Chapter 30
Sloane
I come back to myself in pieces. I feel weight first. Solid and warm under my cheek, a wide chest rising against my palms. Then the drag of breath over the crown of my head, steady as a metronome. An arm is cinched around my waist, heavy enough that for a second my body thinks I'm pinned.
I keep my eyes closed while my brain scrambles to catch up.
There's a rug under my hip. Blanket twisted around my legs. The faint smell of coffee from yesterday clinging to his shirt along with detergent, warm skin, and Knox.
Then the rest slams in.
The way my voice shook as I told him everything. Anna on the table. My father's hand on my shoulder. The word sold. The taste of copper and panic. Knox's arms around me on this floor, not letting go. His voice rough and fierce as he said he loved me.
My eyes fly open.
Pre-dawn gray washes over the living room, making everything look softer than it is.
The lamp we never turned off throws a tired circle of light over the coffee table, catching empty mugs and the abandoned tissue box.
The throw blanket is half on us, half on the rug.
My cheek is pressed directly over his heart, the thump-thump beating against my skin.
I hold still.
Did I say all of it out loud? Every ugly, rotting piece? Did he hear it and stay?
Cold, familiar panic skitters up my spine. For one horrible second, I'm convinced the arm around my waist is leftover muscle memory and nothing else.
Then Knox shifts beneath me.
Rearranging. Settling. His chest expands on a deeper inhale, and his thumb drags a lazy path along the curve of my hip. He's been awake long enough to start tracing me again.
"You're awake," he murmurs, voice sandpapered with sleep.
"I thought you might've—"
"Not a chance." His hand squeezes at my waist, firm enough that my body gets the message before my brain does. Here. Staying.
I force my head up, blinking past the stiffness in my neck.
He's already watching me.
His eyes are softer than I expect, but that dark, hungry focus is still there underneath, coiled and barely leashed. There's restraint too, the kind that looks almost painful. As though he wants to devour me and is committed to taking one small, careful bite at a time. Heat unfurls in my stomach.
"You okay?" Knuckle grazing my jaw. The callus catches on my skin, sending a tiny shock straight to my throat.
"I… think so."
His gaze drags over my face as though he's checking for damage he can't bandage. Lingering at the corners of my eyes, at my mouth, at the ache I'm sure is carved into my expression.
"Good," he says quietly, though the word lands more as a vow than a verdict. "Come on. Let's get off this damn floor before my spine files a complaint."
A startled sound slips out, half laugh, half hiccup. It scrapes against the raw places in my chest, but doesn't hurt the way I expect. He smiles at the noise. It's just a small curve at the corner of his mouth, but on his face it loosens a knot I've been clenching since yesterday.
He sits up first, shifting carefully so I don't topple. His jaw tightens when he straightens, one hand pressing into his lower back. He rolls his neck and I hear it crack twice.
"Told you," I murmur.
"Worth it."
He doesn't hesitate. His hands slide to my hips, hauling me to my feet, and I catch the way his shoulders lock when he stands. He moves through it as though it's nothing. I know better. Two years of watching this man absorb damage and pretend it doesn't register.
My knees dip just once. They hold. Barely.
His grip tightens. He stands there, unmovable, until the room stops tilting and my weight is fully my own. Only then do his hands ease, fingers still splayed wide, not quite ready to trust gravity.
The kitchen feels another world away, cooler, the tile smooth under my bare feet instead of scratchy rug. The window over the sink acts more as a mirror, catching our reflections in vague outlines. Knox moves through the space on autopilot, as though his body has a map for my mornings now.
He fiddles with the coffeemaker, nudging the side when it makes a protesting cough. "Don't start," he mutters, scowling at it.
Coffee drips, the refrigerator hums, and the wall clock ticks. The normalcy feels surreal layered over last night's wreckage.
I drift toward the counter, reaching automatically for the crooked stack of mail, bills, flyers, something from Maggie in a pastel envelope. To straighten it, sort it, prove I'm not just taking up space.
Knox's fingertips land warm against my knuckles.
"You don't have to do anything," he says quietly, eyes on my face instead of our hands. "You don't earn your place here. You already have one."
The words land low and deep, settling into a place I'd convinced myself was empty. Heat stings behind my eyes. My fingers loosen from the mail. I let go.
"Okay," I manage, barely a breath.
