Chapter 10
Knox
I wake up hard. Because of her. Sloane is wrapped around me the way someone does when they've been doing it for years.
One thigh is hooked over my hip, knee pushing into my stomach.
Hand fisted in my T-shirt as though she thinks I might vanish if she lets go.
Her face is tucked into my throat, breath warm on my skin every few seconds.
Every exhale is a stroke along my nerves.
Three days. It's been three fucking days and my body already treats this as baseline.
I stare at the ceiling. I'm fucked.
She shifts in her sleep, making a soft sound in her throat, and her leg squeezes higher on my hip. The hem of my T-shirt rides up on her, baring a strip of skin across her waist. My thumb finds that strip and strokes across warm flesh. She hums, then burrows closer.
I watch her for a long minute. Relaxed mouth, faint crease between her brows that doesn't quite disappear even in sleep.
"Safe," I murmur into her hair, hand flat over her spine. I don't know if I'm promising her or myself.
The clock says barely seven. Courthouse at ten. Maggie texted last night that she and Frankie would come early to "handle the situation," which is female code for hair, makeup, and threatening me if I stress the bride.
Sloane needs sleep more than she needs my heartbeat under her ear, even if I'd let her stay like this all day.
Careful, Turner.
I slide my hand from her waist, easing her leg off my hip a fraction of an inch at a time. She makes a soft, unhappy noise and tightens her grip on the fabric. For a second I freeze, waiting for the panic flash in her eyes.
It doesn't come.
She sighs and rolls toward my side of the bed instead, one arm stretching across the sheet where my body was. My breath catches. I don't move until I'm sure she's still asleep.
I ease out of bed and stand there, an idiot, barefoot, watching her. My T-shirt hangs off one shoulder. Her sleep-mussed hair is over my pillow. Lips parted. A faint bruise at her throat where my mouth had been.
I bite down on the word mine before it gets out, scrub a hand over my face, and draw back.
Coffee. Food. I need tasks I know how to manage.
I walk out to the kitchen, pull a mug from the cabinet on muscle memory, then pull another on instinct. The coffee maker gurgles to life. I dig my phone out of last night's jeans and thumb the screen on.
Messages.
Maggie: We'll be there in 30. Don't let her eat trash. She needs real food and water, not caffeine and adrenaline, you heathen.
A smirk tugs at my mouth.
Frankie: Tell Sloane her curl stuff is in the bag from last night. Also tell her if she cries and ruins the eyeliner I'm about to do, I'll cry and I don't cry. Ever. This is a threat.
East: ?? Congrats, daddy.
I flip him off through the screen on principle.
Malachi: We're coming too.
Of course they are. The president doesn't miss his vice's wedding, even a courthouse one with no notice.
No text from Nash. Which is exactly how Nash says he'll be there.
The coffee finishes. I fill both mugs, black for me, mostly cream for her. Pull bacon from the fridge, lay it in the pan, crack eggs into another. The two mugs are on the counter as if they've always been there, and my hands won't stop shaking.
I'm midway through flipping bacon when a knock lands on the front door. Two sharp raps, one lighter one. Maggie. I check the hallway, bedroom door still closed, then open up.
Maggie stands there, a general about to rearrange my life. In jeans. A soft sweater. Her hair up. Eyes scanning. Beside her, Frankie balances a garment bag on one shoulder, the tote bag strap biting into her arm, makeup case hanging off her wrist.
"Morning." I hold the door wide.
"Move, Turner." Maggie breezes past, kissing my cheek. "Bride duty."
Frankie pauses in front of me, eyes sweeping my bare feet, rumpled cotton, messed up hair. "Aw," she says. "He's gone for her."
"Shut up." I close the door behind them.
"If you cry when you see her," she adds, "I reserve the right to mock you forever."
"Fuck you," I say, but there's no heat in it. She grins and heads down the hall after Maggie.
Sloane appears at the bedroom door right as they reach it. My T-shirt hangs off one shoulder, barely brushing the tops of her thighs, and she has sleep in her eyes. Hair tangled. She looks fresh out of my bed, and I lose whatever I was about to say.
She blushes the second she sees me looking. My hand curls around the doorframe.
Maggie takes one look at Sloane, then at me, and snorts. "Out," she orders, marching forward as if this is her house. "We're turning your girl into a bride. You're in the way."
"She already looks like—" The bedroom door shuts in my face. I stare at the wood. "I live here," I tell the door. It doesn't give a shit.
Maggie's voice, warm and soothing, filters through. Frankie's sharper, teasing edge. Sloane's small, startled laugh.
You wanted her protected, genius. This is protection.
