Chapter 8
Knox
The work isn't hard—routine maintenance, nothing that requires real thought—but that's the problem. My hands know what to do without my brain's involvement, which leaves my brain free to replay last night on an endless loop.
Toby's face when I kissed him. The sound he made—needy, desperate, like no one had ever touched him right before. The way he arched off the couch when I bit his neck. The way he said please like it was the only word he knew.
The way he looked when I had to leave—wrecked and wanting, marks blooming on his skin, so hard I could see it through his jeans.
I should have ignored the phone. Should have made him come first, watched him fall apart, then dealt with whatever emergency the pack had manufactured. Because it wasn't even a real fire—just Ezra's experimental cooking setting off the smoke alarm, which he could have handled himself.
The wrench slips. I catch it before it hits the floor, but my grip leaves dents in the metal.
"You know," Jason says from somewhere behind me, because he has a death wish, "it's Thursday."
"So?"
"Drag queen story hour is Thursdays."
I don't respond. I'm not thinking about Toby.
I'm not thinking about how he looked last night, spread out beneath me, begging so pretty.
I'm definitely not thinking about the marks I left on his neck—the ones he's probably covering right now with some high-collared shirt, the ones I want to add to until he can't hide them anymore.
"We should go," Jason continues, undeterred by my silence. "Support the community. Show our civic pride."
"Since when do you care about the community?"
"Since they started having hot librarians and Robin's ice cream sandwiches."
My head snaps up. "What?"
"Oh, didn't I mention?" Jason's grinning, that shit-eating grin that means he's been saving this information for maximum impact. "Ezra did some research. Robin makes themed snacks for every story hour. Today's book is about a mouse and cookies or something, so—"
"If You Give a Mouse a Cookie," Vaughn supplies, not looking up from his phone. "Classic cause and effect story. Very educational. Teaches kids about consequences and chain reactions."
"Right." Jason waves a hand. "What he said. So Robin made chocolate chip ice cream sandwiches. Homemade cookies. Homemade ice cream. Apparently he's been stress-baking again because someone left his best friend high and dry last night."
The implication is clear. Robin stress-baked because of me. Because I left Toby on that couch, aching and desperate, and Robin came home to find him like that.
Good. Robin should know that Toby's mine now.
"We're not going," I say.
"I'm going." Silas, which surprises everyone. He's leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, expression mild. "What? I like ice cream."
"It starts at eleven," Ezra adds. He's appeared from somewhere, wiping his hands on a rag. "We could close for lunch. Take a field trip."
"We don't close for lunch."
"We do when our alpha needs to stake his claim on a librarian who probably has hickeys on his neck," Vaughn mutters, still not looking up from his phone. "Hickeys you put there. Which you then abandoned him with because Ezra can't cook."
"It was an experimental soufflé," Ezra protests. "The smoke was expected."
"The fire department wasn't."
"They were very understanding."
The wrench in my hand bends. I stare at it for a moment—solid steel, now curved at a thirty-degree angle—and set it down carefully.
"I don't need to stake any claim."
"Boss." Ezra's using his reasonable voice, the one that means he's about to say something I don't want to hear.
"You've been vibrating with tension all morning.
You've destroyed four tools. You growled at a customer.
Either go see him or we're going to have to deal with you taking apart the entire garage. "
They're all staring at me. Waiting. Four pairs of eyes, various degrees of amusement and concern, unified in their certainty that I'm going to cave.
I hate that they're right.
"Fine," I growl. "But we're not making this a thing."
"Of course not," Jason says, already grabbing his jacket. "Just five giant bikers showing up to children's story hour. Very subtle. No one will notice at all."
The library is busier than I expected.
Kids running up the front steps. Parents with strollers. A teenager skateboarding past with headphones on. It's a whole different world from the garage—bright and loud and full of tiny humans.
We park the bikes in the back of the lot, trying to be inconspicuous. It doesn't work. Five Harleys lined up in a row tend to draw attention, and by the time we're walking toward the entrance, people are staring.
"We're definitely subtle," Vaughn says dryly.
"Shut up."
The children's section is in the back corner—I can hear the noise from the entrance, high-pitched voices and laughter and something that sounds like music. We follow the sound through the stacks, past displays of summer reading picks and hand-painted signs directing us to STORY TIME THIS WAY!!!
And then I see him.
Toby's sitting in a rocking chair at the center of a circle of tiny humans, book open in his lap, completely in his element. He's animated in a way I haven't seen before—hands moving as he talks, voice shifting to match different characters, face expressive and alive.
He's wearing a turtleneck. In July. It's burgundy and soft-looking, and it covers every inch of his neck, hiding the marks I left there.
Hiding the evidence that he's mine.
Something possessive and hungry curls in my chest. I want to walk over there and pull that collar down. Show everyone what's underneath. Mark him up again right here in front of the children and the parents and the spectacular drag queen in the pink wig who's acting out the story beside him.
Toby looks up.
Our eyes meet across the room, and I watch the flush spread across his cheeks, pink and pretty. He stumbles over his words—just one sentence, barely noticeable if you weren't watching for it—before recovering.
But I was watching. I'm always watching.
"And then the mouse asks for a glass of milk," Toby reads, doing a perfect mouse voice that makes the kids giggle. His eyes keep darting to me, like he can't help it.
"But milk is BORING," the drag queen—Miss Glitterbomb, according to her sparkly crown—interjects dramatically. She's six feet tall in her heels, with a pink wig that defies gravity and more sequins than I've ever seen on one person. "What else could the mouse want?"
"ICE CREAM," several kids shout.
"Ice cream isn't a drink," one serious little girl corrects, pushing her glasses up her nose.
"But it's made of milk," another argues.
