12. Knox
KNOX
I must be crazy.
Not only have I agreed to take Lily into town tomorrow, I’ve also agreed to take her to the fair next Saturday. But the most reckless and insane of all?
I spin slowly, chest tight, heart hammering, as I stare at the ring.
My old WWE training ring.
The ropes sag a little, dust clings to the corner pads, but it’s still solid.
Still here.
And now I’ve agreed to modify it so I can wrestle with Lily.
Another one of her damn saucy games.
Granted, I agreed while she was on her knees licking my cock like it was her favorite popsicle. In a ridiculously short time, and she’s become a fucking expert at working me with that Cupid’s bow mouth.
She could suck every last secret out of me and I’d confess with a smile if it meant feeling the back of her throat again.
Hell, this morning she tried to swallow me whole—big eyes watering, cheeks hollowed, her throat bulging with the effort.
She failed, of course.
She’s too small, too delicate for my size.
But fuck, the way she whined, tears streaking her cheeks while her pussy dripped onto my hardwood floor... I nearly lost my fucking mind.
The memory makes my cock twitch even now, and I groan, adjusting myself. Christ .
I drag a hand down my face and force myself to focus.
Padding. Safety. That’s what matters now.
I check the mats, pressing down where the old foam has thinned. Too hard. Need to add more. I tighten the ropes, test the buckles. It’s still strong, but not strong enough for me to throw my petal around the way my body aches to.
She asked for this. Asked for me to show her my world.
And I’ll give it to her, but carefully. Gently. I’ll show her the basics first—falls, holds, the kind of stuff that looks rough but won’t hurt her. But the thought still gnaws at me: what if she gets hurt anyway?
I spent years breaking my body for other people’s entertainment. I’ll be damned before I let her bleed for mine.
But then I picture her face, the way her eyes lit up when she asked, the way her smile hit me straight in the chest, and I know... if I disappoint her, it’ll carve me open deeper than any scar.
Because she’s... God, she’s everything.
I curse under my breath, tightening the last rope.
My hands tremble just a little.
The barn doors creak, and then her voice, soft and curious, floats like an angel’s breath to me. “Bear?”
I look up. She’s framed in the doorway, wearing one of my shirts knotted at the waist, her legs bare, her hair wild from the wind outside.
She gasps softly when she sees the ring. Then she’s walking closer, her eyes wide, her lips parted like she’s seeing something holy.
“Bear...” she whispers again. “It looks amazing already.”
Something stirs inside me, something I thought was buried— The Grizzly . That persona I killed when I walked away.
Without thinking, I jump down from the ropes, plant my feet, and execute one of my old poses—arms wide, chest heaving, a guttural growl rolling from my chest.
The spirit of my past whispers through me.
And Lily claps enthusiastically, bouncing on her toes and giggling before she flies into my arms.
I catch her easily, her legs wrapping around my waist and her mouth crashing to mine. The kiss is long, dirty, desperate, and beautiful, her tongue tangling with mine, her body arching against me, grinding like she can’t get close enough.
I grip her ass, squeeze hard, kiss her until her moans are vibrating straight into my chest. Into my fucking soul. When we finally pull back, we’re both panting.
She cups my face, grinning, eyes sparkling. “Are you ready?”
Ready. To go into town. Face people. Watch people watch my petal. Take an interest. Try to fucking steal her from me.
I grunt, because words aren’t enough to hide the terror prowling in my chest.
But then she smiles wider. And I’m fucking lost because I can’t deny her this.
So, still holding her, I turn us toward the barn doors, stride outside and walk straight to my truck. She squeals when I toss her into the passenger seat, but she’s still smiling, still glowing.
I climb in after, slam the door, and grip the wheel tight. Here goes fucking nothing.
I don’t know if I’m ready for this.
But for her?
I’ll try.
And pity the fool who tries anything.
Lily
The truck jolts off the gravel road and onto smooth pavement, and my stomach flips.
After nearly three weeks, we’re leaving the mountain.
I press my forehead to the glass, heart fluttering.
I’ve lived in big towns all my life, but after weeks cocooned in Bear’s cabin, the sudden sprawl of rooftops, brick facades, and neat shopfronts feels like stepping onto a movie set.
The sign at the edge of town is hand-painted, the letters curling like fancy vines: Welcome to Ashbourne.
It’s unexpectedly charming and bigger than I thought, but still small enough to feel like people probably know each other’s names.
A main street runs straight through the heart, lined with angled parking spaces, lampposts with hanging baskets, and awnings shading little shops.