I head to the kitchen before I do something stupid. Break my own door down, probably.
There's another knock. Heavier. Knuckles on solid wood.
I open the door. Malachi fills the frame. Big shoulders. Green eyes. Beard shadowed. Cut on over a dark tee, hands in his pockets as though he got dragged out of a war room and deposited at my front step.
Behind him, James carries a grocery bag and a thermos. East is in sunglasses even though it's still early. Nash brings up the rear, hands in his hoodie pocket, eyes taking in everything.
"Morning," Malachi says.
"House smells good," James adds, moving past me as if he's walked into this kitchen a thousand times.
East claps my shoulder, then grins. "Heard you're making honest women now, Vice."
I shove him off. "Eat and die."
Nash doesn't say anything. Just nods once, chin tipping in that small, almost invisible way that passes for affection with him.
They fill the kitchen as though they have assigned spots. Malachi leans against the counter, back to the cabinets, facing the room. East goes straight for the finished bacon, fingers snagging a strip before I can smack him.
"Try it," I warn. "You're losing a finger."
He bites the end off anyway, chews, then grins. "Worth it."
James opens my cabinets without asking, finds plates, then starts laying them out as if he’s preparing a Thanksgiving feast instead of a courthouse run. He pulls the grocery bag onto the counter, pulling out orange juice, fruit, and a carton of Maggie's "real food" yogurt.
"Where's your girl?" James asks, as though we've known her ten years instead of three days.
"Getting kidnapped by Maggie and Frankie. Bedroom."
As if on cue, laughter filters down the hall. Sloane's voice, higher than usual, is threaded with disbelief. Frankie's dark chuckle comes next. Maggie clucks her tongue after.
Malachi watches me. Doesn't say anything for a full minute. I drop bread into the toaster. Flip the eggs. Try to pretend this doesn't feel like the edge of a cliff.
"You sure?" Malachi asks finally.
I don't look at him. "Been sure. Today just makes it legal." A slow nod. Approval. And closer to finally.
James pours himself coffee, takes a sip, and makes a pleased sound. "Marriage is picking the same person every day, Knox. Even on the days you want to wring their neck. Paper's just the starter pistol."
East leans his hip against the counter. "Look at him." He gestures at me with his coffee. "He's been married for half a minute already and only just decided to tell the government."
"Shut up," I mutter.
"You're the first one dumb enough to do it for paperwork and feelings," East goes on. "What happened to 'no attachments, no liabilities'?"
Sloane happened.
I flip him off. He laughs.
Nash speaks up, quiet steel. "If you need backup today, you say it."
I meet his eyes. Nothing soft there. If Mercer makes a move, I'm already moving.
"Yeah." I hold his gaze. "I know."
Behind the bedroom door, something hits the floor. Frankie swears. Maggie shushes her. Sloane's laugh edges toward breathless.
I want that door open the way I want air.
James glances toward the hall. "They done in there?"
"Would you rush Maggie?"
He grunts. Point taken.
They eat. I pick at eggs and burn through coffee. Then the hall goes quiet. The bedroom door opens, then I hear soft footsteps.
Maggie and Frankie come first, wide grins, eyes on me as though they're waiting for the show. Between them, Sloane.
I forget how to breathe for a second. Just flat-out forget.
The dress is simple. Sleeveless. Smooth fabric that hugs her torso and flares just barely over her hips, ending mid-thigh. A-line. Clean lines. No lace. No bullshit. It fits the way sin handles.
Her shoulders are bare, delicate collarbones framed by the neckline, and there's a thin gold chain against the hollow of her throat. Her hair in soft waves around her face, loose and touchable, shaped so I can see my hand in it.
Maggie and Frankie went light on makeup. Sloane's eyes look huge. Her mouth is soft and pink. Her heels make her taller, legs longer. That much thigh in my kitchen should be illegal.
I brace on the counter. Mine.
"Jesus," East whispers.
"Mm-hmm," Maggie says smugly.
Frankie smirks and elbows her.
Sloane stands there, twisting her fingers together, half hiding behind Maggie's shoulder. She looks ready to bolt and also ready to face a firing squad.
Slow down, Knox. Don't pounce.
I close the distance one step at a time. Her eyes track me, pupils blown wide. When I stop in front of her, she drops her gaze instinctively, waiting for judgment.
Two fingers under her chin. I tip her face up. "Hey." Low enough that the word is just for her.
Her hazel eyes, ringed in gold, stare back at me.
"Say something," she whispers. "Before I pass out."
My thumb grazes her jaw. I span her waist with my palm, fingers almost meeting at her spine. She shivers.