Chapter 11
Toby
The stairs are a special kind of torture.
Every step pulls at sore muscles I didn't even know I had.
My thighs ache. My back twinges. There's a deep, satisfying soreness in places I'm not going to think about too hard while navigating a staircase.
Each movement is a reminder of exactly what Knox and I did last night—multiple times, in multiple positions, until I literally couldn't move anymore.
Worth it. So incredibly worth it.
I'm smiling like an idiot. I can feel it on my face and I can't stop. Knox ran me a bath. Fed me strawberries. Called me sunshine and said he'd catch me if I fell. I'm wearing his shirt and covered in his marks and my whole body feels like one giant, well-used, thoroughly claimed mess.
Best night of my life. Possibly best morning too.
The bar is quiet this early, morning light slanting through the windows and catching dust motes in the air.
Just Ezra behind the bar doing inventory, counting bottles and marking things on a clipboard, and Silas at a corner table with a paperback and a cup of tea.
They both look up when I enter, and I know they can see everything—the marks blooming purple across my neck, Knox's shirt hanging off my shoulders, the careful way I'm walking.
"Morning," I say, trying for casual and probably landing somewhere around "walked into a door repeatedly but in a fun way."
"Coffee's fresh," Ezra says, pointing to the pot behind the bar. "Mugs are in the cabinet above."
"Thanks." I make my way over, very aware of them watching. Not in a hostile way—more curious. Assessing. "Knox said Jason could maybe drive me to work?"
"He'll be here soon," Silas says without looking up from his book. "Vaughn left some clothes by the stairs too. Should fit better than Knox's stuff."
"Oh, thanks. That's really nice of—"
"Bottom drawer on the left," Ezra interrupts, pointing to a cabinet near the end of the bar. "That's where the spare clothes are. Everything's clean."
Spare clothes. That makes sense—shifters probably tear through outfits pretty regularly with the whole transformation thing. I open the drawer while reaching for a mug with my other hand.
It's full of clothes. Not a few spare items—a full drawer stuffed with different sizes, different styles. Jeans in various cuts. Sweats. T-shirts and henleys and even a few button-downs. Everything neatly folded, organized by what looks like size.
"That's... a lot of spare clothes," I observe.
"Yeah, well." Ezra shrugs, not looking up from his clipboard. "We keep extras around. For situations like this."
"Situations like...?"
"You know." He marks something on his inventory list. "When someone stays over and needs something clean to wear home. Happens pretty regularly."
My stomach does something uncomfortable. A small twist, like the first hint of food poisoning. "Regularly?"
Silas looks up from his book, expression mild. "Knox especially. He goes through phases where he'll have someone new up there every few nights."
The coffee mug slips a little in my hand. I catch it before it falls, but some of the coffee sloshes over the rim onto my fingers. Hot. I barely feel it.
"Not lately though," Ezra adds, like that's supposed to help. Like that's supposed to make it better. "Been a few weeks since the last one."
A few weeks.
I walked into the bar less than a week ago.
"Oh," I manage. My voice sounds strange. Distant.
"The clothes are sorted by size," Silas says helpfully, gesturing toward the drawer with his tea cup. "Smalls are on the left. Though Knox usually goes for bigger guys, so there might not be much in your size—"
"It's fine." I hear myself say. "Vaughn's stuff is fine."
I pour coffee with hands that barely shake. Add sugar from the container on the bar. Stir. Normal things. Normal movements. The spoon clinks against the ceramic in a steady rhythm. Clink. Clink. Clink.
"The last guy was a wolf," Ezra says conversationally, still focused on his inventory. "From the Riverside pack. He was here for like three days straight. We started taking bets on whether Knox would ever let him leave."
Three days.
Did Knox call him sunshine too? Did he run him baths and feed him fruit and say mine over and over like it meant something? Did he look at that wolf with golden eyes and promise to catch him if he fell?
"You okay?" Silas asks. "You look a little pale."
"Just sore," I say, and they both laugh.
"Yeah, Knox can be intense," Ezra agrees, finally looking up with a grin. "At least you survived. This one bear shifter actually had to go to the hospital once. Something about not being able to walk for a week."
They're laughing about it.
Like it's a funny story. Like Knox fucking someone so hard they needed medical attention is just a normal Tuesday. Like this is all just... casual. Expected. Business as usual.
Because it is, isn't it?
This is what Knox does. He finds someone, fucks them senseless, calls them pretty names, and then they leave wearing clothes from the communal hookup drawer.
I'm not special. I'm just the latest in a long line of people Knox has fucked into incoherence in that apartment. The only difference is I'm human. Probably a novelty—something new and breakable for the big scary lion to play with.
How fun for him.
My lion knew the second you walked through that door, he said. That simple, he said.
Yeah. Simple. Because he's done this before. Over and over. He has a whole system. A drawer full of spare clothes and a pack who jokes about his conquests and a routine for sending people home after he's done with them.
"I should get dressed," I say. My voice is steady. I'm proud of that. "Don't want to be late for work."
I grab clothes from the drawer—someone else's clothes, left behind by some other person Knox fucked and discarded—and head back toward the stairs.
The shirt I pull out is plain black. Medium.
Could belong to anyone. Has probably been worn by a dozen different people doing the walk of shame out of Knox's bed.
"Hey," Ezra calls after me. "You want breakfast? We've got eggs, bacon—"
"I'm good. Thanks."
I make it to the bathroom near the stairs before my legs give out. Not from soreness this time. I lean against the sink, staring at myself in the mirror.
Knox's shirt hangs off my shoulder, exposing the massive bite mark he left there. The one he said would scar. Permanent, he called it. Mine.
I thought that meant something.
