Chapter 14
Knox
If Malachi paces this groove in the clubhouse floor any deeper, we're gonna need to refinish it.
He's on his fifth pass between the bar and the hallway, jaw locked, hands on his hips. The rest of the place hums low around us. There's music on the jukebox, the clink of bottles, and a couple of regulars laughing near the pool table. But his mood eats most of the air.
Mine chews the rest.
I'm posted near the end of the bar, close enough to watch the hallway stairs and far enough from the noise to think. Sloane's been upstairs with Candace for almost an hour. She said she'd take her time, ease in, make sure the girl didn't feel rushed.
I nodded the way a calm, rational husband would.
My brain was running threat assessments and exit strategies. It's been stuck on Sloane's face when I told her what Chuck did. The way her eyes went flat and her hands stopped moving.
"I should've gotten to her sooner," Malachi mutters, turning again. "Should've seen it."
"Should've, should've. You gonna rewrite yesterday, too, or just today?"
He gives me a look that would make most people take a step back.
I don't.
He grunts and leans his shoulder into the wall near me instead.
Down in the main bar, East leans against the counter, flirting with a brunette in a tight top who's been making eyes at him for three weekends running. He flashes her that easy grin, taps her wrist where she's holding her beer, says something that makes her blush to her ears.
He's already forgotten her name. I'd put money on it. I pull from my bottle and hold it.
"Don't know why he gives them hope," I say under my breath. "Man's allergic to a repeat performance."
Malachi huffs out something that might be a laugh. "Maybe he just likes the game."
"Yeah. He likes the part where he gets his dick wet, then ghosts like a saint doing penance."
We both watch as the front door opens. The air shifts.
Darla walks in, sun catching on her hair, cheeks flushed from the outside heat. She's in a fitted black skirt and a soft cropped sweater, the hem brushing her waist. Polished. Effortless. With that quiet edge she carries now; good girl gone rebel in slow motion.
I swear East feels it before he sees her, head turning as though someone called his name.
The brunette might as well vanish.
He straightens. Smile changes. Softer, less practiced. His hand comes up to push his sunglasses into his hair, same move as always, but the cocky tilt is gone. He says something to the regular, and even from here I can tell it's a gentle brush-off.
Yeah. Game over.
"Uh-huh," I murmur. "Just the game."
Malachi follows my gaze, sees the way East tracks Darla across the room, the awkward little orbit they do to avoid getting too close.
"He's gonna be a mess," Malachi says.
"Already is."
Off to the left, Frankie's at a high-top with Ruby. Frankie's perched on a stool, ankles crossed, black tank and ink on full display, amusement curling her mouth. Ruby's animated, hands flying, curls bouncing, laughing loud enough half the room hears.
They both greet Darla when she slides onto one of the stools.
Darla's new to us, but not new to Candace, and Malachi's already folded Darla into the chaos as though she's always belonged.
That's the thing about him; once he decides you're his, that's it.
Circle drawn. World shrinks down to who he'd burn it for.
I get it.
The kitchen door swings open. Maggie sticks her head out, eyes cutting straight to Malachi and me.
"You two eaten?" she asks.
Malachi just blinks at her. He hasn't tasted food in hours. I shake my head.
She tsks. "Thought so. I'll make plates.
Mal, you're going to make sure that girl upstairs eats if I have to come up there and hand-feed her.
And Knox." Her gaze slides to me, sharp and kind at once.
"You and Sloane coming by the house tonight?
I can throw extra on the grill. James would love to see you. "
I shake my head once. "Rain check. She's just off a twelve. Then Candace on top of it. She's going to be done."
Maggie's mouth softens. She nods, like she already knew. "Then you feed her there. And you make sure she sleeps."
"Yes, ma'am."
Malachi watches her disappear back into the kitchen. "She ever scare you?"
"Daily," I reply.
He snorts, but his eyes keep flicking toward the hallway. Mine too. The door at the top of the hall stairs finally opens. The footsteps on wood are even and measured. Then there she is.
Sloane descends in her faded navy scrubs and beat-up Converse, dark hair piled in a messy knot slipping at the sides. There's a faint crease from a pillow on one cheek. She must've sat with Candace long enough to end up on the bed for a minute.
Her face is calm. Too calm. Anyone else would see "tired nurse." I see the tightness at the corner of her mouth, the way she tucks her thumb into her palm and presses like she's keeping herself from shaking.
All I can think is: come here. Let me hold you. Let me get that look off your face.
She spots Malachi first. Her shoulders square, her professional mask sliding into place.