"That's not how—"
"Ice cream sandwiches are in the back," a parent whispers to us, pointing toward a table laden with treats. "Robin really outdid himself this week."
We make our way to the snack table, trying to be quiet and mostly failing. Jason's boots are too loud on the floor. Vaughn knocks into a display of picture books. Silas catches it before it falls, but the movement draws attention.
Toby's face is bright red now. He's determinedly not looking at us.
The ice cream sandwiches are perfect. Of course they are. Brown butter cookies with chunks of dark chocolate, vanilla bean ice cream that tastes like actual vanilla beans and fresh cream. I hate that Robin's this good at everything.
"Holy shit," Jason mumbles around a mouthful. "These are incredible."
"Language," a nearby parent hisses.
"Sorry. Holy heck."
I find a spot against the back wall where I can watch without being too disruptive.
The story continues—something about a mouse who keeps wanting things, one request leading to another in an endless chain.
The kids are rapt, shouting out answers, laughing at Miss Glitterbomb's dramatic interpretations.
And Toby is magnetic.
This is what he does. This is what he fights Margaret to protect. Reading to kids, making them laugh, teaching them to love stories. He's so different from the nervous, babbling man who showed up at my bar—confident here, in control, completely at ease.
A tiny human with pigtails and a determined expression plops down next to me on the floor.
I freeze. She's maybe four years old, all skinny limbs and sticky fingers, and she immediately starts poking at my boot like it's the most interesting thing she's ever seen.
"You're big," she observes.
"Yeah."
"Your boots are cool." She traces one of the buckles with her finger. "My dad has boots but they're not as big. I'm Lily."
"Knox."
She nods like this is acceptable information, then settles against the wall beside me, attention split between my boots and the story. Across the circle, Toby's watching us with an expression I can't read. Something soft and surprised and maybe a little amused.
The story ends with applause and cheering. Kids scatter for crafts and snacks, and suddenly the room is chaos—tiny humans everywhere, grabbing supplies, demanding attention, treating my pack like jungle gyms.
Jason's got two kids hanging off his arms, one on each side, while he pretends to be a monster chasing them.
Vaughn's at a craft table, teaching a serious-looking boy how to fold paper airplanes.
Silas is carefully braiding someone's hair, thick fingers surprisingly gentle.
Ezra's on his third ice cream sandwich, watching everything with quiet amusement.
We look ridiculous. Five leather-wearing bikers surrounded by children, glitter and glue and construction paper scattered around us.
The tiny human who'd been fascinated by my boots—Lily, I've learned—tugs on my sleeve.
"We're doing mouse crafts! You have to make one!"
And somehow I end up at a tiny table, knees crammed underneath, cutting out construction paper mice while the chaos continues around me.
Miss Glitterbomb saunters over while I'm struggling with safety scissors that are definitely not designed for hands my size.
"So you're Knox."
I look up. She's even more impressive up close—flawless makeup, sparkling earrings, an outfit that probably took hours to assemble. Her eyes are sharp and assessing.
"How did you—"
"Honey." She perches on the edge of the tiny table, somehow making it look elegant.
"Toby came in this morning wearing a turtleneck in July and walking like he'd been thoroughly ravished.
Then you show up with four of your friends, looking at him like you want to eat him alive.
" She extends one perfectly manicured hand.
"I'm David when I'm not in drag. I run the youth theater program. "
I shake her hand carefully. Her grip is stronger than I expected.
"Hurt him and I'll destroy you," she says, voice still sweet and pleasant, smile still firmly in place. "I know people who know people who have pigs. They're surprisingly efficient at disposing of bodies."
"Noted."
"Wonderful!" Her smile brightens, any trace of threat vanishing like it was never there. "Try another ice cream sandwich. Robin really outdid himself."
She swans off to help with crafts, leaving me slightly unsettled. That's the second person who's threatened me over Toby—first Robin, now David. He's clearly well-protected. Well-loved.
Good. He deserves people who'll fight for him.
Toby appears at my elbow, still flushed, fidgeting with the hem of his turtleneck.
"Sorry about Lily. She has opinions."
"Smart kid."
"Knox—"
"Tonight," I cut him off. I don't want to have this conversation here, surrounded by children and parents and Miss Glitterbomb's watchful eyes. "After your shift."
"I close tonight. Won't be done until eight."
"I'll pick you up."
"You don't have to—"
I turn to look at him fully. He's so close I could count his freckles. Could lean down and kiss him right here, pull down that stupid turtleneck and show everyone what's underneath.
His pupils dilate. I can hear his heart skip.
"I'll pick you up," I repeat.
"Okay." It comes out breathy. Wanting.
Jason appears with another ice cream sandwich, oblivious or maybe just deliberately interrupting. "These are amazing! Can we come every week?"
"No," I say.
"Yes," Toby says at the same time.
We look at each other. Toby bites his lip—that soft bottom lip I had between my teeth last night—and I want to bite it again. Want to drag him into the stacks and finish what we started.
"Mr. Knox!" Lily's back, tugging on my shirt. "Look at my mouse!"
She thrusts a construction paper monstrosity at me—more glue than paper, whiskers sticking out at impossible angles, googly eyes crooked and wild.
"That's... a lot of whiskers."
"Whiskers are important." She peers at my abandoned craft, still sitting half-finished on the tiny table. "Yours is messy."
She's right. I've been watching Toby instead of cutting, and my mouse looks like it went through a blender.
"It's abstract," I tell her.
"What's abstract?"
"Art."
She considers this for a moment, head tilted. "It's bad art."
Across the room, Toby laughs at something Miss Glitterbomb says, head thrown back, neck exposed despite the turtleneck. The collar shifts just slightly, and I can see the edge of one mark peeking out—purple and possessive against his pale skin.
Tonight. I'll finish what I started tonight.