Page 149 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

For a second, I thought he was still going to refuse, like any good employee should have. But then he lunged forward and grabbed the bills from my hand. “Fine. But if anyone asks, I didn’t help you,” he told me, unable to even look me in the eyes.

“Deal.” I followed him to the elevator where he fished a keycard out of his pocket, swiping it against the elevator panel. The doors slid open, and I stepped inside, already bracing myself for what I might find upstairs as it started to ascend.

The elevator doors slid open with a metallic hum, and the silence of her place was the first thing that hit me. My gut tightened as I walked into her foyer, the air sharp with the faint scent of cleaning products. The place looked immaculate—pristine even. Not a speck of dust, not a single out-of-place object. My teeth ground together. The contractors must have stopped dragging their feet on repairs. They’d be hearing from me later.

I walked around, glancing into rooms to see if she was there.

I hated every square inch of this place. Every time I was here, I wanted to claw at the walls…burn the whole fucking building down.

My jaw tightened when I saw the closed door to her bedroom. I tried the handle and the worry inside me only grew.

It was locked.

“Red?” I called through the door, my voice echoing in the sterile quiet. No answer.

I knocked again, harder this time. “Sloane, open the door. Whatever it is, I’ll fix it.”

Still nothing.

My knuckles hit the door once more, even harder, and my patience snapped. “Sloane, if you don’t open this motherfucking door, I’m busting it down.”

“Please,” she finally said, her voice trembling. “Just go away, Logan.”

Fuck. She had obviously been crying. Her voice didn’t sound right—it was small, shaky, like it had been stripped raw.

“Sloane.” I pressed my forehead against the door, my hand flat against the cool wood. “Let me in. Talk to me.”

My chest was heaving now, the red-hot edge of panic clawing its way up my throat. I didn’t bother knocking again. I stepped back, scanning the frame, and took a breath. One good hit should do it. I wouldn’t need to replace the door. Because she was never going to be in this place again.

The lock gave way with a loud crack as I slammed my shoulder into the wood. It flew open, slamming against the wall, and I froze in the doorway.

Sloane was on the bed, lying on her stomach, completely still. The room was dim, the only light coming from the faint glow of a lamp on the nightstand. Her head was turned away from me, and she hadn’t even flinched at the noise I’d made breaking in.

A sick, twisting feeling settled in my gut as I stepped inside. “Sloane?” My voice sounded rough and hoarse, even to me. She didn’t respond.

I crossed the room in two strides, crouching down beside the bed. My heart was hammering as I reached out, my fingers barely brushing her back. The instant I made contact, she screamed—a sound so raw, so filled with pain, that it stopped me cold.

She tried to move, to pull away, but the sheets slid down as she twisted. That was when I saw them.

Welts. Bruises. Dark, angry marks covered Sloane’s back like a twisted map of every second of pain she’d endured.

“Fuck.” The word slipped out before I could stop it. My hand hovered uselessly above her, not daring to touch her again, not knowing how to help. Rage and helplessness warred inside me, leaving me shaking.

Her breathing was shallow, uneven, and she clutched the pillow beneath her like it was the only thing keeping her anchored.

“Sloane,” I said again, my voice breaking. I couldn’t keep the anger out of it, even though it wasn’t directed at her. “What?—?”

She didn’t answer, just turned her face into the pillow, muffling a quiet, broken sob. It sliced through me like a blade.

I moved around the bed, crouching again so I could see her face. Her eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaking down her cheeks. She looked utterly defeated, like a shell of the woman I knew.

“I’m going to kill him,” I said, my voice low and full of fury. I didn’t even need her to say it. I knew who was responsible. I’d known the moment I walked in and saw her like this.

“Logan,” she rasped, her voice barely audible.

I leaned closer, trying to catch what she was saying. “I’m here, Sloane. I’ve got you. Just tell me what you need.”

Her eyes opened just a crack, glassy and filled with pain. “I told you…I don’t need saving. Because…I can’t be saved.”

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