The elevator doors slid open onto the residential floor. Brock hitched Harper higher in his arms, tightening his grip as he carried her past closed doors and quiet walls. Her head lolled against his chest with the shift, a tiny whimper escaping as the movement pulled at bruised ribs. The wing stayed hushed, everyone down for the night, no one in the corridor to mark his passing. The dull thud of his boots carried along the carpet until he reached his own door. He swiped his card, waited for the soft click of the lock, and shouldered inside.
The place opened up around him, clean lines and bare surfaces. He kept moving. Her fingers hung slack, blood slipping from them to the floor in slow drops, dark streaks trailing him toward the back hall. He went past the living room and down the short corridor to the washroom at the end, slate under the lights and fixtures he knew he could work with.
He nudged the door wider with his shoulder and flicked the light on. The space was all white counter and dark stone, a wide mirror running the length of the wall. The shower sat behind glass on one side with a deep tub opposite, towels rolled tight on the open shelf between. Chrome fixtures caught the light and threw it back along clean edges, everything squared off and in its place under the bright overheads.
Brock dipped his knees and lowered her onto the tile in front of the vanity. Her weight shifted in his arms, a low sound scraping out of her as bruised ribs took even a hint of pressure. He caught the back of her head in his palm so it didn't knock the cabinet, then eased her down until she sat with her spine against the wood, legs loose, heels skidding once on the bloody spots she'd already left behind.
Harper's chin sagged toward her chest. Brock let her lean while he reached past her to the open shelf, dragging two towels free. He worked one folded towel under her hips, then shoved the other into the gap at her back, padding the base of the cabinet from her shoulders up.
His hand came back to her face and tipped it up, angling her toward the light. Her pupils tightened under the glare. He checked one eye, then the other, tracking the way they moved. His gaze dropped to her throat. The cut ran along the front, a raw line where the knife had kissed skin. Blood slid from it in a steady crawl, slicking over the rise of her collarbone and soaking into the collar of her shirt.
He grabbed another towel from the shelf, twisted it tight and folded it over. When he pressed it to her throat, her whole body jumped. Her hand shot up, fingers clamping around his wrist with more strength than he expected.
"Easy, you're alright."
Her grip dug in, eyes wide and out of focus, breath tearing fast. The towel under his palm grew warm and wet.
"Stay with me." He kept his wrist turned inside her hold so he didn't lose contact with the wound. "I've got you."
She didn't answer. Her fingers stayed locked on him, tendons standing out under skin slick with sweat and blood. The urge to tear his arm free, to snap at her to let go and let him work, flared up out of habit, but he pushed it down and held steady, waiting out the first wild spike of her panic. He kept his hand firm at her throat until her grip eased a fraction. Her breathing stayed rough, but it found a pattern.
"That's it. Right there."
He watched color shift in her face. Her skin stayed too pale, lips gone to a flat line, but her eyes at least had something behind them now besides blind panic.
"Hey." He waited until her gaze twitched in his direction. "Look at me."
It took a few tries. Her focus slid past him, snagged on the doorway, the floor, anything that wasn't his face. He tightened his fingers on the towel, just enough to remind her where he was.
"Eyes here. What's your name?"
Her gaze dragged back to him by degrees, skittering once to the side before it finally caught on his. Her throat worked under his palm. "Harper." The word scraped out thin and rough. Her focus slipped down to his chest, anywhere that wasn't his eyes. After a second, she added, "Voss."
"Good." He brought his other hand up into her line of sight. "Who am I?"
Her brow pulled in. For a moment she stared past his shoulder, the name just out of reach. Then her eyes came back to his.
"Brock."
He gave a small nod. "Who else was in the car today?"
Silence stretched. She blinked once, slow. Her fingers clenched on his wrist again, then loosened.
"Nolan."
"Yeah." He lifted two fingers. "Watch my hand."
He moved them side to side in front of her face. Her gaze tracked after them, a little lag on the left that he filed away. He drew his fingers in toward the bridge of her nose; her eyes pulled in with them, holding before one drifted off.
"Good enough." He eased the towel back from her throat. Fresh red welled along the cut, but it came in a slow crawl now.
