checks his pupils. His one eye that was swollen shut is worse now. His breathing sounds wet when he exhales.
He’s alive. Barely. And the words he dropped like a grenade are still ringing in my head.
A mole. Someone close. Closer than we think. That kind of sentence changes the way you look at people. It changes the way you hear footsteps behind you. It changes everything.
The hallway outside the exam room swells with noise. Footsteps. Voices. A crying child somewhere. A cart rattling by with metal instruments clinking like a warning.
Then my people arrive. My family.
They come in fast, like they’re used to moving together and filling space. Arrow first, eyes sharp, shoulders tense. Juno beside him, her gaze immediately hunting for Salem. Gage and River behind them, River’s face pale with worry and anger, Gage’s jaw set so tight it looks painful. Knight and Lark bring up the rear, Lark clutching a bottle of water like she grabbed it on instinct, Knight scanning the corridor like he expects a shooter.
Relief hits me hard. Then suspicion slides in right after it, cold and unwelcome. Because if there’s a mole, it could be anyone. I hate that thought. I hate it so much it makes my stomach twist. These people are my family. The people I would bleed for. The people who would bleed for me.
But I have watched evil wear friendly faces before.
Goldenbell was a lesson in that.
Arrow finds me, and his eyes flick to my face, reading the damage. “You okay?”
I nod once. “I’m here.” That is my way of saying I’m not okay, but I’m functional.
Juno slips past him and into the exam room. Salem lifts her head and her expression breaks for half a second. Juno crosses the room and wraps her arms around her like she’s been waiting to do it for weeks. Salem clutches her back hard. Lark follows, hovering for a beat before joining the hug, then River steps in too, tears in her eyes.
Gage stays near the doorway, protective and tense, gaze locking on Salem’s bruise like he wants to hunt someone down and tear them apart with his hands. Knight hangs back, arms folded, but his eyes stay soft on Lark like he is checking if she is okay too.
Arrow stays with me in the hall. He looks at me for a long moment. “Talk.”
I glance around. Nurses and patients move past. A cop stands at the end of the corridor, speaking with a doctor. Too many ears. Too many variables. I grip Arrow’s elbow and tug him toward a quieter section near a vending machine alcove where the noise is slightly muffled and the walls feel less exposed.