The clock showed 2 a.m. The suite was dark, lit only by the dim, filtered glow of the streetlamps through a gap in the curtains. The wall clock ticked softly, marking each minute as if everything else had stopped.
Sloane wasn't asleep. She wasn't even trying anymore. Her shoulder throbbed. Her body was supposed to be resting—but every cell still carried the imprint of the day. The training, the strain, the tension, the control... all of it pulsed in her muscles, as if even her bones didn't know how to shut off.
She slid quietly out of bed. Pulled on a long, sleeveless grey top and soft, dark sweatpants, then stepped barefoot into the hallway. On the corner of the couch in the living room, a splint was already prepared, along with a few elastic straps, cold gel, soothing cream, and a clot
