My fingers shook as I pulled the cold flash drive from my pocket. It caught the harsh, rhythmic glare from the red emergency light—flash, flash. For a second, it looked like a little silver heart pulsing in my bleeding hand."Sierra, don’t look at him," Christian said, his voice catching, barely holding on as he staggered forward. He slumped against the rusted side of the huge boiler, clutching his bleeding shoulder. Fresh red soaked through his torn leather jacket, dripping onto the floor. "Look at me. Look at Leo. We don’t strike deals with the devil."Lawrence Brooks didn’t so much as glance away. He kept one elegant hand stretched toward me, fingers steady, his eyes holding mine with that patient, predatory confidence—like a spider eyeing its prey."Christian’s a romantic, Sierra," my father drawled, his tone smooth and dangerous, like velvet drawn over a knife. "But romance doesn’t pay for pediatric specialists, and it doesn’t build fortress walls around a child. Look around. The
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