Chapter 16
Knox
It's been days since Toby walked out. Days since Robin slapped me and told me to stay away. Days of not sleeping, not eating, not doing anything but existing in this hollow space where my mate used to be.
The marks on my back are almost gone. I checked this morning, twisting in front of the bathroom mirror like an idiot, cataloging what's left.
The scratches have faded to faint pink lines.
The bite mark on my shoulder—the one Toby gave me when he was overwhelmed, when he sank his human teeth into my skin like he was trying to claim me back—is just a shadow now.
By tomorrow, there'll be nothing left.
Jason said Toby's marks were almost gone when he saw him. Said Toby wanted me to know.
Message received.
I'm in the garage, working on a bike that doesn't need fixing. It's something to do with my hands. Something to focus on besides the constant ache in my chest, the way my lion paces and whines and doesn't understand why we're not with our mate.
It's his day off. I know his schedule now—I memorized it before everything fell apart. Sundays he usually stays home, catches up on reading, does laundry. Maybe he's curled up on his couch right now. Maybe Robin's there, hovering, making sure he eats something.
Or maybe he's out. Maybe he's moving on. Maybe he's on a date with someone who won't fuck up as badly as I did—some normal human who doesn't come with a pack of idiots and a drawer full of hookup clothes and a lifetime of baggage.
The thought makes my lion snarl. I have to put down the wrench before I crush it.
"You should eat something," Silas says from the doorway. He's been doing that a lot—appearing with food, with water, with quiet concern. They all have. The whole pride tiptoeing around me like I'm a bomb about to go off.
"Not hungry."
"You haven't been hungry in four days. Your body doesn't care if you're hungry, Knox. It needs fuel."
"Later."
He doesn't push. Just sets a sandwich on the workbench and disappears.
I don't touch it.
The sun shifts through the garage windows, marking time I'm not tracking.
I take apart a carburetor that's already clean.
Put it back together. Take it apart again.
My hands know the motions without my brain's involvement, which means my brain is free to replay every moment with Toby on an endless loop.
The way he'd looked at me that first night, soaking wet and scared but not running. The way he'd said your eyes are pretty when they're gold like it was nothing. The way he'd kissed me back, desperate and wanting and completely unafraid.
The way he'd looked in my bed, wrecked and marked and perfect. The way he'd said yours like he meant it.
I should have told him. Should have explained before I ever touched him that he was different, that he was mine, that I'd never felt anything like this before. But I'd assumed he'd know. Assumed the claiming would speak for itself.
He's human though. He doesn't have lion instincts telling him what a bite mark means, what mine 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.
The sound of tires on gravel makes me freeze.
I know that engine. Robin's Audi.
I'm at the garage door before I can think better of it.
Robin's parked in the lot, standing by the driver's side, talking through the open window. I can hear him from here, that sharp protective tone he gets when it comes to Toby.
"—and if he hurts you again, I'm going trophy hunting. I'll mount his head on our wall."
"Robin, stop."
"I'm serious. I know taxidermists."
My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat. Toby's here. Toby's here.
He's wearing a plain t-shirt. No cardigan.
The marks on his neck are gone except for some faint yellowing that could be mistaken for shadow.
Even from twenty feet away, I can smell that my scent is completely washed away.
He smells like himself now—books and tea and laundry detergent—with no trace of me left at all.
He's not mine anymore.
The thought makes my lion howl.
The entire pride has materialized behind me. I can feel them—Jason in the doorway, Vaughn by the window, Ezra and Silas trying to look casual by the bikes. Everyone holding their breath. Everyone watching to see what happens next.
Toby walks toward me, chin raised, shoulders squared. He's trying to look confident, but I can see the tension in his jaw, can smell the anxiety underneath the forced calm. He stops about six feet away—close enough to talk, far enough that I can't touch him.
He doesn't quite meet my eyes.
"I left some things here."
His voice is steady. Practiced. Like he rehearsed this in the car.
"What things?"
"My cardigan. The yellow one with cats."
The one he was wearing that first night. The one that was soaked through when he stumbled into my bar, that he'd pulled away from his body to show me the different cat expressions, chattering about vintage shops while my entire world rearranged itself around him.
The one that's been sitting on my dresser for days because I'm pathetic. Because it still smells faintly of him beneath the laundry detergent and rain, and I've been sleeping with it like it's some kind of lifeline.
"It's upstairs," I say.
"Can you get it?"
"You can come up—"
"I'll wait here."
Right. Of course. He doesn't want to be in my space. Doesn't want to see my bed, my bathroom, all the places where I touched him and held him and made him think he was special before my pack's careless words destroyed everything.
I turn to go, but something makes me stop. Turn back.
"Did you leave anything else?"
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are tired. Dark circles underneath, like he hasn't been sleeping either. Like these days have been as brutal for him as they've been for me.
"What else would there be?"
"Me," I say quietly. "You left me."
Something flickers across his face—pain, maybe. Or anger. Both.
"You left me first," he says. "You just did it while I was still in your bed."
"That's not—"
"My cardigan, Knox. Please."
I go upstairs. The apartment feels empty without him in it, which is stupid—he was only here once, one night, a handful of hours.
