Chapter 17
Knox
I'm eager to go after her so badly my hands curl into fists. Instead I stand in that hallway, listening to Sloane's footsteps disappear down the stairs and out the door as my nails bite into my palms.
Don't chase. Don't corner her when she's already scared.
The club noise swallows the space she leaves behind. The laughter, jukebox, Ruby shouting about someone cheating at darts. None of it lands right. The noise feels distant, as if it's coming from the far end of the room.
Malachi appears at the end of the hall. "She good?"
I force my hands open. "Went home."
His eyes flick past me to the bathroom door, then back. He knows better than to push, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to.
"Rider's got eyes out," he finally says. "On Donovan. On Chuck. We'll handle it."
I nod. "Yeah."
"Text me when you get home. Make sure she's actually there."
The thought that she might not come back, might go anywhere but our bed, hits harder than the Donovan shit.
"She'll be there," I say.
I don't know if I'm convincing him or myself. I pull my phone out, thumb hovering. Don't blow her up. Don't make it worse. I type anyway.
Me: You get home safe, wife. You text me or I'm tearing up every road between here and the house.
The typing dots never appear. I shove the phone in my pocket, grab my cut off the hook by the bar and my helmet from the shelf, then head for the door.
Ruby tries to snag me with a "Hey, Vice, you look like you swallowed glass," but I jerk my chin and keep walking.
I tear out of the lot faster than I should. I don't have a fix for this. For her. And that might be the first thing in my life I haven't been able to force into submission.
She is here. I only breathe easier when I see her car in the driveway. I cut the engine, and the rumble fades. The quiet that follows makes every thought louder.
Through the living room window, I see the faint outline of her curled on the couch, knees pulled up, one of my hoodies swallowing her. TV flickering. Head tipped back against the cushions.
Her eyes are dry, and she sits perfectly still. But her hands are pressed flat between her knees, holding themselves down. I get as far as the front steps before my feet almost turn me around, back to the bike, back to the club, back to anyplace where I know the rules.
Out there I know how to move. I know who to hit and what threats to track. In here it's just her and me. And all the shit we're both carrying. I open the door.
Her head jerks up. The TV flicker catches in her eyes, making them too shiny.
"Hey," I say, closing it behind me.
"Hey." Soft, thin in a way I hate.
I hang my cut on the hook by the door, toe off my boots. She watches all of it as if we haven't done this same ritual a hundred times. I cross the room, sink onto the couch beside her, and leave a little more space than usual.
"Sloane."
Her chin lifts. "Yeah?"
"You were off tonight before Rider even opened his mouth," I murmur. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
She wraps her arms around her knees, pulling tighter. "I'm just tired, Knox. It's been a week."
"With Candace. Chuck. With Donovan's name floating around like a fucking ghost. Yeah. It has."
Her eyes flicker at that last one. Small, but I see it. Push. Don't push. I pick the one that keeps her on this couch and not on a highway out of town.
"Okay," I say instead. "You're tired. I get it." She lets out a breath as if she was braced for something else. I hate that. "Do you want me to sleep on the couch?" I ask before I can stop myself.
Her head snaps toward me. "No." Too fast. Too urgent. "No," she repeats, softer. "I just… need space in my own head. Not distance from you."
"Okay. Good. Because that couch does jack shit for my back." Her lips twitch, barely there, but real. "You want to go up?" She hesitates, then nods.
In our room, she moves through her routine. Washes her face, changes into one of the soft cotton sets I bought just because I wanted to see her in them. Does it all without looking at me for more than a second at a time.
I strip down to briefs and slide into my side. Usually she crawls into my space without thinking. Drags my arm around her, tucks herself under my chin, leg thrown over my hip.
Tonight she lies down on her side and stays there, back to me. I lie there staring at the ceiling, every nerve reaching for her while my arms stay still. Say something. Apologize. Demand. Beg.
I settle for, "Goodnight, sweetheart."
A heartbeat of silence, then, quietly, "Goodnight, Knox."
I hold on to it. I roll onto my side, watch the shadow of her spine under the blanket, and make myself stay put. Don't drag her into your chest because you miss her weight. Don't climb into her head when she's fought you all night to keep the door shut.
At some point, I tip over into sleep. I wake to an empty space beside me. For a second, my heart drops straight into my gut. Then I hear the soft pad of bare feet. The quiet clink of a mug on the nightstand. The coffee smell hits a beat later.
