Nolan swung the rear passenger door wide, shoved the front seat forward, and dragged the headrest up to clear space. Brock angled Harper's boots in first; Nolan caught them and eased them into the footwell. With her legs clear, Brock ducked under the frame, twisting sideways as he dropped into the rear corner. He drew her torso across with him until the back of her head rested against his chest.
Awkward but sure, he wedged against the door, shoulder to glass, one knee braced wide for leverage. One hand steadied her jaw, keeping her airway open, while the other dragged the belt across their hips and snapped it home, pinning her into him so any jolt hit him first. Her fingers clenched in his sleeve and didn't let go. Nolan shut the door, slid into the driver's seat, killed the dome light, and eased them out into rain, wipers dragging slow arcs across the glass.
Harper felt carved out and ringing, the cabin still holding the after-sound. Every inhale snagged where his thumb braced the hinge of her jaw, scraping raw along the bruised line of her throat; every exhale tasted of pennies. Her cheekbone pulsed where Skiv's forehead had found it, the back of her skull thudding dully against Brock's chest whenever the tires crossed a seam. Ribs needled where the rack had caught her; old stitches tugged, so she kept her breaths shallow. Skin burned along the wrist she'd torn free; her forearm still remembered the bite of his grip. The smear down her sleeve had dried to brown. She clung to Brock's sleeve, the only solid thing that didn't lurch or strike back. Streetlight carved the cabin in bars; each pass flushed heat up her throat, made her mouth want to open. She pressed it down and borrowed his rhythm instead—small, contained, in on the lift of his chest, out when it fell—until the panic loosened its teeth.
Nolan let the mirror stay empty for a mile before pulling his phone from the dash pocket. He thumbed it on, shoulder pressed to the wheel as he listened through the first ring.
"Price."
Static shifted, then a voice, steady. "You breathing?"
"Yeah." Nolan kept his tone low. "We're on the road. Harper took a choke—she's awake, pulling air, but she's rattled. I want Graves waiting."
A pause, paper-thin. "And you? Brock?"
"We're good. No holes." His jaw worked once. "We've got what we came for. Enough to keep Vex happy."
Another pause, softer this time. "Alright. I'll get Graves down to the bay. You call me when you hit the gate."
Nolan gave the faintest grunt. "Copy." He killed the screen with his thumb and slid the phone back into place.
The call cut and Harper flinched at the sudden quiet. Brock tipped her jaw a fraction higher, his chest rising slow against the back of her skull until the tremor ran out of her shoulders. He kept the rest wordless, two fingers light at her wrist, the other hand holding her head in that lifted angle so air could move clean, letting the bumps land in his shoulder instead of hers.
When the road steadied and her breathing settled into something he could trust, he leaned forward and snagged a bottle from the cup holder between the front seats, twisted the cap, and brought it close. "Think you can take some water?" he asked, voice low.
She managed the smallest nod. He tipped just enough to wet her lips, stopping when the swallow caught. The burn went down rough but left a cooler line behind it that steadied her. "Good," Brock murmured, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
The wipers kept time, highway lamps drawing the cabin in bands of light and letting it go. She lost track of how many slid past. When a merge swung the Charger hard she jolted, fingers cinching his sleeve; he didn't name it, only shifted closer so the sway hit him before her. Miles blurred that way, lamps thinning, signs she half-read sliding past the glass.
Somewhere beyond the last exit before home he bent his mouth near her temple and said, quiet as a promise, "Almost there." The rest he left to the hum of the road and the rise and fall she matched to his chest.
Nolan rolled up to the gatehouse and let the car idle. The guard glanced at his screen, then at the Charger, and thumbed the release. The bars slid back. He pulled his phone one-handed from the dash pocket.
"Price."
"Yeah."
"At the gate. Thirty seconds."
"South door's cracked. Graves is up."
"Copy."
Nolan took the service road to the south bay, and the overhead door lifted on a strip of low light. When the engine clicked quiet, Brock popped the belt free and shifted her weight forward, keeping one hand under her jaw so air could move clean.
"Hold on," Brock murmured, his voice barely there. Her fingers caught tighter in his sleeve.
By the time Nolan opened the door, her hand still hadn't eased. As Nolan bent in, Brock worked his wrist free, easing her grip loose one finger at a time, then set her palm against the front of Nolan's vest.
