Chapter 40 Knox
Knox
Morning light bleaches the bedroom in a way that feels accusatory. Too clean. Too ordinary.
The tight coil under my skin doesn't buy it.
Sloane is already dressed for the gym, moving with the efficiency she uses when she doesn't want to think about what comes next.
Leggings, tank, sneakers laced tight. Hair pulled back a notch too severely, every strand disciplined.
The fabric stretches clean over muscle she earned the hard way.
My attention catches on her hips, thighs, the strong line of her back before I rein it in.
There's brittleness in how she moves. She checks her ponytail, smooths it, checks again.
Rolls her shoulders, testing joints before impact.
When she bends to tie her shoes, she does it facing away from the mirror, jaw set, avoiding it on purpose.
I lean into the doorway, eyes still on her ass, and don't pretend otherwise.
"You know, if you keep bending over that way, we're going to be late."
She snorts, but there's tension under it. "You're impossible."
"Untrue. I'm very possible. You just don't have time for me."
She straightens, glancing over her shoulder. "This is you being supportive?"
"This is me being honest. Support comes after."
"After what?"
"After you finish tying your shoes. And after I get my hands on you for ten seconds."
She shakes her head, but her breath catches. "Five."
"Ten. Non-negotiable." I'm already reaching.
My hands settle at her waist, thumbs pressing into the familiar curve. Her breath hitches, sharp enough that I feel it through thin cotton, and her body eases back into mine, spine aligning without thought. I press my forehead to her temple, mouth brushing warm skin.
"You're doing that thing," she murmurs.
"What thing?"
"Standing as though you're about to drag me somewhere."
I smile against her skin. "I could."
She tilts her head, giving me access. "You won't."
"That's the problem."
The kiss isn't polite. It's still controlled, still restrained, but deeper, making my intent clear. My thumbs trace a dangerous arc at her waist, and she inhales. Sharp. Electric.
I murmur against her mouth, letting the words settle into her skin instead of her head. "You don't owe anyone anything today."
She exhales into the kiss. Her fingers curl into my shirt, knuckles pressing hard enough to wrinkle the fabric.
"I know." Softer, a challenge: "Still."
"Still," I agree, and it costs me to pull back.
We move through the house. I grab the keys off the counter. She bends for her gym bag near the island, and the angle puts her hip right where my hand wants to be. I crowd her space before she straightens, palm grazing her hip, thumb catching her waistband. She swats halfheartedly.
"Knox."
"You started it."
"I picked up a bag."
"Exactly."
Outside, the morning air cuts through denim and leather. I shrug my cut on and she steps in close as we move to the bike. I fit her helmet on, fingers tugging the strap snug, knuckles grazing her jaw. She tips her chin into the touch before catching herself.
When she settles behind me, her fingers hook into my belt loop and tug once. The pull runs straight through me. My hand drops to her thigh and I squeeze once. Firm. Possessive.
We ride in a steady rhythm. The engine vibrates, there's light traffic, her weight shifts with mine, matched to the same center of gravity.
She leans into turns, trust absolute, and I adjust without thinking.
My palm finds her thigh at every stop, warm through her leggings, thumb pressing hard enough to register.
At the compound, a couple prospects linger near the gate with coffee, nodding as we pass. I swing off and lift her helmet free. My hand finds her waist and I help her down, lingering a beat longer than necessary.
"You good?"
She lifts her chin. "I'm here."
That's enough. The clubhouse door swings open, and I brace for the usual overlapping noise. Instead, it's quiet. Too quiet. We cross the main room, and that's when I see it: the war room door is cracked. Pastel light glows from inside. Something in the back of my skull goes cold. Calculated.
Sloane clocks it a half-beat later. Her hand finds my arm, squeezes once, lets go. Her face goes smooth. She knows. She's trying not to show it.
I push the door wide.
There are pink tablecloths pulled tight over the long table, edges squared with hospital precision.
Fake flowers in mason jars at every seat.
Peonies, roses, baby's breath, arranged with the kind of care that says someone consulted Pinterest. Tea lights flicker between them, casting the room in a warm glow that makes the tactical maps on the wall look as though they belong at brunch.
Strips of lace are draped along the chairbacks, tied in bows.
A Boss Babe mug is planted dead center, filled with fresh pens and a single artificial daisy.
