Chapter 14
Knox
I can't sleep.
It's been two days. Two days since Toby walked out. Two days since Robin slapped me and told me to stay away. Two days since Jason came back from Toby's apartment with a message that's been rattling around my skull ever since.
The marks are fading.
I know what that means. Every hour that passes, every day, my claim on him is disappearing. The bruises yellowing, the scratches healing, my scent washing away until there's nothing left. Until he's blank again. Unmarked. Like I never touched him at all.
Except for the bite. The one on his shoulder, the deep one, the one I said would scar.
I don't know if he wants that scar anymore.
The bar is loud tonight. Vaughn and Ezra are playing pool, trash-talking each other the way they always do.
Silas is in the corner booth with a book, though I notice he hasn't turned a page in twenty minutes.
Jason's behind the bar, restocking glasses and eating fries from the basket he made for himself.
The TV's playing some game—baseball, maybe, or basketball. I'm not paying attention.
I'm sitting at the end of the bar, not drinking, not talking, just existing. Taking up space because my apartment feels like a tomb and at least down here there's noise.
"You should eat something," Jason says, sliding the basket of fries toward me.
I don't respond.
"Knox." He pushes the basket closer. "You haven't eaten all day. I can hear your stomach from here."
"Not hungry."
"Bullshit. You're starving yourself because you feel guilty, and that's not going to help anyone."
I look at him. He holds my gaze for about three seconds before looking away.
"Fine," he mutters. "Don't eat. See if I care."
He cares. They all care. That's the problem—they keep hovering, keep watching me like I'm going to shatter, keep trying to help when there's nothing they can do. I fucked this up. Me. And no amount of fries or pool games or background noise is going to fix it.
"I'm going for a ride," I say, standing.
Vaughn looks up from the pool table. "Want company? I could use some air."
"No."
"Knox—"
"I want to go alone."
They exchange looks. The kind of looks that say should we let him? and is he okay? and what if he does something stupid? I can practically hear the silent conversation happening over my head.
"I'm fine," I say, even though I'm not. Even though fine is so far from what I am that the word feels like a lie in my mouth. "I just need to clear my head."
"It's almost midnight," Ezra points out.
"So?"
"So maybe riding alone in the middle of the night when you're—" He stops, reconsiders. "When you haven't slept in two days isn't the best idea."
"I've gone longer without sleep."
"That doesn't make it healthy."
"I'll be fine." I grab my jacket from the hook by the door. "Don't wait up."
"Knox." Jason's voice is careful. "You're not going to do anything stupid, right?"
"Like what?"
"Like show up at his apartment."
The words hit harder than they should. Because I wasn't thinking about that. Wasn't planning it. But now that he's said it, the idea is there, lodged in my brain like a splinter.
"Robin said to stay away," I say. "I'm staying away."
"Okay." Jason doesn't sound convinced. "Just... be careful. And text if you need anything."
I don't answer. Just push through the door into the cool night air.
I take a breath, then another, trying to get my lungs to work properly. They haven't been working properly since Toby left.
My bike is parked where it always is, gleaming under the security lights. I run my hand along the seat before swinging a leg over, feeling the familiar weight settle beneath me. The leather is cold. Everything feels cold lately.
For a second—just a second—I let myself remember.
Toby pressed against my back, arms wrapped tight around my waist. The way he'd held on like I was the only solid thing in the world.
His thighs bracketing mine, his chest against my shoulders, his breath warm on my neck even through the helmet.
He'd been nervous that first ride—I could smell it on him—but he hadn't let go.
Hadn't pulled away. Just held on and trusted me to get him home safe.
And when I'd dropped him off, half-asleep and swaying on his feet, he'd looked at me and said your eyes are pretty when they're gold like it was nothing.
Like complimenting a lion shifter's predator eyes was a completely normal thing to do.
Then he'd stumbled inside before I could respond, leaving me sitting on my bike like an idiot, trying to remember how to breathe.
I push the memory away. It doesn't help. Nothing helps.
The engine roars to life beneath me, familiar and grounding. Usually riding clears my head—the wind, the speed, the focus required to navigate the streets. Tonight I'm hoping it'll do the same. Give me something to think about besides him.
The city is quiet at this hour. A few cars, a few late-night dog walkers, the occasional drunk stumbling home from a bar. I ride with no destination in mind, taking turns at random, letting the wind and the engine noise drown out my thoughts.
Left on Fifth. Right on Madison. Straight through downtown where the buildings are tall and the lights are bright. Over the bridge where the river reflects the city back at itself like a mirror.
I'm not going to his apartment.
I'm just riding. Clearing my head. Getting some air.
Right on Maple. Left on Twenty-Third.
His apartment is on Twenty-Third.
I'm not going there.
Except my bike seems to have other ideas, because suddenly I'm turning into a familiar parking lot, killing the engine in the shadow of a building I know too well now. Toby's building.
I sit there in the dark, staring up at the building.
Third floor. Corner unit. I remember which one is his from that night with the groceries, when I'd stood outside wondering what the hell I was doing. I'd wanted to tear Robin apart for being that close to what was mine.
The light is off now. Of course it is—it's after midnight. Normal people are asleep. Toby's probably curled up in bed, maybe holding a book he fell asleep reading.
Or maybe he's lying awake like I am. Staring at the ceiling. Wondering how everything went so wrong so fast.