But I can still picture him in my kitchen, holding a mug of tea.
In my bathroom, sinking into the bath I ran for him.
In my bed, spread out and wanting, saying please like it was the only word he knew.
The cardigan is on my dresser, folded neatly. I pick it up, bring it to my face without thinking. It barely smells like him anymore. More like me now, from all the nights I've slept with it clutched against my chest like a fucking teddy bear.
Pathetic. I'm completely pathetic.
When I come back down, Robin's out of the car, standing next to Toby like a bodyguard. His expression makes it clear that he's ready to commit murder if I make one wrong move.
I hold out the cardigan.
Toby takes it, careful not to let our fingers touch. He clutches it against his chest—the same way I've been clutching it at night—and something in my heart cracks.
"Thanks."
He turns to go.
"Toby."
He stops but doesn't turn around.
"I'm sorry," I say. The words feel inadequate, pathetic, not nearly enough. "For not telling you. For not explaining what it meant. For letting you think you were just another—" I can't finish the sentence. Can't say the words. "I'm sorry."
"I know," he says quietly. "Jason told me."
"And?"
He does turn then, clutching the cardigan to his chest like armor. His eyes are bright—with anger or unshed tears, I can't tell.
"And I'm still processing. I'm still hurt." His voice shakes slightly. "You can't just—you can't claim someone without telling them what it means, Knox. You can't make them feel like the only person in the world and then let them discover they're just the latest in a long line."
"You weren't—"
"I know that now. But I didn't then." He takes a shaky breath. "I need more time."
"How much time?"
"I don't know."
"Toby—"
"Do you know what the worst part was?" he interrupts.
His voice cracks, and he doesn't try to hide it.
"It wasn't finding out about the others.
It wasn't the drawer or the stories or any of that.
It was that for a minute, I forgot I was just the nerdy librarian who reads too much and wears stupid cardigans.
For a minute, with you, I felt like someone worth claiming. "
"You are—"
"To you, maybe. Now. But Knox, I've been the forgettable one my whole life.
The one people settle for when they can't get better.
The one who gets left on the side of the road when he won't put out.
" His laugh is bitter, broken. "And for just a moment, I thought—" He stops. Swallows hard. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Everything matters to you now because your lion wants me. But what happens when the novelty wears off? When you realize I really am just a boring human who reads during parties and can't keep up with shifters and doesn't belong in your world?"
"That won't happen."
"You don't know that."
"My lion—"
"Your lion chose me in a split second based on, what? Smell? Instinct? Some supernatural compatibility algorithm?" He shakes his head. "That's not enough. That's not a relationship. That's just... chemistry."
"It's more than that."
"Prove it." The word hangs between us, a challenge. "Prove it's more than your lion wanting me. Prove you want me—the boring parts, the anxious parts, all of it. Prove you're not going to wake up in six months and realize you made a mistake."
"How?"
He doesn't answer. Just looks at me with those tired, hurt eyes, and I would give anything—anything—to go back and do it differently.
Robin touches his arm. "Tobes, we should go."
"Yeah." Toby looks at me one more time. "I'll see you around, Knox."
He turns away, and I'm losing him. He's walking away and I'm losing him and I don't know how to stop it.
"Story hour is Thursday," Jason blurts out from behind me. "We promised the kids we'd come back."
Toby pauses. His shoulders are tense, but he doesn't leave.
"Lily asked about you," he says without turning around. "Asked when the ice cream sandwich men were coming back."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." He glances back, just for a second. "So... Thursday. If you want."
It's not forgiveness. Not even close. But it's a door left open. A crack of light in all this darkness.
"We'll be there."
He nods, once, and gets in the car. Robin glares at me with a look that promises violence if I fuck this up again, then gets in the driver's side.
I watch them pull away. Watch until the car disappears around the corner. Watch until I can't hear the engine anymore.
"So," Vaughn says once they're gone. "That could have gone worse."
"He thinks he's forgettable," I say, still staring at the empty road. "He thinks I'll get bored of him."
"Will you?"
I turn to look at my pride. Jason's hovering in the doorway, worried. Silas is quiet and watchful. Ezra looks guilty—he should, this is partly his fault, but I can't blame him for something I should have prevented. Vaughn's got his arms crossed, waiting for my answer.
"He reads during parties," I say slowly.
"He wears cardigans with vegetables on them.
He organizes drag queen story hour and does all the character voices.
He walked two miles in a storm and walked right into a shifter bar and didn't flinch.
He looked at my eyes flashing gold and told me they were pretty.
" I shake my head. "He's the least boring person I've ever met.
And I'm going to spend the rest of my life proving that to him. "
"So prove it," Ezra says quietly. "Prove you're not going to get bored. Prove you want the boring, everyday parts too."
"How?"
"By showing up," Silas says. "Consistently. Even when he pushes you away. Even when it's hard. You show up, and you keep showing up, until he believes you're not going anywhere."
"Story hour's a start," Jason adds. "But it can't just be big gestures. It has to be the small stuff too. The boring stuff. Showing him you want him, not just the idea of him."
I think about Toby clutching that ridiculous cat cardigan like it was the only thing keeping him together.
"Thursday," I say. "We'll start Thursday."