Harper flinched at the change in pressure, fingers twitching on his wrist like they wanted to drag his hand back. Her hand followed his for a few inches, then slipped, knuckles bumping her chest before dropping to her lap.
"Hold still." He slid the towel lower and wedged the folded edge into the hollow at the base of her throat, tucking it against her collar so it would catch whatever else slipped free.
He let his gaze trace her face. Blood slicked her lips and chin, drying in streaks at the corners of her mouth. More had gathered under her nose and along the bridge, skin already swelling around the break. One side sat a fraction higher than it should.
"Your nose is broken. I need to set it or it'll heal wrong."
Her eyes flicked to his, something wary cutting through the fog as her fingers dug into her own legs.
"Harper." He shifted closer, knees braced on either side of her leg so she couldn't slide away. "This is gonna hurt. It'll be quick."
A small shake ran through her head before she caught it. He saw the moment she thought about turning away and the cabinet at her back cut that option off.
He adjusted his grip, thumb and forefinger sliding along the bridge of her nose, the rest of his hand cupping her cheek to hold her steady. She flinched at the contact, shoulders knotting, one heel scraping against the floor. His weight kept her pinned. "On three. Breathe in."
Her mouth opened as air dragged in through her teeth, ragged and thin.
"One." His grip on her face tightened.
"Two."
He moved. Cartilage shifted under his fingers with a dull crunch. Her whole body arched, a choked cry ripped out before she could drag it back down. Her hand jerked up and shoved at his chest, fingers bunching in his shirt and finding nothing that would give.
Brock let the hit land. He caught her wrist, pried her fingers loose one at a time, and guided her hand back to her thigh, holding it there until the strain eased.
"Breathe." His grip on her face softened by degrees. Fresh blood spilled from her nostrils, streaking over his fingers.
He held her for a few passes of her breath, then let go long enough to snag a clean towel. He folded it once and pressed it under her nose, tilting her head forward so the blood ran to the cloth instead of down her throat.
"Hold it." He set her fingers over the towel and closed his own around them to reinforce the pressure. He counted the pull of her breathing, waiting for the hot run against the fabric to slow.
The strain in her shoulders unwound to a shiver. When he checked the towel, the flow had dropped to a sluggish seep. Her fingers curled in her lap when he moved the cloth away, any strength gone from them now.
His hand moved to her side. Her shirt clung damp where sweat and blood had soaked through.
"I need to check your ribs next."
Her eyes flicked down, tracking his hand, then snapped back up. Muscles bunched under his touch before he'd even started. Her fingers crawled up to her own legs, clutching at the fabric over her thighs until her knuckles went white.
"Breathe normal. In and out. Don't hold it."
He set his palm against the side of her torso and began to work along each rib with slow pressure. The first pass across the upper ones dragged a hiss from between her teeth. Lower, near where boots had caught her, she jolted hard. Her grip on her legs tightened, fingertips digging into the muscle through the cloth.
"Here." He eased off, then pressed again, lighter, feeling for any give. Heat pulsed under his hand, deep and ugly, but the bone stayed put.
She stared past him at the far wall, jaw clenched, breathing rough as he worked along the line. His hand moved around to the front, the heel of his palm settling just under the edge of her ribs. "Tell me if anything shifts."
She dragged in air and he pressed in. Pain ran across her features, but nothing shifted under his palm.
He worked his way to her other side, mirroring the pattern. By the time he finished, her hands were still locked on her thighs, trembling with the effort.
"You're bruised to hell, but nothing feels broken."
The words didn't land. Harper's gaze drifted to the floor between them, lashes sticking where sweat and blood had dried. Her hands stayed locked, fingers trembling.
Brock pushed up and took stock. Blood streaked her face and throat, smeared across her shirt in wide swaths. More soaked the front of her pants and spattered along her legs, darker patches already drying at the seams. Her hair hung in ropes around her face, sweat-tangled and stiff where blood had glued strands together.
"We're done with the checks. Next is getting this off you."
She went very still. Her gaze dropped to her shirt, the smeared red across the front of it, then to the stains on her pants before dragging back up to his face. The muscles along her jaw jumped. One hand caught at the collar of her shirt, dragging the fabric higher toward her throat. "Don't."
He let the refusal sit, held her stare. "You're covered in blood, Harper."
