Chapter 61

Sloane

I wake in Frost with my cheek pressed to cold concrete, and my arms curled tight against my ribs. The air is damp enough to taste, a metallic wet that settles in the back of my throat, and my shoulder throbs in slow pulses under a bandage that’s stiff with dried blood. When I try to move, my body answers with a blunt refusal, muscles heavy and hot, joints grinding as if they’ve been packed