Chapter 17. Knox
The smell hit me, unwashed bodies, wet wool, and hopelessness. The lighting was no better. Rows of cots stretched out before me, a sea of human misery. I felt a curl of revulsion, not for the people, but for the fact that he was here. That I had allowed him to sink to this.
I moved. I cut a path through the room, my presence a disruption in the atmosphere. Heads turned. Dull eyes watched. I didn't care. I saw nothing but the destination.
And then I saw him.
He was huddled on a cot near the back wall, knees pulled up to his chest, making himself as small as possible.
He was wearing a sweater three sizes too big, a hideous thing.
His hair was matted. His face... God, his face was gaunt, the cheekbones sharp enough to cut.
He looked like a broken doll thrown in the gutter.
My heart stopped, then restarted with a violent, painful thud.
"Florian," I breathed.
He looked up. The recognition in his eyes was slow, fighting through layers of exhaustion and terror. Then, he crumbled. He tried to stand and failed, swaying like a reed in a storm.
I was there before he could fall. I caught him, hauling him up against my chest, wrapping my coat around him to shield him from the world. He felt terrifyingly light, bird-boned and fragile in my grip. He buried his face in my neck, sobbing, a raw, wounded sound that tore through my composure.
"Daddy, I’m sorry," he whimpered.
He was apologizing! He thought it was his fault when it was entirely mine. The fury at myself reignited in my gut. He was too precious for this world.
I carried him out. I didn't look back. I marched through the rows of cots, past the security desk, out into the cool, wet air of the evening.
The driver had the back door open. I deposited Florian onto the leather seat and climbed in immediately after him, pulling the door shut and sealing us in the quiet, climate-controlled sanctuary of the car.
"Home," I told the driver.
The partition slid up, granting us privacy.
Florian was shaking. It was a full-body tremor, his teeth chattering, his hands clutching at the lapels of my coat where I still held him. I pulled him across the seat until he was pressed against my side.
"I'm sorry," he babbled, the words tumbling out in a frantic, disjointed stream again.
"I'm so sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean to...
I didn't mean to ignore you. My phone...
they stole my phone. And my backpack. I had your card, I swear, I had it, but I didn't want to use it because... because I thought I could fix it... and then they stole it anyway… I didn’t want to be a burden to you. "
He was hyperventilating, his eyes wide and panicked.
"I got evicted," he choked out, tears cutting clean tracks through the grime on his cheeks. "Mr. Henderson, he... he put me out on Monday night. My phone was dead. I didn't know where to go. I'm sorry I look like this. I smell terrible. I'm ruining your car. I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."
"Florian."
"I tried to find a way to call you, but I didn't know the number and they stole my ID as well…"
"Florian!" I said it sharply, cutting through the spiral.
He flinched, snapping his mouth shut, his lower lip trembling. He looked terrified. Of everything, of me. That fear was a bitter pill, one I deserved to swallow.
I reached out and took his face in both of my hands. My thumbs brushed away the fresh tears. I forced him to look at me, to see the absolute sincerity burning in my eyes.
"Stop apologizing," I commanded. "Do you hear me? You have nothing to apologize for."
"But I…"
"No," I interrupted firmly. "I told you, if anyone failed here, it was me. I knew how precarious your life was, and I failed you."
His blue eyes searched mine, confused, unable to process that he wasn't the one in the wrong.
"I should have been there," I said, the words tasting like bile.
"I should have burned the city down to find you the moment you didn't answer on Tuesday.
This..." I gestured vaguely at his state, at the tremors wracking his body.
"This is on me. I let you get hurt. I let you go hungry.
I will never forgive myself for that. But I will do better, that I guarantee you. "
Florian let out a shuddering breath, his resistance collapsing under the weight of my admission.
"You came," he whispered.
"I will always come," I vowed. I pulled him forward, tucking his head under my chin, wrapping both arms around him, and holding him as tightly as I dared without crushing him.
"I will never fail you again, little one.
I swear it on my life. You are never going back there.
You are never going to be cold or hungry or alone again. "
He collapsed against me, all the tension leaving his body in a sudden rush, leaving him limp and heavy. He sobbed into my shirt, gripping me like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.
"I've got you," I whispered into his matted hair, rocking him gently as the car sped through the darkness. "I've got you forever."
The rest of the drive passed in a blur of rain-streaked lights and silence. Florian didn't speak again. He sat pressed against me, his head resting heavily on my chest, his breathing shallow and uneven. Every few minutes, a tremor would roll through his frame.