But the kill shot is the whiteboard. Where Malachi usually tracks operations, someone has taped a vision board.
Magazine clippings of sunsets and motivational quotes layered over each other with manic commitment.
"MANIFEST YOUR BEST LIFE" in glitter letters across the top.
A photo of a golden retriever glued next to "GOALS. "
I freeze. Malachi steps up beside me. The silence coming off him could strip paint.
"What the fuck."
East's voice carries from down the hall. "Why does it smell feminine in here?" He rounds the corner into the war room doorway, stops dead. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "Is that lace?"
"On my chairs," Malachi says, voice dropping into the register he usually reserves for men who owe him money.
Nash appears behind East, takes one look, and goes completely still. His eyes move from the tablecloths to the tea lights to the vision board, cataloging the damage with the same focus he'd give a crime scene. They filter into the room slowly, but I stay frozen near the doorway.
"They used a glue gun," he says flatly. "On the whiteboard."
"A hot glue gun," East confirms, peeling up a corner of lace. "On leather chairs."
James steps in last. Surveys the room. Nods once, almost impressed. "They went all in. Every surface. Nothing missed."
Laughter detonates from down the hall. Ruby's sharp cackle bounces off walls. Darla's bright, breathless laugh cuts through. Candace's quieter satisfaction runs underneath.
Sloane breaks. Real laughter, quick and bright, bursts out before she can stop it. The sound hits me in the chest. I groan while dragging a hand down my face, torn between annoyance and grudging respect for the level of commitment.
Malachi picks up the Boss Babe mug. Stares at the daisy inside it. Sets it down with the controlled precision of a man deciding not to throw it through the drywall.
"There's a coaster," East says, pointing. "They left him a coaster. It says, 'Slay.'"
Nash picks up the coaster, reads it, sets it back down without a word.
"The vision board has tabs," James says from across the room. He's leaning in, studying it. "Career. Wellness. Personal Growth." He pauses. "Someone wrote 'stop scaring people' under Personal Growth."
"That's for Malachi," East says.
"It's for all of us," Nash mutters.
Malachi drags a hand over his jaw. "They touched my table."
"They also left snacks." James holds up a small basket wrapped in cellophane. "Mini muffins. With a card."
East takes the card. Reads it aloud. "'Fuel your vision, king.' There's a heart."
"There's two hearts," Nash corrects, looking over his shoulder.
I lose it. The laugh scrapes out before I can stop it, low, rough, half-aimed at the ceiling. Sloane catches my eye from the doorway, grinning so hard her eyes water, and kisses me. Quick, pleased, all teeth and heat, gone before I can deepen it.
"You walked right into it," she says.
"I did not walk into—"
She tugs me by the cut toward the gym. "Later. You can brood later."
Her breathing goes deeper. Strides longer. I walk her to the gym door, squeeze her hand once, and let go. She glances back. I jerk my chin toward the war room.
"Go. I'll be there."
She nods and disappears inside.
The men settle into the war room. Malachi goes to the head of the table by instinct, hands braced, jaw working against the indignity of pastel. East takes the wall, scanning with open disbelief. Nash blocks the doorway. James hangs back, expression unreadable.
"I hate how much effort this took," East says.
"They didn't rush it," James says with a nod.
Nash's mouth twitches. All he says is one word, flat and reverent. "Planned."
Malachi rubs his beard. "This is going too far."
No one actually agrees.
"We're not burning the place down," East says. "That's restraint."
"And taste," James adds.
"They're already encouraged," I say. "That ship sailed."
East peels a strip of lace off the chair beside him, holds it up to the light, and lets it drop. "We're getting slaughtered."
Nobody argues with that either.
"We hit them with the live, laugh, love signs and thought we were clever," East continues. "They came back with pastels, lace, and a vision board with tabs. In the war room. This is an escalation, and we’re losing."
James nods. "Badly."
"We got comfortable," Nash says. "Which is worse."
Malachi leans back in his chair, the lace bow pressing between his shoulder blades. His jaw works once. "So what are we doing about it?"
East pushes off the wall. The look on his face is the one he gets before something expensive breaks. "We stop being polite. They went after this room because it's the heart of the club. So we go after theirs."
"Meaning?" James asks.
"Meaning we hit every single one of them. Same day. All at once. No warning. Shock and awe."
He starts pacing. This is East at his most dangerous. When he gets creative.