Her mouth worked once. Nothing came out. She tipped her chin down, shoulders curving, trying to make the space she took up smaller.
"Med bay's off limits. You're staying here. I'm not calling anyone in." His gaze didn't move from her face. "That leaves me."
Her breath came quicker, shallow pulls through her mouth as one hand fumbled for the towel at her throat, bunching the edge in her fist.
He dropped back into a crouch. "Listen. You stay on the ground. I'm gonna get the water going. We'll move fast."
She stared past him at the door, jaw tight, throat working. It was the only way out and the place everything bad came from, and she watched it like it might move again.
"Eyes here." When she finally dragged her gaze back, he gave her the only concession he had. "I'm not them. I'm getting you clean. That's it."
Her brow creased. Her hand eased off the towel at her throat and fell back to her leg.
He pushed to his feet, stepped into the glass enclosure and turned the handle. Water hammered the pan, steam already sliding along the glass. He checked the temperature with the back of his wrist, rolled it down to something warm, then left it running.
When he came back, Harper hadn't shifted. Her shoulders were up around her ears, chin tucked, arms crossed hard over her chest.
"We'll start with the shirt. I'm not pulling it over your head."
Her forearms dug into her ribs, a reflex squeeze she couldn't stop. Pain chased it across her face. He went to his belt for the knife. The weight settled into his palm when he flipped it open. Her gaze snapped to the glint of steel, what color she had left draining out.
"It's for the fabric. Nothing else."
He moved in close, angled the blade away from skin, his free hand sliding under the hem of her shirt to catch the cloth. She shook hard enough that the handle vibrated against his fingers. He drew the knife up through the fabric, splitting the shirt from hem to collar. The material parted with a soft rip. He shut the knife and put it back at his hip.
He peeled the torn halves away from her sides, working the fabric out from under her crossed forearms. Each pass pulled small flinches along her frame, shoulders jumping whenever his fingers skimmed fresh bruises. He kept his focus on the damage itself—dark blooms along her ribs, streaks of drying red on her skin—not on the lines beneath.
When the shirt slid free, he dropped it in a heap by the tub. The towel at her throat sagged without the collar to pin it; he tossed it with the rest. The bleeding had eased to a thin line. It could wait until she was clean.
Harper still hadn't uncrossed her arms. They stayed locked over her bra, shoulders curled in, ribs protesting the angle.
"We're heading to the shower." He straightened and stepped back into the enclosure, nudged the handle until the spray steadied, then came for her.
"On your feet." He slid a hand under her arm, the other braced at her side. "Use me."
She tensed, but her fingers hooked into his sleeve and she let him bring her up. Her legs wobbled once; he took the weight until she found balance, then guided her the few steps to the threshold, letting her catch the edge of the glass.
"We're taking the rest off now. Quick as we can."
Her grip on the glass tightened as he settled into a crouch at her waist, fingers going to the button of her pants. "Eyes up. Wall, ceiling, me. Just don't fold."
The button came free. He eased the zipper down and worked the waistband loose, careful around the worst of the bruising. The fabric clung where blood had dried, then gave. He took her underwear with it in one drag so he didn't have to put her through this twice.
"Hand on my shoulder." He tapped once and felt her fingers land there, shaking but firm enough. "Shift your weight."
She leaned into him as he drew the bundle of cloth down over one hip, then the other, dropping it at her ankles. One by one he lifted her feet clear, steadying her with his hand at her thigh so she didn't slip.
As soon as he let go, her hands dropped, one crossing in front of her, the other tucking down between her thighs. She turned in a fraction, trying to hide what she could when there wasn't enough hand to cover it all.
That left the bra.
He rose to his full height, close enough that her shoulder nearly brushed his chest. "Last one. You can leave your hands where they are."
Her jaw tightened, but she didn't move as he reached behind her, fingers finding the clasp. The hook gave on the second try. He slid the straps down her shoulders and along her arms, letting the cups fall away while she stayed curled in on herself. When the fabric cleared her elbows, he pulled it free and tossed it onto the pile.
"Step in." He kept one hand at her back, guiding her over the lip of the stall. Warm water caught her shins and crept higher, streaking the dried red down into pink rivulets that chased each other toward the drain.