I thought I was something.
I change quickly, mechanically. The borrowed jeans fit okay. The plain black shirt covers most of the marks on my chest, though there's nothing I can do about my neck. I look like I lost a fight with a vacuum cleaner, I'd joked to Knox this morning.
You look claimed, he'd said back. Like it was a good thing. Like it meant I was his.
Except he's said that before, hasn't he? To the wolf from Riverside. To the bear who ended up in the hospital. To however many other people have cycled through that bedroom.
My phone buzzes in the pocket of my borrowed jeans—I'd grabbed it from the nightstand before coming down.
Robin: How was your night?? Details! Did sexy lion man rock your world?
I can't. Not right now. I can't do the excited best friend recap when I'm standing in a bathroom trying not to fall apart.
Another text: Toby? You alive? Should I be worried?
My fingers move before I can think about it.
Need you to pick me up.
From sexy lion man's place? Why? What happened?
Please. Just come get me.
Address. Now. I'm already in the car.
I send him the location and splash cold water on my face. The marks on my neck stand out even more against my pale skin. Purple and red, a collar of bruises that everyone will see. Everyone will know.
I thought I wanted that, this morning. Knox asked if I wanted him to claim me publicly and I'd shivered with want.
Now the marks just feel like a brand. A reminder of how stupid I am.
I can do this. I can walk back out there and pretend everything's fine until Robin arrives. I'm a librarian. I deal with difficult patrons and screaming toddlers and Margaret's passive-aggressive emails. I can manage ten minutes of small talk with lion shifters.
When I get back to the bar, Jason's there, keys already in hand, bouncing on his heels.
"Ready to go? I can—" He stops, frowning. "Why aren't you wearing Knox's shirt?"
"It was too big." The lie comes easily. "Kept slipping off my shoulder."
"But that's the whole point." Jason looks genuinely confused. "Wearing his clothes so everyone knows you're—"
"I need to look professional for work." I cut him off before he can say the word. "Can't exactly show up to the library in an oversized shirt that smells like..."
Like sex. Like Knox. Like the best night of my life that apparently meant nothing.
"I guess," Jason says slowly, still frowning. "But Knox specifically wanted you to—"
My phone buzzes. Robin. Outside.
Coming out now.
"My roommate's outside," I say, already moving toward the door. "He was already in the area running errands, so it's easier if he just takes me."
"But Knox said I should drive you."
"Tell him thank you. For everything." I'm almost at the door. Almost out. "I just—I need to go. I'll be late."
"Toby, wait—"
But I'm already through the door, the morning air hitting my face cool and sharp. Robin's brother's Audi is idling at the curb, and I practically throw myself into the passenger seat.
"Drive," I say.
Robin glances at me once—takes in the marks, the borrowed clothes, whatever expression is on my face—and doesn't ask questions. Just puts the car in gear and pulls away smoothly.
We make it three blocks before he pulls over again, putting the car in park and turning to face me fully.
"What happened?" His voice is gentle but firm, the same tone he uses when I'm being stubborn about eating or sleeping. "You look like you're about to shatter. Oh, honey." He reaches out to touch one of the marks on my neck, then pulls back. "What did he do?"
"Nothing." The word comes out cracked. "He didn't—it's not his fault. I'm just stupid."
"You're not stupid."
"I am." My voice breaks fully now, the careful composure I'd been holding crumbling like wet paper. "I thought I was special, Robin. He kept saying mine and calling me sunshine and running me baths and feeding me fruit like I mattered, and I thought—I thought it meant something."
"It does mean something."
"No, it doesn't." I can hear how pathetic I sound and I can't stop.
"They have a drawer full of clothes. For all the people Knox fucks and sends home.
A whole drawer, Robin, organized by size.
This is just what he does. He finds someone, screws them stupid, says pretty things, and moves on.
The last guy was a wolf who stayed three days.
Before that, a bear shifter who literally had to go to the hospital.
They were laughing about it like it was a fun story. "
"Oh, Toby."
"I'm such an idiot." I'm not crying. Not quite.
But my eyes are burning and my throat is tight and I'm gripping my knees hard enough to hurt.
"A week ago I didn't even know he existed.
Now I have his bite mark on my shoulder—he said it would scar, Robin, he said it was permanent—and apparently that means nothing because he's probably said the same thing to a dozen other people. "
Robin is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches over and takes my hand, uncurling my fingers from my knee and holding them firmly in his.
"Can you take me home?" I ask. "I need to call in sick. I can't—I can't do story hour today. I can't stand in front of kids and do funny voices when I feel like this."
"Of course. Whatever you need."
He squeezes my hand once, then releases it to put the car back in drive. We ride in silence. He doesn't push me to talk. He doesn't try to fix it or offer platitudes. He just drives, one hand occasionally reaching over to pat my knee.
I don't cry. Not yet. Not until we're home, until Robin's settled me on the couch with a blanket and gone to make tea, until I'm finally alone in the bathroom with the shower running hot.
Then I cry.
I stand under the spray and let the water wash Knox's scent off my skin while the marks on my body stare back at me like accusations.
I can't scrub them away. The bruises on my neck, the bite on my shoulder, the finger-shaped shadows on my hips—they're just there.
Permanent reminders for the next week of how badly I misread everything.
Last night I'd looked at these marks and felt claimed. Wanted. Special.
Now they just make me feel stupid.
I stay in the shower until the water runs cold. Until my fingers are pruned and my eyes are swollen and I've got nothing left. Then I wrap myself in my rattiest bathrobe and curl up in bed and try not to think about golden eyes and the word mine spoken like a promise.
I'm just another name in Knox's long list.
The silly human who thought he was special.
God, I'm such an idiot.