He pours coffee into two mugs and doctors mine the way I love it. Too much creamer, not enough sugar, even though he always grumbles that I "ruin perfectly good coffee." When he hands it to me, our fingers brush, and the jolt is laughably disproportionate.
His knuckles are white around the mug handle. His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth and dragging itself back up.
He leans his hip against the counter, mug in one hand.
"Last night," I say, staring into the swirl of coffee and cream, "I said too much."
"Sloane." My name in his mouth is heavy velvet. "You didn't say too much. You finally stopped carrying it alone."
My throat squeezes. The mug feels too heavy. "It still feels too much."
He doesn't look away. "Then I'll help you carry it until it doesn't."
The certainty slips under my skin, invasive, heat seeping into fingers gone numb. Uncomfortable at first, then impossible to pull back from.
I drag my gaze up.
Knox is watching me the way he always does.
As though I hung the damn moon, and he's wondering how soon he can get me under him again.
His fingers twitch against the counter, grip releasing and re-forming.
His eyes catch on a loose piece of hair over my cheek; his jaw ticks, physically stopping himself from tucking it behind my ear.
He swallows instead.
He's trying so hard to behave.
"You can kiss me," I hear myself say, the words slipping out before fear can gag them. Softer than I intend. "If you want."
Heat flares in his gaze, and relief floods his expression so intensely it almost looks painful. The corner of his mouth kicks up. The click is almost audible. Us, falling into place.
He sets his mug down with exaggerated care, then pries mine from my fingers and sets it beside his, careful, as if any sudden movement might send me skittering.
Then he steps in.
The air shifts. Lungs crowded with the way he smells. Cedar and skin, so close it crowds out everything else. He lifts two fingers under my chin and tips my face up.
"Sweetheart," he murmurs, warning or prayer or both, then his mouth is on mine.
Purposeful. Almost worshipful, as though he's reminding both of us that this is a choice. Us, standing in our kitchen in wrinkled clothes and yesterday's grief, choosing each other anyway.
His beard scrapes against my skin, the rasp sending a sweet, jagged ache across my nerves.
His lips are sure, moving with a patience that makes my knees go weak.
One hand slides to the back of my neck, fingers spreading into my hair, holding me as though I'm something fragile and holy he's terrified of dropping.
My fingers fist in his shirt, grasping for him because the floor doesn't feel trustworthy. The kiss deepens, just enough for him to taste of strong coffee, heat, and every what-if I've swallowed since Chicago.
When he pulls back, he doesn't go far. Forehead against mine, breath hot over my lips, a little uneven.
"Sweetheart. You have no idea what you do to me."
A lie. What I do to him is pressed hard and hot against my hip where our bodies are flush. My thighs tremble, a little aftershock of want. I'm grateful for the counter keeping me upright.
"Show me," I whisper.
His eyes go dark. Feral. "Sloane—"
"I need you. Please."
He moves fast, hands gripping my hips and lifting me onto the counter in one smooth motion. I gasp at the cold tile under my thighs, at the way he steps between my legs and crowds in close.
"You need me?" His hands slide up my sides, thumbs brushing the underside of my breasts through my shirt.
His voice is rougher than last night, quarried from bedrock.
He knows now. Every ugly corner, every name, every form I signed.
And he's still here with his hands on me, hard against my thigh, looking at me as though I'm the only thing in this kitchen that matters.
"You've got me, sweetheart. You've always had me. "
His mouth crashes into mine. Raw and hungry, tongue sweeping in to taste, to claim. I arch into him, hands finding the hem of his shirt and yanking it up. He strips it off and tosses it, then he's back on me, pulling my top over my head in one motion.
He pushes the fabric off my shoulders and stops.
His eyes move over my bare skin, and I can see the shift.
He's reading the story written over the body he already knows.
Knox cups my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples until they're tight and aching.
I gasp, holding his gaze. His mouth drags hot and open down my throat, teeth scraping, tongue following.
"Knox…"
He hooks his fingers in my waistband and strips everything down in one pull. Panties and all. I'm bare on the counter.
"Spread your legs," he says.
I do. Holding his eyes. Steady. Unashamed. His hands settle on my inner thighs, pressing them wider.
His gaze drops between my thighs and his jaw flexes. "Fuck. Look at you."
He drags his thumb through my folds, sure and thorough, gathering the slick and spreading it over my clit. I shudder.