"How is she?" he asks, straightening from the wall.
"She's banged up, but she's okay." Her voice is steady, a little hoarse from a long day. "Bruising, some swelling, a sprain I want to watch. No concussion symptoms. She's exhausted. Rest is the best thing for her right now."
"You sure?"
"If I wasn't, we'd be at Willowridge General." Steel slides into her tone. "If you notice any confusion, nausea, or dizziness, you call me. Otherwise? Food, water, sleep. And people who love her close by."
"We've got that."
Ruby's already on her feet, curls bouncing as she moves toward us. "Can I go up? Or is she—"
"If she'll let you. She's… raw. But she asked about you."
Ruby blows out a breath. "Okay. Good. We'll do snacks and trash TV and I will bully her into drinking water."
Malachi mutters, half to himself, "Pretty sure I'm the one she's not letting in."
Ruby pats his chest as she passes. "Yeah, well. She thinks you're mad. She'll get over it. Or I'll make her."
Frankie trails after her more slowly, catching Sloane's eye as she goes by.
"You good?" she asks quietly.
Sloane nods once. A lie, but the kind she knows Frankie will clock without making a scene.
I step in then, close enough that her shoulder almost brushes my chest. "Hey, nurse. You done saving my people for the day?"
She leans back into me just slightly, like her spine remembers before her brain catches up. Barely. But I feel it in my whole chest. My hand finds the small of her back, tracing circles over the muscles there.
I can read her from across a room. Right now her shoulders are tight, her breaths are shallow, and her fingers are pressed into her thigh. She's tired. Strung out. Running on fumes.
Malachi scrubs a hand over his face. "Thank you," he tells her in a rough voice. "For coming. For—"
"Malachi," she says gently. "You did the right thing. She's here. She's got eyes on her." His shoulders drop a fraction.
Sloane does that to people. Walks into a room strung tight, and somehow everyone else's shoulders drop.
"You eaten?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Grabbed a granola bar at the hospital. That's it."
"Yeah, no. We're done here."
"Done?"
"You are going to go home, eat actual food, and sleep. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor," she says reflexively.
"Cool. Husband's orders, then."
Her lips twitch.
"Take her home," Maggie calls from the kitchen doorway, as if she's been eavesdropping the whole time. "I've got Candace for the night. If she lets me, I'll bully her into eating too."
"Bossy," Sloane mutters.
"Pot," Maggie fires back. "Kettle."
A ripple of laughter from around the room.
I curl my fingers around Sloane's hip. "Let's go, wife. Before someone tries to hand you another crisis."
"Okay."
Quick goodnights, the usual chorus of "Text if you need anything" and "Love you, baby girl" from Maggie and Frankie. East calls out something crude about not breaking her, earning him a rag tossed at his head from Maggie.
Then we're out in the lot, the night air wrapping around us warm and thick.
Sloane eyes me as I hand her the helmet. "You really going to let me rest?"
I cock a brow. "Sweetheart, I am going to let you sit on my face until you forget Candace's name."
Color blooms across her cheekbones, pupils going wide. "Knox," she whispers, half scandalized, half tempted.
"What? Man's gotta have a plan."
Sloane rolls her eyes, but her fingers are clumsy on the helmet straps. She climbs on behind me, thighs bracketing my hips, arms wrapping around my waist. The second her chest presses to my back and her hands slide under my cut to find my shirt, I bite down on a groan.
Every time. Every fucking time.
"Hold on," I tell her, voice rougher than before.
She already is.
When I kick the bike over, the vibration shudders through both of us. Her fingers flex against my stomach, nails scratching lightly over my abs. She does it again, testing what she can get away with.
I am one bad decision away from pulling into a dark side street and bending her over the tank. Easy. Get her home first. Feed her. Then ruin her.
The ride back is short and familiar. A stoplight, two turns, her body molded to mine.
By the time we pull into the driveway, I'm hard, wired, and aware of exactly how thin my self-control is. She slides off first, handing me the helmet, and I watch the way her scrub top lifts when she stretches. Just a flash of stomach, her warm skin catching the porch light.
She rolls her shoulders, head tipping back, throat exposed in a way that punches directly through my restraint.
Focus, Turner.
Inside, the house is cool and dim. She toes her shoes off by the door, drops her bag on the bench, then starts toward the stairs.
"Shower first," I say. "I'll handle food."
She pauses, turning back. "You don't have to cook."
"I know how to put meat in a pan and turn on the stove, Sloane. Go wash the day off."