"Sit down. Back against the wall."
She eased herself toward the floor, one hand catching the corner for balance. Brock went with her, palm firm at her side to take some of the drop. When she reached the ground, she folded her legs in and let her spine rest against the wet wall, one arm still clamped over her chest, chin tucked down against the spray.
He adjusted the showerhead so the stream hit just above her shoulders. Water slid down her neck and over her collarbones, loosening dried red into thin threads that ran along her skin before the spray scattered them toward the drain.
Brock stepped in far enough that the water caught him too, soaking into his sleeves and collar. He reached for a washcloth and bottle from the corner, let the cloth fill under the stream, poured in soap and worked it between his hands until it frothed.
He started with her hands. Harper didn't offer them; they just lay where she'd left them. He took the lower one first, lifting it and turning it over. Blood and grit had dried in the lines of her skin and under her nails. The cloth moved over each finger, around the knuckles and across split skin. She hissed once and her hand twitched, but that was all. When he rinsed the suds away, he set that hand back and picked up the other, working the same care into each finger. When both were done, she pulled them in again, arms climbing back over her chest in a tight fold.
Her face came next. He caught her chin and tipped it up into the spray. Her eyes stayed open until he brushed his thumb once over her brow in warning, then they slid closed. The cloth ran along her cheekbones in slow passes, each stroke pulling a tiny twitch from the muscles around her eyes. He circled the swelling at her nose, worked carefully over her mouth to clear the cracking red at the edges, then skimmed the line of her jaw and the column of her throat, minding the slice at the front and cleaning around it instead of across.
He drew the cloth over the tops of her shoulders, then paused. Her forearms were still clamped across her chest, skin under them streaked.
"I'm moving these. Just for a second."
He took her right wrist, lifted it away from her body and turned it so her own forearm shielded most of her from his line of sight. With the cloth in his other hand, he worked across the skin beneath, quick passes over the bruised swell of her chest and the smeared red along her sternum. She flinched, muscles tensing, but she let him finish. He rinsed the cloth and did the same on the other side, then set her arm back where she wanted it.
He followed the marks he already knew: down the line of her ribs, around each bruise, along the length of her arms. Soap and heat dragged sweat and blood away in thin trails.
The rush of the shower and the uneven pull of her breathing filled the space as he took her ankle, running the cloth along her shin and over the arch of her foot, then doing the same on the other side. By the time he pushed back to stand, his shirt clung to him in damp folds and the water around the drain had gone from cloudy pink to mostly clear. Harper sat where he'd put her, back to the wall, arms drawn in, skin scrubbed down to bruises and heat.
Brock set the cloth aside and reached for the smaller bottle on the caddy. He shook shampoo into his palm and shifted in closer, dropping to a knee at her side. The spray caught his shoulder and the side of his neck. He rubbed his hands together until the soap turned slick, then set one palm lightly at the back of her head, fingers spreading through the wet strands at her nape.
"Head forward."
She held herself against the wall for a breath, then let him guide her. Her back peeled from the tile as he drew her out into the stream, angling her so the water ran through her hair. When it was wet through, he eased her back and set his soaped hand to work.
His fingers pushed lather back through the strands in slow circles, following the shape of bone underneath, pressing just enough to loosen what was stuck there.
After a few passes, her head started to move with him. At first it was barely there, a slight tilt into each stroke, like her skull was tracking the path his hand took. Then her neck loosened and she leaned more fully into his touch, pressing up into his palm when he dragged it through the thickest part of her hair.
She didn't seem to notice. Her eyes stayed closed, lashes clumped, mouth parted around the rough pull of her breathing. He went still for a breath, feeling the weight of her settle into his hand, then forced himself to keep going, fingers sweeping through the soap as if nothing had shifted.
The moment broke fast. Something in her caught up, realized how close she'd let herself fall, and her spine tightened. She jerked her head forward out of his reach, shoulders hunching as her hands spread between her knees like she needed something solid under them.
Brock moved with her, keeping to her side. He angled the showerhead away from her face and rinsed the foam from her hair in slow passes until the last of it spiraled away and clean, dark strands lay against her neck.