Nolan slid an arm beneath Harper's knees, the other solid behind her shoulders, and lifted her in one practiced draw. The shift pulled a thin sound out of her, ribs flaring protest.
"I know," Nolan said under his breath, adjusting her weight against him. "Got you."
Brock steadied the crown of her head until Nolan had her clear of the cushion, then dropped out behind them, boots striking the concrete in time with the echo of the bay. Harper's temple settled against Nolan's chest once he straightened; his arm tucked tight under her shoulders, angling her head for clear breath as he carried her steady under the strip of light.
Brock swung the bay door shut, cut the bright strips so the room held to low, and moved ahead to shoulder doors and key them with the back of his hand so Nolan never had to break stride.
"You're lighter than you look," Nolan said, easy, words meant to shave the edge off the quiet. Brock followed tight, sticking within a step.
They went straight to med. Graves waited gloved under warm light, hair tied back, eyes already on the red line marking Harper's throat. "Set her there," she said, voice low as the room.
Nolan eased Harper down onto the table, careful of her head, then stepped back without a word. Brock stayed close, steadying her chin until Graves slid in with gloved hands. Only then did he let go, shifting to the side of the bed, hip against the rail, his eyes never leaving her face.
Graves didn't waste the first seconds: pulse-ox clipped on, penlight across pupils, cold bell pressed to Harper's upper chest. "Tell me what happened."
Brock kept his voice low, holding it steady. "She was stuck in with a Maw enforcer. He slammed her into the racks more than once." Graves swept the penlight across each pupil; Brock's mouth tightened, fingers flexing against the rail. "Took her to the floor too—head bounced a couple times. Left wrist got driven into a post."
The stethoscope slid under Harper's collar; Graves listened, shifting sides. Brock drew a breath through his teeth and kept going, the words clipped clean. "He locked her in a blood choke. She broke it, then he went straight to her throat and tried to crush it."
"Did she lose consciousness at all?" Graves asked, her gaze dropping to the bruised line around Harper's neck.
"By the time I got to her, she was barely awake. If she went out, it wasn't long. Came back quick once he was off." His eyes caught on the dried smear across her sleeve and stuck there. "Most of this blood isn't hers. She bit him, stabbed him—he bled out on her."
Graves gave a short nod, already leaning in. "Alright. Not hers, then. Good. That helps." Her attention settled on Harper. "I'm going to check your neck."
Gloved fingers traced the darkening band across Harper's throat, cool through the tacky film on her skin. The first press made her jaw clamp down; the second, lower, dragged a swallow she couldn't hide. The movement scraped along raw places inside that still remembered Skiv's arm and the rack at her back.
"Yeah," Graves murmured, shifting closer with her scope. "I know that hurts. Breathe in for me."
Harper pulled air in shallow. Her ribs flared along the side where the metal had caught her, old stitches tugging in sympathy, and she let the breath go in a thin, broken thread. Graves listened through the stethoscope, waited out the sound, then slid the bell to the other side. "Again."
The next inhale snagged halfway; heat climbed up Harper's neck, her face tightening before she could stop it.
"Ribs are talking," Graves said, palm finding the line of bone. "Hang on." She worked along each space slow, pressure building finger by finger. When she reached the worst of it on Harper's side, the gasp came out between her teeth.
"Mm. There it is," Graves said quietly. "Feels like bruising, not a break."
She caught Harper's wrist next, turning it carefully in her hand, then slid her grip down to catch Harper's fingers. "Squeeze for me."
Harper tried. Her fingers curled, trembled, then stalled halfway, pain kicking through the joint and up her forearm. She dragged in air through her teeth.
"Sprain," Graves decided. She set the hand down gentle on the sheet and stepped closer to Harper's eye line, penlight ready. "Stay with me. Follow the light."
Harper's gaze caught the glow and dragged after it, slow but obedient, back and forth across the narrow space between them.
"You know me?" Graves asked.
Harper rasped, "Lorna."
"That's it," Graves answered, softer now. She worked the hem of Harper's shirt up, peeling the fabric back from her ribs until the line of stitches showed, half crusted with sweat and dirt. She pressed along them, light, tracking every flicker that crossed Harper's face. The wince came and went. Under her glove, the skin held steady.