"Hey," Sloane says softly. I blink, then roll toward her. She's in one of my old tees, hair in a messy knot, holding out a mug. Morning light from the window paints her in gold.
"You made coffee?" My voice is rough from sleep.
"I bribed the machine into doing it. Basically the same thing."
I sit up and take the mug. Our fingers brush, and heat shoots straight up my arm. She feels it too. I see it flash across her face, quick and unguarded, before she looks away.
"I'm sorry about last night," she says to the window. "I shouldn't have walked out like that."
"I shouldn't have cornered you in a hallway. Not my best move."
She huffs a short, humorless breath. "We're a mess."
"Yeah. But we're still here."
She sits on the edge of the bed, not quite touching me. "I'm going in late today. Told them I had… family stuff."
"You've got me," I say without thinking.
She gets that look again. The one where she can't figure out why I'm still standing here. Before I can fuck it up by saying more, my phone buzzes. Malachi.
I sigh, then pick it up. "Yeah?"
"Briefing in an hour. James is making enough coffee to kill a horse."
"On my way."
I set the phone down and look at her. "You going to be okay getting there later?"
She nods. "Yeah. I've got it."
I swallow the question I actually want to ask, want me to ride you in?, and let it die. She doesn't need a bodyguard hovering. She needs space that still feels like us.
"Okay. Text me when you go on break."
Her mouth softens. "Bossy."
"You like me bossy."
A hint of color. "Sometimes."
When I lean in to kiss her, she hesitates for half a heartbeat before meeting me halfway. Her fingers curl in the front of my shirt, knuckles white, holding on.
That alone could keep me standing here all day.
"I'll be back before your shift," I murmur against her mouth. "If I can."
She nods, and when I kiss her cheek, she lets me. The smallest lean of her body gives her away. I hold on to it all the way to the clubhouse.
James is parked at the long table in the kitchen area with a massive mug in one hand, reading glasses perched low on his nose, as he scrolls on his phone.
"Morning, old man," I say, grabbing a mug and filling it with the tar he calls coffee.
He grunts. "Who you calling old, Vice? I can still take your ass."
"Please don't. My back hurts just thinking about it."
He snorts, then looks up properly. The humor doesn't quite hide the way his eyes sharpen on my face.
"You look like shit."
"Love you too."
He jerks his chin toward the empty chair. "Sit. Before Malachi gets you in the war room and you pretend you're a robot for three hours." I drop into the chair and wrap my hands around the mug. Stare into the black for a second too long.
"She walked out last night," I say.
James goes still beside me. "She come home?"
"Yeah." I swallow. "But she might as well have been on the other side of the house. I pushed. She shut down. I backed off. Now we're… here." I wave a hand at the empty air between my chest and the table.
He blows out a long breath. "You know who Donovan is to her?"
My jaw tightens. "I've had Castiel's name since Chicago. Pulled it out of Whitcomb's files myself. Sent the intel to Malachi two years ago. I know what he is. What I don't know is how my wife recognized his name before Rider finished the sentence."
"Think it's time you started figuring it out?"
"I'm trying," I snap, harsher than I mean to.
"I'm trying not to scare the woman I married by interrogating her like a suspect.
To not break her by demanding something she's not ready to give.
And I'm trying not to tear the world apart because I can't stand the idea of some motherfucker out there who made her flinch at a name. "
James just watches me, still as stone. Then his expression shifts, something settling behind his eyes, like he's been waiting for the mask to crack. "There he is," he says quietly. "That's the truth."
I scrub a hand over my beard. "You ever feel like one wrong conversation could cost you everything?"
He looks at me, eyes kind. "Yeah, son. I have."
My throat tightens at the son. "Maggie ever walk out?" I ask, half-joking, half not.
"Once. For thirty-four minutes. Went to the grocery store and wouldn't answer my calls." He smiles faintly. "I sat on the floor in our kitchen and thought about what a dumb bastard I'd been."
"What'd you do?"
"Told her the truth. All the ugly parts I thought would make her leave. Then let her decide."
"How'd that work out?"
He holds up his left hand, and wiggles his ring finger. "Thirty years and change. Still like having her naked in my bed. Still want to strangle her at least twice a month. Wouldn't trade her for anything."
A reluctant laugh escapes me.
He nudges my shoulder. "You and Sloane are going to keep choosing each other."
"You don't know that."