Chapter 3
Toby
The last thing I remember is Knox telling Jason to stop bringing me food.
"He's not a stray cat," Knox had said, exasperated, as Jason set down yet another plate—this time some kind of pie that smelled like apples and cinnamon.
"He clearly needs feeding," Jason argued. "Look at him. He's all... small and cold and pathetic."
"Thanks," I mumbled into my third cup of tea, too tired to be properly offended.
"Pathetic in a cute way," Jason amended. "Like a kitten."
Knox made a sound that might have been a growl, and I think I laughed, and then—
Nothing.
Now there's a hand on my shoulder, warm and heavy, shaking me gently.
"Toby. Wake up."
Knox's voice, low and careful, like he's trying not to startle me. Which is considerate, given that he could probably kill me with that hand if he wanted to.
I peel my face off what turns out to be the table, grimacing at the sensation of vinyl unsticking from my cheek.
There's probably a pattern imprinted on my face.
My glasses are askew—I must have fallen asleep wearing them—and when I try to straighten up, my entire body protests.
My neck is stiff, my back aches, and my left arm has gone completely numb from being pinned under my head.
"Wha—" I blink in the dim light, trying to get my bearings.
The bar looks different now. Quieter. The jukebox has been turned off, and the silence feels heavy and expectant, pressing against my ears.
Most of the lights are off too, just a few dim fixtures casting pools of amber across the wooden floor.
"Time's it?" My voice comes out rough, scratchy, like I've been gargling gravel.
"Just after two."
"Two," I repeat, not processing. Then it hits me. "Two in the morning?"
"Storm just stopped."
Two in the morning. I fell asleep in a biker bar full of lion shifters, and now it's two in the morning.
I have to be at work at six to set up for the early literacy program.
That's—I do the math slowly, my exhausted brain struggling with basic arithmetic—three hours.
Three hours of sleep if I leave right now and fall asleep the instant I get home.
"Fuck."
"Come on." Knox is standing over me, and in the dim light he looks even bigger than before, shadows carving his face into something stark and almost beautiful. "I'll take you home."
I sit up properly, and everything hurts. My shoulders are locked in a permanent hunch. My spine feels like it's been replaced with rusty hinges. There's a crick in my neck that might be permanent.
The bar is empty except for us. All those huge, tattooed men who were watching me earlier—gone. The pool table sits abandoned, cues still racked on the wall. The kitchen is dark. Even the neon beer signs have been switched off, leaving just their ghostly outlines on the walls.
"Where is everyone?"
"Sent them to bed an hour ago."
An hour ago. Which means he's been here, in this empty bar, for at least an hour. While I slept.
"You stayed?"
He gives me a look I can't interpret. Something complicated moves behind his eyes, there and gone before I can name it. "You're in my bar."
Right. That makes sense. He couldn't exactly leave with a stranger passed out in his booth. Liability issues, probably. Or maybe he was worried I'd steal something. Do people steal from lion shifters? That seems like a spectacularly bad idea.
But he could have woken me up when the storm stopped. Could have sent me on my way and gone to bed himself. Instead, he let me sleep, and he stayed.
I file that away to think about later, when my brain is functioning above survival mode.
The shifter thing. The lion thing. Which I apparently just accepted and then fell asleep about.
Knox moves toward the door, clearly expecting me to follow. I watch him walk—that confident stride, the way he takes up space like he owns it. Which I guess he does. He owns this bar, this territory, probably everything for miles around.
"Can you walk?"
"I'm tired, not broken." I stand to prove it and immediately stumble, my legs refusing to cooperate after being folded under a table for hours. The floor tilts alarmingly.
His hand shoots out, catching my elbow before I can faceplant. His grip is firm but careful, steadying me with an ease that suggests he could hold my entire weight one-handed without breaking a sweat. He probably could.
"When's the last time you slept?" he asks. "Before tonight?"
I try to think. My brain feels like it's wading through molasses.
Yesterday—no, the day before—was the morning literacy program, then the afternoon poetry workshop with the teens, then staying late to fight with Margaret about budget allocation for next quarter, then home to change for the date from hell, then Derek and his crypto obsession, then walking in the rain, then here. ..
