Chapter 18. Florian
I woke up because of the smell. Not the metallic tang of bleach or the sour reek of unwashed bodies that had become my reality over the last week, but something rich, smoky, and expensive. Bacon. And beneath that, the dark aroma of coffee.
For a second, panic seized my chest, a reflex. I reached out, my fingers expecting the cold steel frame of a cot or the damp nylon of a sleeping bag. Instead, they sank into sheets that felt perfect.
I sat up. I felt Knox’s silk pajamas super large on me sliding down my shoulder. The sleeves swallowed my hands. I brought the fabric to my nose and inhaled. Him.
I wasn't in the shelter. I was in his house.
I slid out of bed, my feet sinking into a plush rug, and padded toward the open door. The house was quiet but comfortable.
Knox was in the kitchen.
He stood at the massive island, a monolith of black marble.
His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows just the way he liked to wear them.
I stopped in the doorway, mesmerized. There was something obscenely attractive about the way the muscles in his forearms shifted as he sliced a loaf of bread.
He didn't turn around, but his posture shifted slightly. "You're awake."
"The bacon woke me up," I said, my voice raspy with sleep. "I think my stomach actually growled loud enough to echo down the hall."
Knox turned then, setting the knife down, and he had this massive smile on. His dark eyes swept over me, the messy hair, the oversized silk shirt hanging off my frame, the bare feet. It was a look of ownership, and I adored it.
"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to one of the high-backed leather stools at the island.
I obeyed instantly, climbing up and wrapping my legs around the base of the stool.
He placed a glass of orange juice in front of me, freshly squeezed, pulp-free, chilled.
I downed half of it in one go, the sugar hitting my bloodstream like a drug.
Before the glass even touched the coaster, Knox was refilling it from a crystal carafe.
"Slow down," he said. "You'll make yourself sick."
He plated the food: crisp bacon, perfectly scrambled eggs, toast with real butter. He set it before me. He didn't serve himself. He just leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, and watched me eat.
It was unnerving. It was perfect.
I ate with more dignity than I felt, trying not to inhale the food like the starving stray I was. The eggs were fluffy clouds of perfection. When I finished, I felt a heavy, warm contentment settle into my bones.
“More?” he asked, and I nodded eagerly. He chuckled, getting up to serve me more. “Boys your age are always starving.”
“I'm always starving,” I agreed. He chuckled again.
Then, Knox came to stand next to me. He brushed the hair from my forehead, his fingers warm, then trailed them down my jawline. His hand stopped at my side, pressing gently against the silk covering my ribcage. I winced, just a flicker, but he caught it.
"The truth, Florian," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Who put that mark on you? And don't tell me you fell."
The lie died in my throat. In the light of day, with a belly full of his food and his eyes locked on mine, deception felt impossible.
"I was in line," I muttered, looking down at my empty plate. "For the soup. A guy wanted my place... he shoved me. Into the corner of a table."
The air in the kitchen changed. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
I looked up. Knox hadn't moved, but he had turned into a statue. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. His eyes were black voids, devoid of the warmth that had been there seconds ago.
"He shoved you," Knox repeated. The words were flat.
"It's not a big deal," I said quickly, my heart stuttering. "People are... stressed in there. It’s not their fault."
"He touched you," Knox continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "He put his hands on what is mine and caused you pain."
"Daddy," I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his large hand where it rested on the marble. It was rigid, the tendons standing out. "Daddy, stop. Please. I'm fine. Look at me. I'm safe now. Don't... don't go back there. Don't go looking for him. Don't do anything crazy."
The truth is that he probably would be able to look at security cameras, even if he bought his way in, and watch it, find the guy, and…
teach him a lesson?! I didn't know what millionaires like him were capable of. A lot, that I knew. Maybe he could even see who stole my backpack. Damn, he didn’t even know about that exactly. He’d flip if he found out.
He looked at my hand on his, then up to my face. The darkness in his eyes receded, just a fraction.
"I will never," he vowed, the words grinding out like stones, "let anything happen to you again. You are under my protection. If the world tries to touch you, I will break its hands."
A shiver raced down my spine, fear and thrill tangled together.
“As long as you want me, I'll be here for you. You are mine,” he said. Butterflies.
I squeezed his hand, then let go, leaning back and giving him a slow, once-over, letting my gaze linger on the veined strength of his forearms and the flat expanse of his stomach.
I needed to change subjects. The truth was that he was scaring me a little, and I couldn't deal with how hot he was being either.