I should leave. I should turn around and go back to the bar and pretend I was never here. Robin told me to stay away. Sitting in his parking lot like a stalker in the middle of the night is the opposite of that.
But I can't make myself move.
Before I can think better of it, I'm swinging my leg off the bike. My boots hit the pavement. I take one step toward the building, then another.
I stop.
What am I doing?
Showing up uninvited at 2 AM doesn't read as I'm sorry, please let me explain.
It reads as a booty call. It reads as I can't sleep and I want to fuck.
It reads as exactly the kind of thing a guy with a drawer full of hookup clothes would do—show up in the middle of the night expecting to be let in because he's horny and bored.
That's not what this is. But Toby doesn't know that. Toby thinks I'm exactly that guy—the one who fucks and forgets, the one who says mine to everyone, the one who keeps spare clothes around because people cycle through his bed so often it's just practical.
If I go up there now, I'll just be proving him right.
I force myself to step back. Then another step. Another.
My hand finds the bike seat. I grip it hard enough that the leather creaks.
What if I went up anyway? What if I knocked on the door, made him listen, explained everything?
I could tell him about the drawer—how those clothes have been there for years, how I haven't touched anyone since weeks before he walked into my bar.
I could tell him about the bath, how I've never done that for anyone, how taking care of him felt as natural as breathing.
I could tell him that mine wasn't just a word, wasn't just something I say, it was a claiming. A promise. A vow.
I could tell him I love him.
The thought hits me like a punch to the chest. Love. Is that what this is? This constant ache, this desperate need to see him, to touch him, to know he's okay? I've never felt anything like this. Never wanted to.
My lion paces restlessly, pushing at my skin. He wants to shift, wants to climb up to that window and curl around our mate and never let him go. He doesn't understand human things like space and time. He just knows that Toby is ours and Toby is hurting and we should be there.
But I can't.
Because I need to stay away, to let him have his space.
I pull out my phone. Open my messages. Toby's contact is right there, the last real conversation we had—me telling him I'd pick him up after his shift, him sending back a smiley face and can't wait.
And then I'd picked him up on the bike, brought him back to the bar, taken him upstairs to my apartment. Claimed him. Made him mine. Everything was perfect until the next morning, when my pack's careless words destroyed it all.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I could text him. Just something small. I'm sorry. I miss you. Please let me explain.
I put the phone away. That's not giving him space.
A light flickers on in the corner unit. Third floor. His window.
My heart stops.
For a long moment, nothing happens. The light just glows, soft and yellow, and I imagine Toby inside. Maybe he can't sleep either. Maybe he's reading, or making tea, or sitting in the dark thinking about me the way I'm sitting in the dark thinking about him.
Or maybe he's fine. Maybe he's already moving on, already forgetting, already washing away the last traces of me from his skin and his sheets and his life.
The thought makes my lion whine.
A shadow moves across the window. Someone walking. Too tall to be Toby—Robin, probably. Checking on his best friend. Making sure he's okay.
I should be the one checking on him. I should be the one making sure he's okay.
But I'm not. Because I'm the reason he's not okay in the first place.
The light goes off again. The window goes dark.
I should go. There's no reason to stay. He's asleep—or trying to sleep—and I'm sitting in a parking lot like a lovesick idiot, staring at a dark window like it might give me answers.
But I don't go. Not yet.
I lean back against my bike and look up at the sky. Too much light pollution to see stars, but I look anyway. Somewhere up there, the universe is doing its thing, completely indifferent to the fact that I've ruined the best thing that ever happened to me.
I think about all the things I should have done differently.
I should have told him about the others before we slept together.
Should have explained that they meant nothing, that he was different, that my lion had never reacted to anyone the way he reacted to Toby.
I should have made sure he knew the drawer was old, the stories were old, that none of it had anything to do with him.
I should have told him I was falling for him.
I should have said the words out loud instead of assuming he'd just know. Assuming that mine was enough, that the bath and the fruit and the way I couldn't stop touching him would speak for themselves.
He's human. He doesn't have lion instincts telling him what a claim means. He just had my actions, and then my pack's careless words, and he drew the obvious conclusion.
I can't even blame him for it.
Somewhere in the building, a dog barks. A car passes on the street behind me, headlights sweeping across the parking lot. Normal life, happening all around me, while I sit here drowning in my own mistakes.
I sit there for another hour, watching nothing, feeling everything. The cold seeps through my jacket. My hands go numb on the handlebars. My lion eventually settles into a miserable ball in my chest, exhausted from wanting what he can't have.
At 3 AM, I finally start the engine.
The ride back to the bar is long and empty. I take the slow route, the scenic route, the route that means I don't have to be in my apartment staring at the bed where I claimed him. Where I woke up the next morning thinking everything was perfect, not knowing it was all about to fall apart.
When I get back, the bar is dark. Everyone's gone to bed. There's a plate of food wrapped in plastic on the counter with a note in Jason's handwriting: Eat something. You'll feel better. (You won't actually feel better but at least you won't be hungry AND miserable.)
I don't eat. I don't go to bed. I just sit at the bar in the dark and wait for morning, when I can pretend to be functional again.
Just a few more days until the marks are gone.
Until there's no evidence I ever touched him.
I don't know how I'm supposed to survive that.