"They're healing well," Graves peeled her gloves off, tossing them in the bin. "I'm not seeing any tearing or infection."
She snapped fresh gloves on and pulled a vial and syringe from the tray. "Pain shot," she said. "Acetaminophen base. Safer for your head, easier on the throat." The plunger drew with a quiet scrape; she tapped the barrel once, flicked the needle. "It'll sting, but it'll take the edge off."
The injection went in quick, a jump in Harper's thigh and then the burn easing back out as Graves drew the needle free.
Graves stripped her gloves and looked past Harper to Brock. "She's still upstairs with you?"
"Yeah." His voice stayed low, but sure.
"Good. Then listen." She peeled two pillows down from the shelf and stacked them with a flat hand. "Prop her—shoulders up. Don't let her lie flat tonight."
Brock's eyes tracked the stack. "Keeps her breathing clear."
"Exactly. Cold pack next—side of the neck." She pressed a palm to her own throat to mark the spot. "Fifteen on, twenty off. Couple rounds."
Brock gave a short nod, his hand braced on the rail as Harper shifted faintly.
"No whispering," Graves added, tugging the bin closer. "Worse than talking. Best is no voice at all till tomorrow. Small cold sips only. Soft food if she asks. Nothing stronger for pain until I clear it."
Brock's jaw tightened. "Alright."
She glanced down as Harper stirred, then back at him. "Now the warnings. If her inhale turns squeaky, saliva starts hanging, swelling climbs, lips go gray, or she can't get air—you bring her straight back. Understand?"
"Yeah," he said quietly. "I'll be here."
Graves tapped two fingers against her temple. "He rang her bell, too. If she vomits, the headache jumps, she can't track where she is—or you can't wake her—you come back."
Brock frowned, eyes fixed on Harper. "And if she stays under?"
"Wake her every couple hours," Graves told him. She hooked her hands into fists, holding them out. "Ask her name, where she is. Put a hand in each of hers, make sure she can squeeze back—both sides."
Brock nodded once, slow but firm.
"Airway's open. Ribs are bruised but stable, wrist's sprained. Head's the one I'm watching, but she's lucid, tracking. She'll hurt, but she'll hold if you follow what I gave you." Graves' tone softened, just a fraction. "Right now she needs sleep more than anything else."
Brock shifted, the stacked pillows still in his grip. He bent as if to gather Harper up.
"Uh-uh," Graves said, catching the move. "She walks. Better for her head, better for her lungs. You keep her steady, but let her use her own legs."
Brock's jaw worked; then he passed the pillows off to Nolan.
Graves angled her chin toward Harper. "You ready to move?"
Harper blinked, slow. The room felt a half-step behind her eyes, edges soft from the shot. She let the question settle, then gave the smallest nod.
"Good girl. Then go. Bed, pillows, ice, and no voice till tomorrow."
Brock slid an arm under Harper's elbow, his other hand braced light at her back as she eased upright. The shift tugged along her throat; her knees buckled once and she caught herself against him, ribs flaring under the change in angle. Spots pricked at the edge of her vision. He adjusted without a word, solid as a brace until the floor stopped tilting.
Nolan swung the door open with his free hand, holding it wide. "Red carpet service," he muttered, dry as ever, the pillows tucked under his arm.
Harper huffed something between a breath and a laugh. It scraped her throat, a reminder, and she let Brock guide her out instead of trying for words.
Price was waiting just outside the med bay, shoulder to the wall, eyes on the door as it opened. His gaze went straight to Harper, taking in the sag of her weight against Brock, the bruising surfacing along her neck.
"She's fine," Nolan said before the quiet could stretch, voice even, leaving no room for argument. He shifted the pillows under his arm, gave Price a short nod. "And thanks—for having Graves ready."
Price's eyes lingered on Harper a moment, then flicked to Brock, then back to Nolan. "Good." The smallest dip of his chin followed, acknowledgment without ceremony.
They moved down the hall in step, Price setting the pace, Brock steady at Harper's side, Nolan behind with the pillows still under his arm. The corridor smelled of disinfectant and steel; each step pulled at Harper's ribs, breath rubbing along the bruised band at her throat. Their boots threw back hollow echoes that trailed after them to the elevator.
