Page 27

“She’s not laughing now,” Rio says.

Lana blinks, gaze sliding toward the doorway.

She sees Morales’ body on the floor.

Blood spreads around the doctor’s white coat, reaching slowly toward the drain.

Lana’s breath catches. Relief, horror, something else. Her chin trembles. She looks like she wants to spit more words at me, rip into us with every ounce of fury she has. She’s too exhausted.

The fight leaves her muscles, one by one. Her hands slump. Her head falls back.

“We’re getting you out,” I tell her. “Now.”

I nod to the assistant.

“Remove the lines,” I order. “Carefully.”

He steps forward again, hands shaking worse than before, and detaches the IV cannulas from her arms. Gentle, for once. He tapes a small pad over each puncture, presses down to stop the bleeding.

Lana flinches but doesn’t yank away.

Once the lines are out, I pull the sheet off of her, and reach for the buckles on her straps. Metal clinks under my fingers. Leather loosens. I undo the ones on her chest, her thighs, her wrists, her ankles.

Every restraint that held her here hits the floor.

She lies free on the bench, limbs weak, body trembling.

I slide an arm under her knees, another behind her back, and I lift her. Her head lolls against my shoulder for a second, then nestles there. Her arms loop around my neck, more reflex than choice.

“Rio, cover her.” I nod toward the sheet crumpled on the floor. He moves before I finish the sentence.

Then I step around Morales’ body on the way out.

Behind me, the assistant sways on his feet, eyes darting from Lana in my arms to Rio’s face.

“I helped,” he says quickly. “I did what you asked. I stabilized her. I can help more. We can run tests, check levels, draw–”

Rio lifts his gun and fires once.

The bullet takes him in the forehead. His body slams back into the wall, then crumples. The light goes out of his eyes before he hits the floor.

I adjust my grip on Lana and head for the corridor.

The basement that felt endless half an hour ago now feels too small for us. The walls crowd in. The smell of blood follows.

Some of the girls peek through their doors despite Sol’s orders, their eyes wide. When they see Lana in my arms, some look away fast. Some clasp their hands over their mouths.

“Back to bed,” I say, voice echoing. “Everything’s handled.”

They retreat, doors shutting quick.

Rio walks at my side, watching every shadow.

Sol brings up the rear, gun still drawn.

We move through the service door, up the stairs, away from concrete and cells, toward light and air and the penthouse that never should have been empty of her.

Lana shifts against me and tucks her face toward my neck, eyes closed again.