"Tuesday?" I offer.
"It's Thursday morning."
"Your point?"
He mutters something under his breath that sounds like "ridiculous human" but there's no heat in it. Almost sounds fond, actually, but I'm way too tired to be reading into the emotional undertones of lion shifters.
His hand is still on my elbow. I should probably say something about that. Instead, I just let him steer me toward the door, too exhausted to protest being handled.
"We're taking my bike."
"Bike like bicycle or—"
The question dies as we step outside. The rain has stopped, leaving the world washed clean and gleaming under the streetlights.
Everything smells fresh—wet asphalt, ozone, the particular green scent of rain-soaked leaves.
And there, parked right by the door like a chrome-and-leather promise of danger, is the motorcycle.
It's massive. Black and silver and gleaming with rain droplets, the kind of machine that belongs in movies or magazines or parked outside bars where men who look like Knox drink whiskey and discuss things like territory and pack dynamics.
It probably costs more than my yearly salary. It definitely costs more than my car.
"Of course," I mutter.
Knox is already pulling a helmet from somewhere—a compartment on the back of the bike, maybe—and holding it out to me. It's black with a tinted visor, and when I take it, it's heavier than I expected.
"This should fit."
It doesn't, really. It's too big, sliding around on my head when I try to put it on. But Knox steps closer, and then his hands are on the straps, adjusting them with surprising gentleness. His fingers brush my jaw, my chin, the sensitive skin just below my ears.
I'm too tired to process why that makes my stomach flip. Too tired to examine the way my breath catches when his knuckles graze my throat.
"Ever been on a bike before?"
"No."
"Hold onto me. Lean when I lean. Don't let go."
Simple instructions. I can handle simple instructions.
He swings his leg over the bike like it's nothing, like mounting a thousand-pound machine is as natural as sitting in a chair. The bike barely shifts under his weight. He makes it look easy, effortless, the same way he makes everything look easy.
I climb on behind him with significantly less grace.
There's an awkward moment where I'm not sure where to put my legs, then another awkward moment where I nearly slide right off the back.
The seat is slick from the rain, and my jeans are still damp, and I'm operating on approximately zero hours of functional sleep.
Knox waits patiently while I fumble myself into position. He doesn't comment on my complete lack of coordination, which I appreciate.
"Where are your hands?"
"I—what?"
"Your hands, Toby." There's a hint of amusement in his voice. "You need to hold on."
Right. Yes. Holding on. I place my hands gingerly on his sides, barely touching, hyperaware of the warmth radiating through his leather jacket.
"That's not holding on."
Before I can respond, he reaches back, grabs both my wrists, and pulls my arms around his waist properly. Firmly. My chest is suddenly pressed against his back, my thighs bracketing his hips, my entire front sealed to his entire back.
"Better," he says.
I make a sound that's probably agreement. It's hard to tell because my brain has gone completely off line.
He's so warm. Even through the leather, even through my damp cardigan, I can feel the heat of him.
Solid and steady and alive in a way that makes something in my chest settle.
Like holding onto him is the safest thing I've ever done, which is insane because he's a lion shifter and I've known him for approximately four hours.
The bike roars to life beneath us.
The vibration travels up through the seat, through my thighs, up my spine, rattling my teeth and settling somewhere behind my sternum. It's overwhelming for a second—too loud, too much, too everything—and I tighten my grip on Knox's waist involuntarily.
"Ready?" he asks.
"No."
I feel more than hear his laugh, a rumble that I can sense through his back where I'm pressed against him. Then we're moving, pulling out onto the empty street, and the world becomes motion.
Wind whips past us, cold and sharp and smelling like rain.
The streetlights blur into streaks of orange and gold.
The city looks different at two in the morning—empty streets gleaming with wet pavement, traffic lights cycling through their colors for no one, the occasional cat darting between parked cars.
Everything is quiet and strange and somehow beautiful in its abandonment.
Knox takes corners smoothly, leaning into them with a confidence that makes me lean too, matching his movements instinctively.
He never goes too fast, never makes any sudden moves, like he knows I'm barely holding it together and is adjusting accordingly.
Every shift of his weight is telegraphed clearly enough that I can follow without thinking.