Inside the car, nobody spoke. The hum of the lift and the hiss of the doors filled the space instead. Harper leaned a little heavier into Brock's arm when the car jolted upward, ribs flaring; his hand shifted at her back, bracing her without a word. She focused on the steady give of muscle under her palm where it hooked his sleeve, matching her breaths to his pace the way Graves wanted.
The doors opened on the residential floor. Price peeled off first, a short nod marking his exit. Brock steered Harper toward his quarters, Nolan walking them as far as the turn.
He stopped there, finally passing the pillows over. "She's set now," he said, then let his gaze settle on Harper. "You let him know if anything feels off, alright?"
Harper managed the smallest nod, throat too raw for more.
Nolan's attention shifted to Brock. "And you text if she needs anything."
Brock gave him a nod, low and sure. "Thanks."
Nolan answered with the faintest tilt of his chin, then turned down towards his door. Brock adjusted his grip and guided Harper into his quarters, the door shutting soft behind them.
The kitchen lights bled low across the floor as he walked her past, her weight tucked steady against his side. A short stretch down the hall and he shouldered his bedroom door open, guiding her through.
She didn't speak, but he felt it in the way her head turned, the pause in her step when she caught the wrong walls, the wrong bed.
"I know," he said, voice low. "Not yours. Graves doesn't want you alone tonight. Easier here. I'll keep the checks."
He steered her to the edge of the bed, steadying her down until the quilts pressed cool against the backs of her thighs. The room was stripped bare of comfort—order in every line, dresser shut tight, edges squared. Only the bed broke the rule, wide and heavy under its weight.
Her gaze drifted over the controlled neatness, then down to her own sleeves—stiff with drying blood and already starting to itch as it pulled at her skin.
Brock followed her look, jaw set. "Can't leave you in those."
She didn't answer, but he was already moving—dresser open, clean shirt and sweats pulled out. He set them on the quilts, then crouched low, fingers finding the laces at her boots. The knots came undone quick; he eased each boot off and set them aside in a neat pair, socks stripped after.
The long sleeve was next. Her hands twitched like she meant to do it herself, but the thought of lifting her arms made her chest seize and her ribs flare. He read it in her eyes. One hand braced her side while the other worked the sleeve back inch by inch, careful over the sore wrist, peeling the fabric free. The shirt came over her head slow, his palm steady at her back to keep her upright when the room tilted.
Leggings clung damp to her skin. He hooked the waistband and drew them down, one side then the other, lowering them past her knees. She shifted weakly to help, muscles answering late, and he had them off, set in the pile with the rest.
The sweats slid on easier—cuffed at the ankles, loose enough not to press. The shirt went over her head, cotton soft against her skin, his hand guiding her arms through without a tug.
When he'd gotten her into clean clothes, he eased her back against the quilts and worked two pillows under her shoulders, just like Graves had said. She sagged into them at once, eyes half-lidded, the fight sliding out of her frame one notch at a time as the shot pulled her down.
"I'll be back," he told her quietly. "Cold pack."
Her lids flickered—acknowledgment, maybe—and he crossed into the hall.
When he returned, she'd worked herself under the quilts. Her body had folded small beneath the weight: knees drawn, chin tucked shallow, ribs tight. Safer curled, even though it pulled at every sore place. The sight tugged something low in his chest.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and touched her shoulder. "Hey." His voice stayed low, coaxing. One hand steadied her ribs while the other smoothed her knees down. "Don't curl in. You'll breathe easier stretched out."
She let him guide her flat again, muscles slow to unwind. Only then did he set the ice pack gentle to the side of her neck. Her breath hissed at the cold, shoulders twitching, but he kept it in place until the first shock faded.
"That's better."
He pressed the pack into her hand, folding her fingers around it. "Keep it here." Her grip was faint but enough. He pulled the chair close and sat, elbows on his knees, eyes never leaving her face.
Minutes stretched. Her breaths thinned, slowing, her hand weakening. The pack slipped toward her collarbone; he caught it before it dropped, fingers brushing skin as he took it away. She shivered under the quilts, too cold now.
He set the pack on the nightstand and drew the quilts higher across her chest, tucking them until the tremor eased. She sank deeper into the pillows, her breathing thin but steady.
He stripped his boots, laid his jacket and sidearm on the dresser, and shoved out of his cargo pants before pulling on sweats. For a long moment he stood at the bedside, eyes on the chair. That was where he'd meant to spend the night—upright, at a distance, where the lines stayed clearer.
