Chapter 3 Knight
THREE
KNIGHT
For the first time in my life, bold, undeniable rage barrels through me.
I have feelings, but they’re rarely, if ever, intense, and I’ve come to understand the emotions I experience are generally more muted than most people’s. But I consider the limitations in my emotional spectrum as a good thing, because unlike other people, I’m not ruled by my feelings.
Or I wasn’t until I met her. Since then, I’ve experienced more disruption in my orderly world than ever before.
I know she is the reason for the disturbance, but like a train being shunted onto a different track, I’ve committed to accepting the change of direction and moving forward toward a revised destination with her as my wife as the final goal.
Only the waif standing in front of me is barely recognizable as the woman who has altered my destiny.
Her hair is dirty and pulled back into a messy ponytail at the back of her head.
Her diminutive body is clad in a rumpled, baggy white T-shirt and a pair of gray sweats that both hang off her frame like she’s either lost weight or the clothes don’t belong to her.
Her tiny feet are bare, and the pale pink varnish on her toes is chipped.
Running my eyes over her, my gaze pauses at her hands. Her fingers are balled into fists, but even without looking, I doubt she’s wearing the black nail varnish she’s had on every other time I’ve seen her.
But it’s more than just her clothes. Her entire demeanor seems…
diminished. Octavia is tiny, short enough that her head barely reaches my shoulder, even in the chunky shoes I’ve seen her wear.
But right now, with her beautiful face makeup-free and dressed in boring, oversized clothes, she seems smaller than ever.
Not bothering to wait for her to invite me in, I step past her and into the small apartment.
“What?” she starts to question, then stops, pressing her lips together as she steps back and closes the door behind me.
Crossing her arms across her chest, her gaze darts to the right, and I turn to look, sucking in a shocked hiss when I see the mess that’s strewn all over the floor.
Stepping toward the debris, I lean down and pick up one of the bigger chunks.
It’s not just trash, like I first suspected.
The painted wood has the remnants of a now familiar-looking character staring back at me, and even without further examination, I know what it is.
Turning, I look at her, and she crumples.
“It’s destroyed,” she says on a sob, her eyes full of tears.
Without thought, I close the distance between us in two steps and scoop her off her feet and into my arms. Holding her tightly to my chest, I urge her to put her arms and legs around me, and without much more than a nudge, she attaches herself to me, buries her face into my neck, and sobs inconsolably, babbling about the pinball table and someone called Abel.
I file away his name, knowing I’ll need to find out who he is and decide if I’m maiming or simply killing him later.
Right now, my priority is her. Having her in my arms feels right.
It’s been months since I identified her as mine, and finally claiming her with my touch settles the burn that’s been smoldering inside of me for too long.
I’ve never comforted a sobbing woman before.
I’m sure soothing words would help, but I can’t think of anything to say, so instead I hold her tightly while she cries and take all of her sadness into myself.
For a moment, I consider checking my watch to see how long she’s been in a state of emotional discomfort—is there a fixed amount of time women cry for?
—but I don’t want to let go of her for long enough to look.
Instead, I tighten my grip on her, prepared to hold her as long as is required.
“Knight, why are you here?” she eventually asks, her voice muffled against the fabric of my shirt.
“I came for you,” I tell her simply, not bothering to hide the truth.
“For me?”
“Yes, Doll. It’s time to come home.”
She doesn’t speak, but I feel her nod against my shoulder.
A sense of contented happiness settles in my chest at her agreement. We were leaving here today regardless, but knowing she understands and reciprocates my feelings for her is better than simply taking her home without her consent.
Unwilling to put her down, I walk across the tiny apartment and into the bathroom, holding her with one arm, while I lean over the tub and turn on the faucet.
Like the movement jolts her, she pulls her face away from my shoulder and looks at me. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“Running you a bath.”
“Why?”
“Because your hair is greasy and you smell,” I inform her succinctly.
Cringing, she groans, then wiggles in my arms, silently trying to remove herself from my hold.
I’d rather keep her pinned to me, but I decide to do as she’s silently asking and slowly lower her to the floor.
