Chapter 12 #2
The question cuts close enough I flinch.
He sees that too and exhales roughly through his teeth. "We could handle your father. You know that, right? Whoever he is. Whatever he is. I've got men who'd burn the world down if I gave the word."
"You could. If I actually told you anything."
He looks at me for a long, loaded second. "Yeah. If you actually told me anything."
He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't jab a finger. The comment is quiet. Offhand.
My fingers go cold around the mascara tube.
He rescued me from a parking lot in Chicago. Married me. Built a life around making sure I breathe another day. Two years later, he knows a name from a news article and a marriage certificate. That's it.
He doesn't know the address I grew up in, or the private-school uniforms, or the polished-princess version of me that disappeared the night a Mercer man closed his hand around my throat and reminded me exactly what family I came from.
He doesn't know what my father's house smells like when he's angry, or the sound the front door makes when it locks from the outside.
Even though Knox could find all of it in two clicks if he wanted to, whatever he did in the military left him with teeth sharp enough to chew through any locked file, he hasn't.
He's waiting for me to give him the rest.
And I still haven't.
"Look at me." Softer now.
I do. Because he asked. Because he never uses my name like a weapon, even when it stings.
His thumb drags over my knuckles. He's found me again without me noticing.
"I didn't mean it like that," he says. "I just…"
"Want me to trust you," I finish, voice thin. A single nod. "I do," I say. "I just—"
"Can't yet," he supplies. He says it the way he'd say the weather.
"What if the second I hand it to you, you decide it's too heavy and set it down?"
"Then I'd be a fucking coward," he says.
He says marry. He says mine. Love only comes at night, when he's inside me and his mouth is at my ear. Never letting you go. You're stuck with me. Mine. I pretend he doesn't mean it.
He squeezes my hand and lets it go, the way he always does when he senses I've cracked open more than I meant to.
"Come on," he says. "Maggie's going to hunt us down with a wooden spoon if we're late."
We pay and push through the door into sunlight. Knox hooks the bag over his wrist and slings an arm around my shoulders, tucking me against his side as we walk to the clubhouse.
The closer we get, the louder the sounds. Kids shriek in the parking lot, weaving between bikes that tick as they cool. Someone curses near the smoker, cheerful about it, and from inside the clubhouse I can hear whatever old twangy thing Maggie's put on the jukebox.
By the time we turn into the lot, the whole scene unfolds.
Bikes lined up in a gleaming row. Trucks and SUVs parked farther back. There's a folding table sagging under aluminum trays. Smoke curls from the grill where James stands, king of his kingdom, beer in hand, spatula in the other.
He's laughing at something East says, shoulders shaking.
Knox steers me to an empty picnic table near the edge of the chaos. "Sit. Drink this."
He hands me a cup of sweet tea one of the women must've shoved at him as we passed.
I roll my eyes but sit, crossing my legs, smoothing my leopard skirt. The wood is warm under my thighs. The sun presses on the back of my neck. I tip my face toward it and sit still for a second longer than I need to.
Knox kisses the top of my head. "I'm going to help James with the meat. You good?"
I look at the table full of food, the cluster of women by the pool table inside the open clubhouse door, the kids weaving through bikes as though every adult here were theirs.
"Yeah," I say. "I'm good."
He studies me for a beat, nods once, and heads for the grill.
I watch him go; watch the line of his back, and the way James claps him on the shoulder. East swings by to steal bacon from a plate and gets smacked. Nash lingers near the smoker, arms crossed, scanning the lot as though he's measuring threat vectors even at a family lunch.
"Stop staring like you're waiting for someone to unplug the lights and rip the tablecloth away," Frankie says, dropping onto the bench beside me.
I jump. She smirks, smacking the bottom of a ketchup bottle until a glob lands on the table between us.
"Relax, nurse. You're starting to wrinkle your skirt from all that clenching."
"Since when do you read minds?"
"Since always. You're just new to the subscription."
I huff, sipping my tea. "Maggie will yell at you if you stain the wood."
"Maggie yells at me when I breathe too loud," Frankie says fondly. "She'll live."
Her attention cuts to the lot entrance just as a beat-up car turns in. She nudges me with her elbow. "Showtime. That's Chuck's daughter."
My attention snaps to the car.
Candace steps out. She has short shorts, a denim jacket that's slipping off one shoulder, and wild blonde curly hair tumbling down her back. Legs for miles. With an expression that says she'd rather be anywhere else.
I recognize that look. I wore it the first time I walked into this lot.
Frankie makes a thoughtful noise. "Sour patch," she murmurs.
"Sour what?"
She smiles, sharp and fond. "You'll see."
I stand before I fully decide to. My body just moves.
Knox glances over as I pass the grill. His brow creases, as if he wants to ask. Then he follows my line of sight to Candace and dips his chin.
James spots her first. His whole face changes. Softens. Brightens. He dries his palms on a towel and starts for her, calling her name.
I hang back. This moment is theirs.
He hugs her, big and encompassing. She stiffens for a second, then sinks in just enough that her shoulders drop.
My eyes sting. I look away before anyone sees.
Then James glances over his shoulder and catches my eye. "C'mere, Sloane. Meet my girl."
Up close, Candace looks younger than I expected. Early twenties, but her knuckles are scuffed and the skin around her mouth is tight the way mine used to be. Still is, some days.
"Candace," James says, hand still on her shoulder. "This is Sloane."
I offer my hand. "Nice to meet you."
Her grip is firm. Surprises me.
"Nice to meet you," she says. She flicks a glance at my tattoos, my skirt, the cut of my tank top, then at Knox by the grill.
"Knox's wife," James adds proudly, as if that's a credential.
Her brows lift. "I didn't even know Knox was married," she says, flatly filing the information away.
I smile, a little crooked. "That makes two of us."
Her gaze holds mine a beat longer than polite, that pressed expression easing a fraction.
I loop my arm through hers, the move instinctive, bold.
The way she braced inside that hug lands square in my chest. I know that posture. Wore it. Ran until Knox caught me. No telling who caught Candace, or if anyone did.
"Come on," I say, voice steadier than I feel. "Maggie and the others are inside. If we don't let her fuss over you, she'll combust."
Candace lets me lead.
As we walk toward the open clubhouse door, Knox's gaze burns my back.
"Welcome to the circus," I tell her.
Maggie's laugh reaches us before we're through the door. Candace's grip on my arm tightens once, then loosens.