But the chair sat a stride away from the pillows. From there he'd hear the big changes, maybe not the small ones. She was already half under, ribs rising shallow beneath the weight, the dark bruise at her throat a reminder of how fast things could turn. Graves' orders ran through his head—wake checks, keep her breathing open, don't leave her.
Slow, deliberate, he lowered himself onto the bed, staying on top of the covers, careful not to shift her weight. It felt wrong and necessary at the same time, the compromise he could live with. Heat bled across the small space between them, close but not touching.
Her breathing evened. He let his own fall in time with it, quiet in the dark.
The night held in fragments. Every hour he woke her, gentle hand at her shoulder, voice low against the hush: name, place, both hands in his, squeeze. Each time she surfaced slow but sure, eyes finding him, grip uneven but there. Between checks she drifted, her breathing shallow under the quilts, his own matched to hers. He only let his eyes close for a few minutes at a time. The chair sat untouched in the corner, the bed carrying both their weight with a hand of air between them. The warmth of her stayed constant at his side, the dark pressing in until the first wash of pale light broke through the blinds.
The watch on the nightstand chirped soft, the mark he'd set. Brock turned his head; she was curled still under the quilts, breathing even, the bruises at her throat darker in the pale light leaking around the blinds. She looked peaceful in a way she almost never did when she was awake, and that alone made him hesitate.
He reached out anyway, his hand settling gentle on her shoulder. "Harper."
She stirred at the touch, a small flinch at first, then her eyes blinked open, hazed but finding him.
"Name," he asked quietly.
Her mouth worked, voice rough. "Harper."
"Where are you?"
"Your room."
He held out both hands. She curled her fingers around them, her grip weak but even. He nodded once and let her go.
"You're good," he said, keeping his voice low. For a moment he just looked at her—the dried blood in her hair, the stiffness running through her posture, the exhaustion carved deep across her face. Then he drew a breath. "Think you're steady enough for a shower? Quick, not hot. Wash the night off."
She nodded once, slow but sure. Brock swung his legs off the bed, stood, and slid an arm under her elbow to help her up. Her knees wobbled; he steadied her and guided each step down the short hall. At the bathroom door he stopped, one hand still braced at her back.
"I'll be right down the hall," he said, voice low, certain. "Call if you need me."
She nodded again, faint but clear. He set her against the frame with one hand. The other found the hem of his shirt she wore and paused there until her eyes met his. Another small nod. He eased the fabric up, careful around her ribs and the angry line at her throat, lifting her arms free one at a time. The sweats followed, drawn down slow so she didn't have to balance more than a second.
She was left in the thin cotton underneath, skin washed out against bruises. He turned the tap and waited with his palm under the stream until it ran steady, warm but not hot.
"Keep it short," he murmured. He glanced back once, checked that she was steady with a hand to the counter, then added, "I'll be right here if you need me."
He closed the door soft behind him.
Steam ghosted against the mirror, softening the edges of her reflection. It didn't blur enough. The bruises at her throat were already rising dark, a band of shadow climbing toward her jaw. Her cheekbone throbbed where the swelling pushed the skin tight; dried blood clung in her hairline like rust. She barely recognized the girl staring back.
Her hands shook as she reached behind for the clasp. The sprained wrist gave on the first try, sending a spark of pain up her arm. She bit her lip, tried again, and the hooks slipped free. The bra sagged loose; she slid it down her arms slow, ribs protesting with each shift, and let it drop to the tile.
The underwear went next, peeled away in clumsy inches. She braced one hand to the counter for balance as she kicked free. Cold air crawled over bare skin, raising a tremor that had nothing to do with temperature.
She turned, one hand on the wall, and stepped into the stall. The first touch of water made her flinch—it stung every raw seam, needled every bruise—but the warmth began to seep deeper, rinsing the blood from her skin in pale threads. She let her head fall forward, eyes closed, the stream drumming steady over her shoulders until the ache blurred into something she could almost bear.
She kept her motions small—soap pressed to her palms, spread gingerly along her arms, down her ribs where the rack had caught. Her wrist flared when she tried to turn it; she hissed, slowed, let the suds rinse away instead of scrubbing.
