Chapter 15 Harper
HARPER
Knox Blackwood beat Doyle half to death. For you.
It couldn’t be true. There was no way Knox had risked everything to protect some woman he hadn’t even met yet. That would be unbelievable even now, nearly three weeks into whatever this strange arrangement had become.
That’s what I kept telling myself anyway, ever since Mercer told me four days ago.
She’d had to be mistaken though. Misheard perhaps. Misunderstood Doyle.
But something deeper, something instinctive, whispered that it might be true.
So, I’d spent the entire week searching for the right moment to ask him. The right words. The courage to look him in the eye and demand answers I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear.
But the infirmary had been relentless. A steady stream of patients—a sprained wrist, a suspicious rash, an inmate convinced he was having a heart attack when it turned out to be gas—had kept me running from exam room to exam room without a moment to breathe.
And through it all, Knox moved about his duties like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
My body was acutely aware of his presence. The quiet efficiency of his movements as he restocked supplies and wiped down surfaces. Every time I glanced up from a chart or a patient, his silver-blue eyes were already on me.
Sometimes with the hint of a smile.
Sometimes with a small tilt of his head, as if to say, You’re doing a really good job.
It was maddening. Four weeks into my new job, and everything felt upside down.
Now it was 4:50 on a Friday afternoon. The last patient had been discharged, Dr. Mercer had already left for the weekend, and the infirmary had finally gone quiet.
Sure, the CO was positioned right outside the infirmary doors, but he was outside of earshot, and if I didn’t find the courage to ask Knox now, I’d have to carry this question through an entire weekend.
I wasn’t sure I could survive that.
Knox moved around the exam room, restocking cabinets from supplies he’d gathered from the closet down the hall. I hovered nearby, reorganizing supplies that didn’t need reorganizing, my fingers fidgeting with bottles and boxes while my mind rehearsed opening lines that all sounded ridiculous.
So, funny story—did you almost kill a man for me?
Yeah. That wasn’t going to work.
Maybe something softer. Dr. Mercer told me about Doyle. About what really happened. And then I’d watch his face. See if the walls went up or if he’d finally let me in.
But every time I opened my mouth, my courage deserted me.
“Any fun weekend plans?”
I startled at his voice. Knox wasn’t looking at me—his attention was fixed on a shelf of gauze rolls—but there was something almost playful in his tone.
“Nothing much.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, trying to appear casual. Failing miserably. “What about you? Big plans?”
His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Oh, my weekend is packed.” He slid a box of medical tape onto the shelf. “Thought I’d go to a football game. Have some friends over. Maybe go for a hike.”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it. But then something shifted. The humor drained away, replaced by a hollow ache that settled behind my ribs.
He couldn’t do any of those things. While I would walk out of here in ten minutes and have the freedom to go anywhere, and do anything, Knox would return to a concrete cell. Same four walls. Same narrow cot. Same fluorescent lights buzzing overhead until lights out.
For years, that had been his entire world.
And he’d risked extending that sentence. For me.
Why did that thought suddenly make my chest feel so tight?
I shook it off. Focused on the task at hand. Straightened a row of specimen cups that were already perfectly aligned.
Now. Ask him now.
“So,” I said, keeping my voice light, “I was talking to Dr. Mercer earlier this week …”
I reached up to adjust something on the top shelf, and my elbow caught the edge of a gauze box. It tumbled off the shelf, bouncing once before heading for the floor.
I bent and reached for it.
So did Knox.
We both crouched at the same moment, our hands shooting out in the same instant, and—
Our fingers collided.
The contact was brief. Accidental. Just a brush of skin against skin, his knuckles grazing my fingertips as we both reached for the fallen medical supply.
But the effect was immediate.
A jolt of heat shot through my hand and raced up my arm, spreading through my chest like wildfire. Every nerve ending in my body lit up at once, sparking with electricity.
Crouched there on the infirmary floor, inches apart, neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.
Knox’s hand hovered over the gauze box, his fingers still close enough to mine that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. His eyes lifted slowly to meet mine, and something in his expression made my heart stutter.
He looked just as stunned as I felt.
We straightened up together, rising in unison like we were caught in the same strange gravitational pull.
Knox towered over me now, close enough that I had to tilt my head back to hold his gaze.
Close enough to see the slight part of his lips, the way his chest rose and fell in a rhythm that had slowed, deepened.
He held out the gauze box.
I reached for it. And when I took it from his hand, our fingers brushed again.
Deliberately this time.
The heat returned, sharper now and impossible to ignore. My palm tingled where his skin had touched mine, and my pulse hammered so loudly, I was certain he could hear it.
Neither of us pulled away.
Knox’s gaze searched my face, traveling over my features like he was looking for an answer to a question neither of us had spoken aloud.
His thumb shifted. Just barely. A ghost of movement across my knuckle that sent fresh sparks shooting up my arm.
What the hell was that?
The question hung between us, unvoiced but deafening.
I opened my mouth—to say what, I had no idea.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. Heavy. Purposeful. A CO’s boots against linoleum.
We sprang apart like we’d been caught doing something criminal.
The gauze box was suddenly very interesting. I clutched it to my chest, cheeks burning, pulse racing. Knox had already turned away as he resumed stocking the cabinet like nothing had happened.
But something had happened.
I just didn’t know what.
Before I could gather my thoughts—before I could ask about Dr. Mercer, about Doyle, about any of it—Officer Reyes appeared in the doorway.
“Blackwood. Time’s up. Let’s go.”
Knox didn’t argue. Didn’t look back. Just set down the roll of medical tape he’d been holding and moved toward the door with that controlled stride of his.
But at the doorway, he paused.
Just for a heartbeat.
His voice dropped to barely a murmur, meant only for me. “Have a good weekend, Harper.”
A soft smile. And then he was gone.
I stood frozen in the empty exam room, gauze box still pressed against my chest, my hand still tingling from his touch.
I hadn’t asked. After all that buildup, all that courage I’d tried to summon, I hadn’t asked.
Now I’d have to carry the question through an entire weekend. Two days of wondering. Two days of replaying that touch and trying to convince myself it meant nothing.
What the hell just happened between us?
The question followed me out of the infirmary. Into my car. All the way home.
I still didn’t have an answer.
But I was starting to suspect that whatever was happening between me and Knox Blackwood was something I couldn’t control.
And I wasn’t sure I wanted to.
Monday couldn’t come fast enough.