He shut the water off, and the sudden quiet rang in his ears. Drops clung to the glass and slid down in slow tracks. Harper sat braced forward, hands on the tile, hair dripping onto her thighs.
He stepped out, boots leaving wet prints, and grabbed a towel, setting it on the floor in front of the vanity. He stepped back in and crouched, sliding an arm under her knees and another around her back. He lifted, stepping over the lip of the stall and set her down on the fresh towel, easing her back until her shoulders found the cabinet again.
Water ran off both of them, pattering onto the tile. His shirt stuck to his chest and arms, heavy and cold, jeans dark to mid-calf. He ignored it as he grabbed another towel from the stack and dropped into a crouch at her feet. He worked from the edges in—ankles first, blotting water from bone and skin, then up along her shins and over her knees. The towel moved in brisk presses instead of scrubbing, careful where bruises sat close. Her toes curled once when he passed over them, then went still.
From there he moved higher, patting down her forearms where they clutched the towel, then her shoulders, drawing some of the damp out. The closer he got to her throat, the tighter her grip turned, knuckles hard and pale under the wet cloth.
His hand stilled at the edge of it. "I need to look at this," he told her, voice low. "Quick check, that's all." Her fingers held for one long breath, then loosened enough for him to slide in underneath. He lifted the towel away from her neck. The cut dragged across the front of her throat in an ugly line, edges swollen and red, a thin thread of fresh blood still working free.
He leaned past her, opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a white kit, the hinges giving a small click when it opened on the counter. Gauze, tape, a brown bottle. He twisted the cap off and soaked a pad, the sting of antiseptic curling into the air before he even brought it close.
"Hold still." One hand settled at the back of her head, fingers spread in her wet hair. He pressed the soaked pad to the slice. Her whole body flinched, a rough sound scraping out between her teeth as the liquid caught in open skin. He kept the pad there until the worst of the bleed slowed, then swapped it for clean gauze, smoothing it along the line and fixing it in place with two tight strips of tape. When he stepped back, a white band sat neat across her throat, skin around it flushed under the lights.
Only then did he move her again. His arms slid under her knees and shoulders, lifting her light from the seat. She gave a faint sound at the shift, more breath than protest, but her body stayed slack against him. Water still tracked from the ends of her hair, soaking into his shirt as he drew her in. He carried her down the short hall, boots whispering over carpet, until the spare room opened up in front of them.
The bed waited against the far wall, plain frame and untouched sheets, corners tucked tight the way he'd left them months ago. No pictures, no clutter. Just a dresser, a nightstand, the faint trace of laundry soap in the air.
He lowered her onto the mattress with care, one hand at the back of her head until it found the pillow. The towel slipped from her shoulders and fell open, damp fabric darkening the sheet beneath her. She shivered once and tried to curl, muscles drawing in on themselves. He steadied her with a hand along her arm, keeping the movement small so her ribs didn't have to take the strain.
"I'll be back." The words came out level, nothing added on top of them.
He stepped away long enough to cross to his own room. Drawers opened and shut under his hands, cotton and worn elastic sliding past his fingers until he had what he needed. When he came back, he carried a folded bundle—grey sweats and a black T-shirt, his, the only option. They'd drown her, but they were clean and soft from enough washes to give.
He set the clothes on the edge of the bed and eased her upright again, an arm behind her shoulders. Her head tipped against his chest for a second before she pulled it back on reflex. He didn't comment. He just worked: shirt over her arms and down her torso in careful pulls so the fabric didn't catch the bandage at her throat, sweats drawn up over her hips and legs, waistband bunching loose at her waist. He moved fast and steady, leaving no space for her to fold deeper in on herself.
When he finished, he settled her back and pulled the blanket up over her, tucking it once at her sides so it wouldn't slide free if she thrashed. The clothes hung big on her, sleeves covering her elbows, collar loose around the fresh tape at her neck, but every inch of her was covered. Her breathing rasped against the pillow in uneven pulls, body heavy under the drag of exhaustion and the comedown from fear.
Brock stayed at the edge of the bed for a long moment, forearms braced to his knees, watching the rise and fall of her chest. The spare room had never held anything but furniture and dust before; now it held a Viper in his clothes, bandaged and bruised, lying in his space instead of concrete.
