The city lights flickered like ghosts outside the penthouse windows. Somewhere beneath them, the world still turned—blissfully unaware of how close to death Avery Ford had come that night.
The silence in the apartment was suffocating.
Sloane sat at the marble kitchen island, his hands stained with fading red—scrubbed raw, again and again, and still he could see the blood. His jaw clenched. The faucet still ran behind him, a quiet hiss like gas escaping.
Across the room, Avery leaned against the doorframe, one arm wrapped around his ribs, bandaged where the rope had bruised him. His shirt hung loose, his skin pale, the shadows under his eyes like bruises of their own. He had showered. Changed. And yet, he too carried the stench of what they'd done—what Sloane had done.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Then Avery's voice, low. "You didn't have to kill him."
Sloane didn't turn. "I didn't kill him."
"You almost did."
He swallowed. "I should have."
Silence.
