15. Lily
LILY
T he first thing I see when I blink awake alone in bed is the folded scrap of paper sitting on the nightstand.
That’s it. Two words and a number, scrawled in a heavy, barely legible hand. Brusque and unvarnished. Just like Knox.
And God help me, I adore it.
I stretch slowly, my limbs loose and heavy after the longest lie-in I’ve had since… well, since I can remember.
The blankets slide away, and I bite my lip as I catch sight of myself in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains.
Bruises.
Not the ugly ones that used to come from bumping into walls after Brandon’s tirades left me shaking and off balance, or the invisible ones he planted inside me with sharp words and twisted truths.
No, these are different.
One circles my wrist where Knox gripped me a little too hard when I surprised him by doing his favorite suck and lick while I blew him.
Another shadows my hip, his massive handprint lingering like a brand.
There are faint rings on my thighs from the ropes of his wrestling ring and a bloom just below my collarbone where his mouth latched and sucked until I screamed.
I smile. Actually smile.
Because these marks? They aren’t delivered with a side dish of shame.
They’re proof that someone touched me with desire—albeit rough and raw—instead of malice. That someone left pieces of themselves on me because they couldn’t hold back, not because they wanted to break me down.
But then the thought creeps in, uninvited, poisonous: What would Brandon say if he saw?
My stomach knots. My smile fades.
I hate myself for it, but the truth thrums inside me.
I can’t avoid him forever.
He may not be standing in front of me here, in this cabin, but he’s lurking in my bones, in the sharp voice that used to whisper I was nothing, no one.
And beyond him, there’s the business.
The flower shop I built with my own two hands. The deliveries, the memories of the brides who cried happy tears when I placed bouquets in their arms.
Am I really going to just walk away? Hand it over to the man who tried to convince me it was all his to begin with?
The thought twists deeper.
Because how can I lie here, coaxing Knox not to remain bitter, urging him to believe that shutting himself away only lets the people who hurt him win if I’m busy running myself?
I trace the bruise on my hip again.
The contrast stings.
These marks I deeply cherish. Not so much the other scars—the gaslighting, the control, the hollowing out of who I was. No, those are wounds that still haven’t closed.
And I can’t run from them for ev?—
“Petal.”
My head jerks up.
Knox’s shadow fills the doorway, massive and immovable, eyes locked on me, then the bruise I was absently examining.
His face is tight, frantic with worry. “How bad did I hurt you, baby?”
His voice scrapes, low and panicked, like he’s watching me slip through his fingers.
I realize what he sees—me staring at my bruises, lost in thought. He thinks I hate them. He thinks I hate him.
I shoot up from the bed, reassuring words on my tongue, but they vanish when I notice the large blush-pink cardboard box in his arms.
“What’s that?”
His jaw clenches. “Answer me first.”
I glance at the marks again, then back at him, forcing a smile. “Oh, these? I was looking at them, thinking how much I’d love a few more.”
His eyes widen, feral disbelief sparking there. “You don’t mean that.”
“Don’t I?” I challenge, stepping closer.
“Petal…” His chest expands. He takes a lunging step toward me like he can’t stop himself.
I hold up a hand, pointing at the box. “Nuh uh. What’s in the box?”
For a second, something flickers across his face. Embarrassment? My Bear, bashful. Who knew? His fingers tighten on the cardboard.
He walks to the bed, sets it down gently, and straightens. “Open it.”
“What is it?”
His jaw shifts. “It’s yours.” The words come out gruff, almost defensive.
My heart squeezes, then thuds.
Slowly, I lift the lid, the delicate pink tissues.
Then a soft gasp leaves my throat.
Inside are three dresses. Not flashy or sequined nonsense. They’re simple, pretty things… soft fabrics in colors that flatter me.
One blue with white flowers. Another darker with red autumn leaves.
The last is the closest to the buttercup yellow I was wearing when he literally snared me.
Folded beside them are a pair of flats… and the cutest cowboy boots I’ve ever seen.
My throat closes.
“Saw you looking… when we were in town,” Knox mutters, the tops of his ears going red.
I gasp, holding up the first dusky blue cotton thing with a swingy skirt, and press it against my naked body. “You bought these for me?”
His nod is small, almost nervous.
“Oh, Bear.” My voice wobbles. But then the giddiness bursts out of me. I twirl, giggling, the dress bunched against my chest as the skirt flares. “Do I look pretty?” I tease, dancing across the room.
Knox’s gaze follows me, hot and unblinking. His eyes darken, his jaw grinds, and then he groans, rough and guttural.
“Need you to stop doing that, baby. You’re fucking sore, but I won’t be able to help it if you carry on like that.”
True, but I grin wickedly, swaying my hips. “Hmm. I don’t know. Maybe my pussy needs more training on how to take you on the daily.”
The sound that rips out of him is pure Grizzly. His cock is already straining the front of his jeans, his chest rising like he’s about to lunge.
Then, with a curse, he tears his gaze away, palms dragging down his face. “Heading out. The wood won’t fucking chop itself.”
And he almost runs from the room, adjusting his massive rod like a man managing a third leg.
I collapse onto the bed, giggling, clutching the dress to my chest.
My Bear. My beautiful, bashful, feral Bear.
He stepped out of his comfort zone.
For me.
And tonight, we’re going to the fair.