Chapter 10
Knox
Dawn filters through the windows, painting gold stripes across Toby's skin. He's sprawled on his stomach, face buried in my pillow, dead to the world. Finally.
Perfect. He's perfect.
I prop myself up on one elbow, careful not to jostle the mattress.
The sheets are wrecked, tangled at the foot of the bed, and Toby's got one arm thrown over my pillow like he's trying to hold onto my scent even in sleep.
His breathing is slow and deep, the kind of unconsciousness that only comes from total exhaustion.
Good. He needed that.
I catalog the damage in the morning light.
Bite marks on both shoulders—the one on the left is shallow, already fading to pink, but the one on the right is deep and angry red.
That one happened when he came the third time, when he was so overstimulated he couldn't form words anymore, just sounds.
My teeth sank in before I could stop them, and he'd arched into it, crying out my name like a prayer.
That'll scar nicely. Permanent. Mine.
Bruises bloom purple across his hips where my hands held him in place.
His neck is a masterpiece of red and purple—I lost count of how many times I marked him there, sucking and biting until he was writhing beneath me.
His inner thighs have finger-shaped shadows from when I spread him open. His ass...
Well. He's going to feel that for days.
Good.
The morning light catches the edge of his glasses on the nightstand, folded neatly next to a half-empty water bottle.
At some point around 2 AM, between rounds, he'd fumbled for them out of habit before remembering he didn't need to see clearly to be fucked into the mattress.
I'd laughed, set them aside, kissed the bridge of his nose where they usually sit.
He'd called me sweet. Then I'd flipped him over and shown him exactly how not-sweet I could be.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I grab it before it can wake him.
Jason: Everything okay up there? Sounded like someone was getting murdered.
I roll my eyes.
Fuck off.
Just checking! The screaming stopped around 4. We were taking bets on whether you killed him or he finally passed out.
Sleeping.
Finally. Thought you were going to kill him with your dick. Ezra had to turn up the TV twice. We could all hear that headboard. Your poor wall. LOL.
I glance at the headboard, then the wall behind it. There's definitely a new dent in the plaster. Shit. I'll deal with that later.
How is he though? Actually okay?
I look at Toby again. At the gentle rise and fall of his breathing, the way his fingers curl slightly against the pillow. He looks thoroughly fucked out. Debauched. Claimed.
Perfect.
Gross. Happy for you. Don't forget we have that parts shipment coming early today.
I know.
Also Vaughn says you owe him $200.
For what?
He bet you'd have him staying over before the weekend. Ezra had next Tuesday. I had the pessimistic view that you'd somehow fuck it up and scare him off first.
Appreciate the faith.
Hey, you've got a track record. Anyway, Vaughn wins. Pay up.
I don't respond to that. Just set the phone down and go back to watching Toby sleep.
The thing is, Jason's not wrong. I do have a track record. Quick fucks, easy releases, people who knew the score going in. Shifters, mostly, who could handle the rough and didn't expect anything after. I've never brought anyone breakfast. Never run a bath. Never wanted to.
But Toby shifts in his sleep, making a soft sound of discomfort, and something in my chest clenches.
He's sore. Of course he's sore—I was rough with him.
Rougher than I probably should have been with a human.
But he'd taken it so well. Begged for more even when I tried to slow down.
Wrapped his legs around me and pulled me deeper when I suggested we take a break.
Still.
I slide out of bed carefully, moving with the kind of silence that comes from years of predator instincts.
Toby doesn't stir. In the bathroom, I start running a hot bath—almost too hot, the way I like it after a hard ride, when my muscles are screaming.
I find the muscle soak salts under the sink, the ones I bought for post-ride recovery, and dump in a generous amount.
The bathroom fills with eucalyptus and something herbal.
Then the kitchen. Water bottles from the fridge—he needs to hydrate after last night.
Fruit from the bowl on the counter: grapes, strawberries, some of those little clementines Jason keeps buying because he's obsessed with them.
Protein bars from the cabinet. He needs real food, probably hasn't had a proper meal since lunch yesterday, but this'll do until I can get something more substantial in him.
I arrange it all on a tray I didn't even know I owned—must've been a housewarming gift from someone—and carry it back to the bedroom.
Toby's stirring now. His face scrunches up as consciousness drags him back, and he makes a disgruntled sound into the pillow that has no business being as cute as it is.