A diner with a red door and people inside enjoying their mid-morning breaks.
A hardware store shares a wall with a bookshop with a bell that jingles when someone goes inside.
It’s normal. Ordinary. And for the first time since I ran, I almost feel ordinary again.
Bear drives slowly, shoulders stiff, his knuckles white around the wheel. I sneak glances at him, at the way his jaw ticks, the muscle flexing there. He’s a storm contained, and I know every second here is costing him.
But he still came. For me.
That knowledge warms me right down to my bones, and I reach across and rest a hand on his thigh. It bunches beneath my fingers, and he flashes me a glance before his eyes return to the road.
We pass a florist on the corner. The pretty window display makes me crane my neck—vases of dahlias and roses, bright geraniums tumbling from baskets. The sign reads Mabel’s Flowers, the paint faded but cheerful.
“Bear, can we stop here?” I ask softly.
His brows crash together, but he pulls to the curb without comment. “Wait for me,” he rasps, and I nod. Wait for him to turn off the ignition, to step out, stride around to open my door.
When he helps me down, I feel a little self-conscious about my socks-for-shoes situation, but then his fingers swallow mine in his warmth and I exhale.
The bell above the door tinkles as I step inside, and the familiar smell nearly bowls me over—green, fresh, alive.
I inhale deeply, my heart skipping.
God, how I’ve missed this. My fingers in soil, watching beautiful buds bloom to life, creating my own piece of perfection for someone’s memorable day.
Behind the counter, a woman with a crown of silver curls looks up from trimming stems. Her smile is warm but faintly tired. “Morning, sweetheart. Haven’t seen you around here before.”
I glance back through the window.
Bear didn’t follow me inside—he’s standing guard at the door, arms folded, a dark sentinel keeping watch. But as I watch, his head swings and he pierces me with a fierce stare through the glass.
Still here, petal. Still watching. Always watching.
And fuck if that doesn’t make me feel safe. Warmer than I’ve ever felt in my life.
“I’m just... visiting,” I say quickly, stepping closer to the blooms. “You have such beautiful arrangements.”
“Thank you.” She wipes her hands on her apron. “Been at it near forty years now. Can’t do the long days anymore, but I still open when I can.”
Something in her tone makes my heart squeeze. Not a complaint, exactly. More like resignation.
“Forty years?” I murmur, touching a daisy head gently. “That’s amazing.”
“Don’t know how much longer I’ll keep at it,” she says with a shrug. “But my beautiful blooms... they keep me company. Especially since my Arthur passed.”
I nod, throat tight at the sadness and loneliness in her voice.
After a quick chat, I thank her and step back outside.
Bear’s eyes catch mine instantly, his frown carved deep. I hurry to him and slip my hand into his before he can ask questions.
His chest caves in as he exhales loudly.
Then he jerks his head left. The drugstore.
We step inside and he grabs a basket. The aisles are neat, with shelves stocked high. I grab tampons, deodorant, shampoo, a hairbrush, a spare toothbrush, and a few more things. Bear prowls beside me like he’s scanning for threats, his massive frame drawing stares from half the store.
I catch them all—people staring brazenly, whispering behind their hands.
A couple of teenagers giggle until Bear’s head swings their way, and they scatter. One woman clutches her purse tighter and gives us a wide berth.
That sets a low light under my temper, but then I notice, too, that just as many people nod at my Bear. A few men tip their hats.
Someone calls, “Hunter,” with a small wave, and I think it’s one of the logging men.
He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he refuses to.
His face is carved from granite, his eyes locked forward, blind to the fact that not everyone shrinks from him. Not everyone sees him as the reclusive monster he seems to think he is.
I clutch my bag of supplies with an aching heart.
He thinks the whole world sees him as broken. Dangerous. But I can see it plain as day: more people respect him than fear him.
At the counter, he all but growls at me when I pull out my small wallet. He dumps two crisp hundred-dollar bills on the counter and drags me away without waiting for his change.
When we step outside, the sun bright overhead, I slide my hand into his. His palm engulfs mine, hot and rough. He glances at me, startled.
“Breathe, Bear,” I murmur.
He remains stiff as a pillar, then he exhales. “Where next?” he croaks.
I glance longingly at the cute boutique across the street with even cuter dresses in the window, but then I shake my head.
Baby steps. “I’m done, thank you.”
His jaw flexes, but he doesn’t answer. Just leads me back to the truck, his silence vibrating louder than words.