When her breaths finally settled into something steadier, he pushed to his feet. The mattress lifted back into shape as his weight left it. Harper rolled onto her side the second he moved away, knees drawing up, arms folding tight across her ribs. The blanket shifted with her and stayed put, tucking what warmth she had around her as she curled small on the edge of the bed.
He watched her a little longer, jaw set. His hand hovered for a second near the light switch, then flipped it down, leaving only the glow from the hall. He stepped out of the spare room and pulled the door in until the latch caught. For a moment he stood there, palm flat to the wood, feeling the faint hum of the ventilation through it. Then he pushed off and moved up the hall in a straight line, wet fabric clinging to him with each move.
The kitchen blurred past, counter clean, sink empty. His shirt had gone dark from the shower, water and old blood soaked deep into the cotton where the spray hadn't reached. Rust-colored patches clung along his sleeves and at the seams, a thin line dried along one forearm where he'd rolled the cuff back. His hands carried more of it, a stain under the nails and at the knuckles that the cloth hadn't scraped free.
He pulled the handle, stepped into the residential hall, and let the door seal at his back.
The corridor ran long under the steady hum of the lights. He didn't slow until he reached a door a few units down. Another keypad waited low against the wall. His fingers punched in the code from habit, and he pushed the handle as soon as the light flipped green.
Nolan's quarters sat in low light, blue glow from the television washing over the couch and table. Some late game ran muted on the screen, players frozen in mid-play. Nolan sprawled deep in the cushions, boots crossed at the ankles, one arm thrown along the back of the couch. A half-empty bottle sweated circles onto the scarred wood in front of him.
The door clicked shut behind Brock. Nolan glanced over, grin already starting as his eyes ran up and down him once—hair damp, shirt stuck to his frame, water still dripping off the hem.
"About time," he called, grin widening. "You go for a swim with your clothes on or what?"
Brock didn't answer.
Nolan's gaze lingered, the joke fading as he looked closer. Darker patches clung along the fabric where the water hadn't washed blood clean. His eyes tracked a line on Brock's forearm, a stain that didn't match the rest.
The grin died. His shoulders pulled in tight. "Hold up." He pushed up off the couch, squinting. "That's not all water. Are you bleeding?"
Brock shook his head once. "None of it's mine."
Some of the tension slid off Nolan's chest, but the rest stayed locked in his jaw. "So whose is it?" he asked. "You take a job without me while I was sitting on my ass in here?"
Brock dragged his palms over his face, pressing them hard into his eyes until colors flashed under his eyelids. He held there for a breath, pulled air in steady, then dropped his hands and looked at Nolan.
"You remember the three idiots who went after her in the showers last week?" he asked. "Dace, Miller, Hark."
Nolan's mouth curled, a humorless twist. "Roth and Dane's bottom shelf. Yeah, I remember 'em. Why?"
"I caught them in her cell tonight."
Nolan went still. "Come again?"
"I went downstairs to kill the lights," Brock said. "Same as every night. I was gonna walk past her door, like usual. Didn't plan to look in." His jaw flexed. "Then I heard something in her cell."
Nolan stared, eyes fixed on his face.
"I opened her door," Brock went on. "Two of them had her pinned on the floor. Third had a blade on her throat."
Nolan blinked once, slow. "They were just gonna take her out? There on the concrete?"
"No." Brock's voice flattened. "I mean, not yet." His tongue checked the inside of his teeth, like he needed the contact. "They had her down with her pants halfway off and Dace was ready to—"
He cut himself off, hand dragging back through his hair until it stood on end. When he found the words again, they came out rough.
"They were going to rape her, Nolan. Put steel to her throat so she couldn't throw them off. If I hadn't walked in, they'd have done it and probably opened her up when they were done."
For a moment Nolan didn't move. The only thing that shifted was his eyes, darkening as the picture landed.
Then he snapped. His hand shot out, knocking the bottle sideways. It clattered across the table, beer sloshing over the edge and running in thin lines down the wood. Nolan paced a short track in front of the couch, boots dragging at the rug, fingers flexing open and shut like he needed something to hit.
"Those useless little fuckers," he bit out. "In holding. Here." He swung back toward Brock. "What'd you do with them?"