"Time's it?" he mumbles, words slurred with sleep.
"Seven."
"Fuck." He tries to push himself up and immediately collapses with a groan, face-planting back into the pillow. "Oh my god. I can't move. You broke me. I'm broken. This is it. This is how I die."
"You're not dying."
"I'm definitely dying. Every muscle in my body is staging a revolt." He turns his head just enough to glare at me with one eye. "This is your fault."
"Guilty." I sit on the edge of the bed, setting the tray on the nightstand. My hand finds his back almost without conscious thought, running down the curve of his spine. His skin is warm from sleep, smooth except for where my nails left faint red lines. "Bath's running. It'll help."
He goes still under my touch. Then he turns his head more fully, and his expression shifts from grumpy to something softer. Wondering.
"You ran me a bath?"
"You're sore."
"Whose fault is that?" But there's no real accusation in it. He's looking at me like I've done something remarkable, like running a bath is some grand romantic gesture and not just basic fucking decency after the night we had.
"Knox." He reaches out, fingers brushing my knee where I'm sitting beside him. "That's really... you didn't have to do that."
"You needed it."
"Still." His thumb traces a small circle against my skin. "Thank you."
The sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight. I clear my throat, reaching for the water bottle. "Drink this first. You're dehydrated."
"How do you know?"
"Can smell it." I uncap the bottle and hold it out. "You need water, food, and a hot bath. In that order."
"Bossy," he murmurs, but he pushes himself up—wincing with every movement—until he's sitting against the headboard. The sheet pools at his waist, and I can see the full extent of my marks across his chest and shoulders.
Something primal and satisfied rumbles through me at the sight.
He takes the water, drinks half of it in one long pull, then sets it aside and looks at me. Really looks, with those warm brown eyes that saw me flash gold and shift and didn't run screaming.
"Last night was incredible," he says quietly. "I didn't know it could be like that. That I could—" He breaks off, cheeks going pink, which is ridiculous considering what we did. "That I could come that many times. Or that I'd like the... the telling me what to do part. So much."
My lion preens. "You were perfect. Took everything I gave you."
"Did I?" He looks down at himself, cataloging the marks, and his blush deepens. "God. I look like I lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner."
"You look claimed."
His breath catches. When he meets my eyes again, there's heat there, but also something more tentative. "Knox..."
"Bath," I say, before he can ask whatever question is forming behind those eyes. Not because I don't want to answer, but because he's swaying slightly just from sitting up, and the aftercare comes first. We can talk after. "Can you stand?"
"I have absolutely no idea."
"Then I'll carry you."
"You can't just—Knox!"
But I'm already scooping him up, one arm under his knees, the other behind his back. He weighs nothing. Less than nothing. He flails for a second before giving up and looping his arms around my neck.
"This is ridiculous," he mutters into my shoulder. "I can walk."
"Can you?"
A pause. "Probably not well."
"Then shut up and let me take care of you."
He makes a sound that might be protest or might be something else entirely. But he stops arguing, just tucks his face against my neck and lets me carry him to the bathroom.
The tub is almost full now, steam rising off the water. I lower him in carefully, watching his face for any sign of too-hot or too-much. What I get instead is a moan that goes straight to my cock.
"Oh my god." His eyes flutter closed as he sinks into the heat. "Oh, that's... that's amazing. I'm never leaving this bathtub. This is my home now."
"I'll bring you food."
"Perfect. I'll live here forever. Send my mail to the bathtub."
I sit on the edge of the tub, watching him relax by degrees. The tension drains out of his shoulders. The little furrow between his brows smooths out. He tips his head back against the rim, throat exposed, covered in my marks, and just breathes.
Beautiful. He's so fucking beautiful.
"Knox." His eyes are still closed. "Stop staring at me."
"No."
A smile tugs at his mouth. "Creep."
"You're in my bathtub covered in my marks. I'll stare as much as I want."
The smile widens. He opens his eyes, catching me looking, and doesn't seem to mind at all.
"Come here," he says.
I lean in. He cups my face with wet hands, water dripping down my jaw, and kisses me.
Soft. Sweet. Nothing like the desperate, hungry kisses from last night.
This is something gentler. Something that feels like thank you and good morning and maybe something bigger that neither of us is ready to name.
When he pulls back, his eyes search my face.