"You know, Daddy," I drawled, forcing a smirk onto my face. "For a millionaire, you make pretty decent eggs. I still expected you to have a robot butler or something. You really know how to cook! I thought you'd be so spoiled by now that you'd forgotten everything."
Knox blinked, the murderous intensity faltering slightly.
"And that shirt," I continued, tilting my head. "It's straining a little across the chest, don't you think? Maybe you should just take it off. You know, to save the buttons. I wouldn't mind the view."
I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Relief washed over his features, softening the hard lines of his face. He let out a short huff of air that might have been a laugh.
"Incorrigible," he murmured. "Twenty-four hours ago, you were shivering in a warehouse, and now you're objectifying me in my own kitchen."
"I'm resilient," I countered, lightly kicking my bare foot against his shin under the counter. "And you love when I'm a brat."
"I tolerate the brat," he corrected, though his eyes were warm. "We need to establish some ground rules, Florian. Structure is what you need. A routine. A curfew. Academic check-ins. And consequences for failing to meet standards."
My breath hitched. The tone was back, the Daddy voice. My body reacted instantly, a bloom of heat pooling low in my belly, my pulse thumping a frantic rhythm against my throat. I shifted on the stool, my thighs pressing together.
"Yes, please," I whispered, looking up at him through my lashes. "I want the rules."
I leaned forward, trying to close the distance, desperate for his hands to replace the silk on my skin.
Knox chuckled, a low rumble in his chest, and placed a firm hand on the top of my head, stopping me. "No."
I froze, blinking. "No?"
"Not yet," he said firmly. "You are exhausted. You are recovering from trauma and malnutrition. We are not starting our dynamic in earnest until you are healthy, rested, and thinking clearly. I will not break a toy that is already damaged."
My face fell. "But I feel fine! I ate the bacon!"
"The bacon is a start," he said. He checked the expensive watch on his wrist and sighed. "I have to go into the office. The crisis I created by disappearing yesterday needs managing."
Panic clawed at my throat. I grabbed his wrist, my fingers digging into his skin.
"No," I choked out, the bratty facade vanishing instantly. "Don't go. You can't leave."
Knox froze. He looked down at my hand, then at my face, seeing the raw terror there. He didn't pull away. Instead, he stepped closer. He cupped my face in his large palms, his thumbs brushing over my cheekbones.
"Florian," he said, holding my gaze. "I am going to work. It is twenty minutes away. I will be back by four. You are safe here. No one gets in this property without my permission."
"But..."
"I will be back," he promised, leaning down to press a firm kiss to my forehead. It was a seal. A contract. "Rest. Watch TV. Eat whatever you want. I'll see you in a few hours."
I clung a little harder, my fingers turning white on his wrist. My mouth opened, a protest already forming, and I knew, somewhere deep, that if I made a scene, if I clung hard enough, he’d stay. He’d miss meetings and rearrange his empire and let the world burn just to keep me from falling apart.
But I wanted, needed, to prove I wasn’t that fragile. That I could be left alone for a few hours and not wither like a cut flower.
“Okay,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Four o’clock?”
He smiled. This time it reached his eyes, a quick flare of satisfaction that I’d managed to get it together. “Four o’clock.”
He kissed the top of my head, straightened, and retreated from my orbit. The absence of his body heat left me shivery.
“Do you want me to walk you to the door?” I asked. My voice was light, but my insides were a tangle of barbed wire. I imagined myself as a perfect little wife, pouring his coffee and smoothing his collar before he left for work.
He gave me a look: amused, soft, a little appraising. “Yes. I’d like that.”
I followed him down the corridor. The house was large, even just from the short walk to the foyer, a palace of glass and stone.
I tried to memorize the route: left at the living room, past the wall of books, right at the enormous painting of a storm.
If I got lost, I’d just stay put on a couch and refuse to panic.
Knox paused at the mirror by the door, buttoning his cuffs. He caught my eye in the reflection.
“You’ll text me if you need anything?” he prompted.
“I’ll text you,” I promised, even though my phone was a brand-new one that still felt like a stranger in my palm, his number pre-loaded under Daddy with two red hearts. “I won’t burn the house down.”
“Good,” he said, chuckling. His voice was warm, but there was a weight behind it, as if he’d already seen, in his mind, every possible disaster. He leaned down, brushed his lips over my hairline. “Be good.”
I waited until the door hissed shut behind him, then listened to the heavy sound of the lock engaging, the soft beep of the alarm arming. I was alone, in a house I could barely find my way around.
***