"Pulled them off her," Brock said. "Bounced Dace off the wall till I saw plaster. Put Miller on the floor and kept him there till he stopped moving under me. Dragged Hark into the hall and introduced the back of his head to the concrete a few times for good measure."
Nolan's stare didn't waver. "You leave any of them breathing?"
"They're alive," Brock answered. "For now. They're probably still in medical getting stitched back together. Dace is gonna be missing teeth. The others won't be walking pretty for a while."
Nolan's lip peeled back from his teeth. "Should've finished the job."
"I wanted to," Brock said. "Trust me."
He rolled his shoulders back, the memory of it all still sitting in his muscles. "Then I pictured Vex asking why three of Roth and Dane's men got dragged out in bags on a night he didn't order anything. I'm not interested in that conversation."
Nolan swore under his breath, something low and ugly. "You gonna tell him what they tried to pull?"
"No." Brock's answer came quick. "He doesn't need details about what happened to her. The less he's got in his head, the better it is for her. And for me."
Nolan's jaw worked. "This is why we don't keep prisoners," he muttered, pacing another tight line. "And especially not women. Every idiot with access thinks they get to make their own rules."
He stopped again, looking up. "Is she alright?"
Brock nodded once. "I think she fought them before they put her down. She was covered in blood when I got there," his gaze drifted for a second, replaying the angle of her on the floor. "Her nose is broken. I reset it. Blade caught the front of her throat enough to open skin. I cleaned it and taped it up. Ribs took the worst of it, but nothing's moving that shouldn't. She was still conscious. Answered me, followed my hand when I checked her eyes."
Some of the wild in Nolan's face eased at that, though the anger stayed. His shoulders dropped a fraction. "Graves keeping her in a bed downstairs for now?" he asked.
Brock hesitated.
"I didn't take her to Graves," he said.
Nolan's head tipped. "Why not?"
"I'm not laying her down two doors away from the same three who had their hands on her," Brock answered. "Or letting them get wheeled in and parked within earshot while she's trying to breathe."
Nolan squinted at him. "So, you cleaned her up and left her in holding?"
Brock shook his head. "She's in my spare room."
Everything in Nolan went tight again. "Your spare—" He stared, like he needed it repeated. "She's in your spare room. Right now."
"I didn't have anywhere else," Brock said. "Any other door I pick, somebody else has a key. Downstairs is a death sentence for her after this. Med bay's a damn waiting room for the men who tried to fuck her. My place is the only space I control where nobody walks in unless I say so."
Nolan moved for the door in a straight line. "Brock, you fucking idiot—"
Brock caught his arm. Nolan yanked free and turned on him, eyes bright.
"She's a Viper," Nolan snapped. "She's the enemy. You can't tuck an enemy combatant into your spare bedroom like she's crashing the night and hope it works out."
"She's not an enemy right now," Brock shot back. "Were you even in the room when Vex and I went around about her?"
Nolan threw his hands up. "Fine. Recruit. Former enemy. Whatever label makes you feel better." He jabbed a finger toward Brock's chest. "She's been your recruit for a week. A week, Brock. And the way you handled her before that, and the way I know you've been handling her since, she isn't exactly sending you thank-you notes. You really think you can pull this off? You think Harper fucking Voss is gonna sit pretty in your guest bed and decide she's one of us now?"
He shook his head, incredulous. "You've got a Viper in your spare room like she's your roommate and you don't expect her to creep into your bedroom at three in the morning and put steel in your ribs? Use your head."
Brock let out a long breath through his nose. "She's not doing that tonight," he said. "By the time I got her settled she was barely upright. She's shut down so hard I'll be surprised if she even rolls over before the sun comes up, never mind goes hunting for knives."
Nolan tipped his head back and dug both hands through his hair, fingers lacing for a second at the crown. "This is so fucking stupid," he groaned at the ceiling. "It's asking for trouble."
He dropped his chin and looked back at Brock. "But you've already done it."
Brock didn't argue.
"Alright," Nolan said at last, words coming out on a sigh. "You want a roommate, at least let me make sure she stays on her side of the hall." He jerked his thumb toward the door. "I'll swap the lock on that room so it throws from the outside. Then you can sleep without waking up with her standing over you with whatever she finds in your kitchen drawer."