He looked beaten. The defiance, that spark of bratty challenge that I so adored, had been extinguished, replaced by a terrifying emptiness.
I hated it. And I hated myself for allowing it to happen.
When the car pulled into the private underground garage of my house, I didn't wait for the driver.
I guided Florian out, keeping a steadying hand on his lower back.
He stumbled a little, his legs clearly weak from lack of food, and I simply swept him up into my arms again.
He didn't protest. He just rested his head against my chest, his eyes closing.
I bypassed the kitchen, the living area. I took him straight to the master suite.
I set Florian down on the velvet-topped bench in the center of the room and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam began to curl against the glass.
"Come here," I said softly, turning back to him.
He stood up, his movements stiff and jerky. I reached out and began to undress him, my fingers working the hem of that hideous, scratchy sweater. He lifted his arms obediently, like a child.
He had always been lean, runner-wiry, but now he was gaunt. In just a week, the definition of his ribs had become stark, the skin pulled too tight over his hips. And there, blooming like a dark flower against the pale skin of his ribcage, was a bruise. Ugly. Purple and yellow at the edges.
I traced the mark with the tip of my finger, barely touching the skin. "Who did this?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.
Florian flinched, looking down. "I... I fell. In the bathroom at the shelter. The floor was slick."
He was lying. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. But I didn't push. Not today. Today was about safety, not interrogation. I would find out later, and whoever had put their hands on him would regret the day they were born.
"Into the water," I murmured, helping him shimmy out of the filthy jeans and boxers.
He stepped into the shower, hissing slightly as the hot water hit his skin. I stepped in after him, fully clothed in my dress shirt and slacks, ruining the silk and wool without a second thought. I grabbed the bar of soap and began to lather it between my hands.
"Arms up," I instructed.
He obeyed. I washed him with methodical strokes.
I scrubbed the grime of the city from his skin, washing away the scent of bleach, replacing it with cedar and warmth.
I was gentle over the bruise, firm over his shoulders where the tension had knotted the muscles.
I washed his hair three times, massaging his scalp until his eyes rolled back and his head lolled forward against my chest.
"You're safe," I told him, over and over. "You're clean. You're mine."
When the water finally ran clear, and he was shivering from exhaustion rather than cold, I turned off the tap. I wrapped him in a bath sheet thick enough to drown in, rubbing him dry. I dried his hair, combing the tangles out with my fingers.
I found a pair of my own pajamas, navy silk, ridiculously large on him, and helped him into them. He looked tiny in my clothes, the sleeves hanging past his hands, the collar slipping to reveal his collarbone. It was a possessive mark more potent than any collar.
I led him to the bed. Florian crawled in, sinking into the mattress as if he never wanted to leave. I pulled the duvet up to his chin, tucking him in tight.
"Sleep," I said, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. "I'll give you privacy. I’ll be in the study if you need…"
I turned to go, intending to let him rest while I poured myself a very strong drink and made several phone calls that would likely end in lawsuits or arrests for the shelter management.
A hand shot out, gripping my wrist with surprising strength.
"No!" Florian gasped. I looked back. He had scrambled up to a sitting position, his eyes blown with panic. "Please. Please don't go. Don't leave me," he begged, his voice cracking, "If I wake up and you're not there... please, Daddy. Please don't leave me alone."
My heart broke. It simply cracked open in my chest.
I looked at his white-knuckled grip on my wrist, at the raw desperation in his face. He didn't want the millionaire; he didn't want the savior. He wanted me.
"Move over," I said.
He scrambled to the side instantly, making room.
I kicked off my wet shoes, stripped off my soaked socks, and removed my damp dress shirt, tossing it onto the floor. I climbed into the bed in my boxers, sliding under the duvet next to him.
Before I had even settled, Florian was on me. He curled into my side, wrapping his arms and legs around me, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
I wrapped my arm around him, my hand splayed across his back, holding him securely against me. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart against my ribs, gradually slowing as the reality of my presence seeped into him.
"I'm here," I whispered into the darkness, stroking his hair. "I'm not going anywhere. Sleep, little one. I've got you."
He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the last of the tension melting from his frame.
His grip on me didn't loosen, but his breathing deepened, evening out into the rhythm of sleep.
I lay there in the quiet dark, listening to the rain tap against the glass, knowing with absolute certainty that I would never sleep in an empty bed again.