The moment her feet touch the ground, she leans to the side like she intends to step away from me, so I reach for her wrist, curling my fingers around it to keep her in place and as close to me as possible.
“I’m going to help you,” I tell her.
“What?” she questions, but I don’t answer. Instead, I squeeze her wrist gently, then let her go, gripping the hem of her shirt and pulling it up and over her head in one fast movement.
“Knight,” she squeaks, quickly clamping her arms across her chest to hide her bare breasts from me.
Ignoring her partial nakedness, I drop her shirt straight into the trash can, then sink into a crouch and pull her sweats down.
Instead of waiting for her to pull her feet from the pants, I wrap my arm around her legs and lift her off the floor just high enough to drag the fabric over her feet, then push the sweats into the trash on top of the shirt.
Something inside of me settles once I’ve peeled the ugly clothes from her, and I take the time to look up at her from my position at her feet.
Her arms are crossed over her breasts, like she’s more concerned with hiding her chest from my view than her vagina, which is barely hidden beneath a purple cotton thong covered in cartoon skulls.
Her eyes are wide with surprise, but not fear, as she looks down at me and sees me looking at her, devouring every detail of my mate’s body, like an animal assessing its prey.
“Get out,” she whisper-yells, but her protest is halfhearted at best. She doesn’t want me to leave, and we both know it.
Not acknowledging her request, I lift my hands to her hips, hook my fingers into the sides of her underwear, and yank them down.
“Knight,” she protests again, releasing one of her arms from her chest to cover her vagina.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her, staring at the most perfect woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life.
The tension in her naked muscles goes slack, her shoulders slumping as she furrows her brows, her expression confused. “What?”
“I said you’re beautiful,” I repeat.
The words seem simple enough to me, but she seems perturbed. I wait a moment for her to say something, but when she doesn’t, I wrap my arms around her legs again and stand up, lifting her with me and repositioning her so she’s cradled in my arms.
With her naked body pressed against my chest, she makes a shocked noise, then starts to wiggle, clearly trying to decide whether keeping her breasts and vagina covered or holding onto me is a greater priority.
Before she has a chance to decide, I lower her into the tub, placing her butt into the few inches of water that has accumulated since I turned on the faucet.
“What are you doing?” she asks, a hint of wonder in her voice.
Turning away from her for the first time since she started to cry, I search the bathroom for soap and shampoo. Finding them on a shelf in the corner, I grab them, then lower myself to my knees on the tile floor beside the tub.
“I told you I was going to help you,” I remind her.
“I’m naked, Knight. I’m in the tub. I know I smell, but I’m not in that bad of a state that I can’t wash myself. I can take it from here,” she says, holding her hand out for the soap.
Ignoring her, I rub suds into my palms and start to wash her, memorizing each inch of her body as I cover her skin with soap.
“Knight,” she says, and I think she intends it to be a protest, but instead of sounding angry or upset, she just seems…lost and empty.
“You’ve lost weight,” I tell her as I run my fingers across her shoulders and arms.
“Have I?”
“Yes, several pounds, I’d estimate.”
“Well, I guess there’s one positive thing about all of this,” she says beneath her breath.
“Your BMI was already low. What could be positive about it getting lower?” I ask.
Sighing exhaustedly, she pulls her knees up out of the water, then rests her cheek on them, looking defeated. “I…” She trails off, like she can’t remember what she was going to say.
Lifting her chin up with my finger, I wait until she’s looking at me. “I’ll help,” I promise her.
“You still haven’t explained why you’re here.”
“I told you. I’m here to take you home,” I remind her again.
“But why you? I know Etta and Betty were worried, but why did they send you?”
“They didn’t send me. I came because it was time.”
“Time for what? I’m so confused.” She exhales exhaustedly.
“I’ll help,” I tell her.
Laughing softly, she backs away from my touch and rests her cheek on her knee again. “I think I’m beyond help.”
“I’ll help with that too,” I assure her, leaning forward and pressing a soft kiss against her lips.