Chapter 12 #2
"I don't care what you meant!" Robin's shouting now, loud enough that it echoes off the walls.
"I care about results! And the result is that my best friend is on our couch right now, wrapped in every blanket we own, watching Disney movies because he can't stop crying long enough to do anything else.
The result is that he called in sick to work for the first time in three years because he can't face standing up in front of people.
The result is that he keeps touching that bite mark on his shoulder—the one you said would be permanent—and apologizing for being stupid enough to think it meant something! "
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't do anything but stand here while Robin tears me apart with the truth.
"He has your marks all over him," Robin continues, quieter now but somehow worse.
"He can't wash them off. He has to look at them every time he passes a mirror.
For the next week, he's going to be covered in reminders of the worst mistake he ever made.
And there's nothing I can do to fix that.
Nothing I can do to make it hurt less. All I can do is watch him fall apart and hate you for being the reason why. "
"Please." My voice doesn't sound like mine. "Please let me talk to him. Let me explain. It's not what he thinks—he's not just another—I've never felt like this about anyone—"
"Oh, that's rich." Robin's laugh is sharp and bitter. "That's really rich. You expect me to believe that? You expect him to believe that?"
"It's true. I swear to god, it's true. I've never claimed anyone before. Never wanted to. Never ran someone a bath or fed them or cared if they were okay after. He's different. He's—" I'm begging now. I don't care. "He's everything. Please. Just let me see him."
Robin stares at me for a long moment. Something flickers in his expression—doubt, maybe. Or hope. For a second I think he might actually listen.
Then his face hardens.
"No."
"Robin—"
The slap comes out of nowhere.
Open palm, full force, hard enough that my head actually snaps to the side. The crack of it echoes through the silent bar.
Robin hit me. A human just slapped me across the face, and I'm so stunned I just stand there, cheek stinging, staring at him.
"That's for making him cry," Robin says, voice deadly quiet now.
"And this is me telling you to stay the fuck away from him.
Don't call. Don't text. Don't show up at the apartment or the library or anywhere else he might be.
If you come near him, I will make your life hell in ways you can't even imagine. "
"You can't—"
"I know every health inspector in this city.
I cater for the mayor's wife, three city council members, and the fire chief's daughter.
I have dirt on half the restaurant owners downtown and I'm owed favors by the other half.
" He steps closer, close enough that I can see the wetness still clinging to his lashes.
"I'm a pastry chef, Knox. I'm very good with knives.
And I will end you. Do you understand me? "
I don't answer. Can't.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yes," I hear myself say.
"Good." He steps back. "Stay away from Toby. If you actually care about him at all—which I seriously fucking doubt—you'll leave him alone until he's ready to see you. Which might be never. Live with it."
He turns on his heel and walks out. The door swings shut behind him with a quiet click that somehow sounds louder than the slam when he came in.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
"Did he just—" Jason starts.
"A human just slapped you," Vaughn says, sounding almost impressed. "And you let him."
"He's protecting his best friend." My voice comes out hollow. Empty. "He's protecting Toby."
From me.
He's protecting Toby from me.
Because I'm the threat. I'm the monster. I'm the one who hurt him.
"Boss?" Silas asks carefully, after a long moment of silence. "What do you want us to do?"
"I don't know." I touch my cheek where Robin's palm connected. It doesn't hurt—human strength can't really hurt a shifter—but it burns anyway. Burns like the truth. "I don't know how to fix this."
"Go after him," Jason suggests. "Make him listen."
"And do what? Show up at his apartment? Robin's probably there by now, standing guard with a knife.
" I slump onto a barstool, legs suddenly unable to hold me.
"Besides, he's right. Toby threw up from crying.
Because of me. Because I didn't take five goddamn minutes to tell him he was different.
That he was mine. That every person before him meant nothing. "
"So call him," Ezra says. "Leave a voicemail. Text him."
"And say what? 'I know my pack told you I fuck everything that moves, but you're special'?" I laugh, and it sounds broken. "Why would he believe that? If I were him, I wouldn't believe it either."
"Knox?" Vaughn's voice, gentle. "What do you need?"
"I need—" My voice breaks. I clear my throat. Try again. "I need to fix this. But I don't know how. I don't know if I can."
"You'll figure it out," Jason says, with more confidence than I deserve. "You always figure it out."
But this isn't a business problem. This isn't a pack dispute. This is Toby, sweet and soft and trusting, crying so hard he made himself sick because I let him think he didn't matter.
I put my head in my hands.
My mate is gone.
And it's entirely my fault.