She should have felt cleaner, but the heat pulled memory up with the steam. Skiv's face, pale under fluorescents, the snap of disbelief when their eyes met. Harp? Like no time had passed. Like nothing had changed.
Her throat tightened. She dragged her hand higher, tried to wash her hair, but the weight of water and the pull in her ribs stopped her halfway. She pressed her palms to the tile instead, let the stream run through her hair on its own.
Skiv—stop— The echo cracked through her skull, his shoulder jammed to her jaw, his voice rasping against her ear. Her own breath snagged, shallow, not enough. She shook her head hard, water blinding her, but his voice clung, coaxing and cruel at once: Five-count, Harp. Just sleep. Just trust me.
Her chest clamped, panic clawing up fast. She gasped, but the inhale rattled, stuck high in her throat. The steam pressed close, too close, and her palms slapped harder against the tile like she could push the air open. Heart hammering, vision narrowing, she fought to breathe, fought to believe she wasn't still under him.
She pressed her forehead to the tile, tried to breathe through it, to remind herself—it's done, he's gone, you're here, you're safe. The words twisted even as she thought them. Gone meant servers and blood and the way his eyes had emptied under her hands; safe meant a world that didn't have him in it anymore. The steam curled hot in her lungs, and memory bled too quick to be dammed.
Skiv's laugh came first, big and easy over metal tables in the Den, grease from shared fries slicking his fingers as he flicked salt at her across the tray. Nights with his shoulder pressed to hers on the bench, both of them bent over ration bowls, trading stories until lights-out dragged them apart. Mornings in the Den—his hood up, sunglasses fogged, a gloved hand thudding between her shoulder blades when she doubled over, breath gone from a drill. C'mon, Harp. Up. I've got you.
The same hand now crushing her wrist to steel, torquing until tendons screamed. The same arm closing on her throat, cutting air and light.
She blinked water from her eyes, tried to separate the versions—Skiv who split food with her, Skiv who taught her how to roll through a fall, Skiv who called her Harp like it mattered—and the one who'd pinned her to cold metal and told her to trust him while he choked her out. It was the same face. The same voice.
We steadied each other. Trust me, Harp. His words from last night wormed through the older ones, wrong and right all at once.
Her breath hitched, jagged. She pushed back from the wall, arms trembling, and tried to brace her palms against the slick tile. The choke clamped around her memory—forearm across her throat, his weight driving her flat. She felt the air vanish again, the panic chewing the edges of her vision.
She slipped. One hand skated on soap, the other too weak to catch. Her knees buckled, and she hit the floor of the stall hard, water pouring over her, steam crowding close. A cry escaped out of her throat and broke.
He heard the hit and the broken sound and hit the door at a run. The hinge protested; he didn't hear it. Brock was already in the stall, feet sliding on wet tile, shoulder catching the glass before it could swing wide. The handle went down under his wrist, cutting the spray to rain, and he dropped into the corner with her, forearm sliding behind her shoulders before the tile could bruise her worse.
He made a frame out of himself. One thigh under her to stop the slow slide. Foot braced to the curb. Ribs angled so he wasn't pressing hers. His palm went flat to her sternum, a solid point to hold onto, while the other lifted her jaw a finger's width, careful to keep her neck midline.
"Harper. Look at me." The words came tight, scared.
Her fists found his shirt and locked, fabric creaking under the twist. He snagged a towel with two fingers, dragged it over her shoulders without losing his hold, then set a small rock in his body, steady and deliberate, something she could steal when her own rhythm broke.
"In with me… hold… out."
She couldn't find it. He bent closer, his mouth near her ear, breathing loud on purpose, making each breath slow and countable, something she could chase. "There you go. Again. In. Hold. Out."
His free hand hovered toward his pocket, toward Graves by reflex, but he forced it back. "I've got you. I'm right here."
He kept the corner, the jaw, the rock. Held through every shake and stuttering inhale, staying with her until the whistle at the top of each breath eased, until the gasps thinned into pulls he could feel settle under his palm, until the stall stopped tilting around them.
She dragged one more breath, raw but whole. "Skiv," she whispered, the name all corners.
His face shifted, one quiet flinch that never made it to his hands. New name. Old damage. The way she said it told him enough to file it away.
He kept his palm where it was, steady at her sternum, and let the name hang between them in the steam.