Chapter 18 Harper #2
Because there had to be more to it than Dr. Mercer let on. Like maybe Knox and Doyle had a long rivalry. Their fight couldn’t have been JUST about me. Right?
Knox scrubbed at the stubble on his face like he was working through something heavy.
“Doyle is in here for raping three women,” he said.
My breathing hitched.
“He’s the worst kind of prisoner. No respect for rules.
No respect for people.” Knox’s voice was low, controlled, but underneath it simmered something dangerous.
“He doesn’t see people as human beings. Everyone’s a means to an end.
Last year, he broke another inmate’s arm just to steal his commissary slot.
Years ago, he cornered a female officer in the laundry room.
She managed to escape, but barely. And those are just the incidents that get reported. ”
My stomach turned.
“The inmates were talking about the new nurse starting. But Doyle heard a rumor that you were young and pretty.” Knox’s eyes went cold.
Lethal. “That was all he needed to fixate. He threatened you. And by threatened, I mean promised. Because that’s the other thing about Doyle: He will keep trying and trying until he succeeds in whatever twisted bullshit he intends to carry out. ”
He paused, and I watched him go perfectly still.
“In that moment,” he continued, “you had a target on your back.”
My mouth went dry. “And beating him up … you thought he’d give up his obsession with me?”
Knox chose his words carefully. I could tell he considered holding back, but we’d come too far. What was the point of half-truths now?
“Doyle is single-minded. By beating him up, I knew he’d have to turn all of his attention on me.” His features sharpened. “He’s like a dog in a fight. Intervene, and he’ll turn on you. And the original target can escape.”
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
Not only had Knox Blackwood intervened to protect me from a violent sociopath who intended to hurt me, but he’d done it, knowing it would put himself in harm’s way. Permanently.
“So, what, he has a vendetta against you now?”
“I can handle Doyle.”
The air left my lungs in a rush. Because, oh my God, Knox’s sacrifice was so much bigger than I’d even realized.
And that wasn’t even all of it.
“That first week,” I continued, my voice steadier now, “after the Doyle fight, you came in with your stitches torn. Then a punch to the mouth that Friday.” I met his gaze. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
Knox ran a hand down his face. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you and worrying if you were safe.
Look what Doyle was planning to do to you.
And I was stuck in my cell, useless, with no way to know if you were okay.
” He leaned forward, just slightly, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch.
“Coming to the infirmary wasn’t enough. But it was something.
With each injury I needed treated, I got to see with my own eyes that you were okay. That no one had hurt you.”
He hesitated.
“That nothing had touched you.”
The possessiveness in those words should have alarmed me. But Knox wasn’t looking at me like he wanted to own me. He was looking at me like he wanted to stand between me and every bad thing the world had ever thrown my way.
I blinked, processing his confession. “You hurt yourself on purpose just to make sure I was safe?”
He shrugged like it was nothing. Like self-inflicted wounds were a minor inconvenience in his quest to check on me.
“Seemed like a fair trade.”
“A fair trade,” I repeated. “Your own blood. Your own pain. That’s a fair trade?”
Something flickered in his expression. Softened.
“And then you got the orderly job,” I said slowly, “so you could just … be here.”
He didn’t look away. “Like I said, I couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
I should have been appalled. This man had just admitted to self-harm. To a level of fixation that should have sent me running.
But all I could think about was how it felt to have someone choose me. Not in spite of the cost, but because the cost didn’t matter. Because I mattered more.
His confession hung between us. I didn’t know what to do with it.
“Well”—I swallowed hard, forcing lightness into my voice—“now I feel like a jackass for talking crap about you.”
Knox’s chest rumbled with something resembling a chuckle. And, God help me, that sound settled into my bones like it belonged there.
“You were talking crap about me?” A twinkle appeared in his eye. Like he genuinely found this amusing. “To who?”
“Myself, mostly. In my head.” I shrugged. “It was a whole thing.”
“A whole thing,” he repeated, and was that a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth? “What kind of things were you saying to yourself about me?”
“That first day when you attacked Doyle, I thought you were a bully. An asshole.”
“Mmm.” He didn’t look offended. If anything, he looked entertained. “What else?”
I probably should have stopped there. But something about the warmth in his eyes made my mouth keep moving.
“I called you a psychotic fucktart.”
Knox laughed. The sound was rusty, like he didn’t use it often, but it transformed his entire face. The brooding intensity melted away, and for one heartbeat, I caught a glimpse of the man he might have been before prison. Before whatever put him here.
“Psychotic fucktart,” he repeated, savoring each syllable like he was tasting something rare. “That’s creative. Most people just go with asshole.”
“I’m an overachiever.”
“Clearly.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Any other names I should know about?”
“There may have been a tattooed menace in there somewhere. And I’m pretty sure I referred to you as that gigantic jerk at least twice.”
“Gigantic.” He nodded slowly, fighting a smile. “I’ll take that one.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“I’m choosing to take it as one.”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. This was dangerous territory. Banter with inmates was not in the nursing handbook. Banter with this inmate specifically felt like playing with fire while soaked in kerosene.
“And now?” he asked, the humor fading into something more serious. “What do you call me now?”
I could deflect. Make another joke. Keep things light and safe.
But he’d just handed me the truth about Doyle. About his injuries. About all of it. He deserved some truth in return.
“Now I know you’re not a bully,” I said quietly. “You’re a protector.”
Something shifted in his face. Not quite surprise. More like … recognition. Like I’d seen something in him that had been buried so long, he’d forgotten it existed.
Knox’s whole body softened. The hard lines of his shoulders relaxed. His jaw unclenched. It was like my words had unlocked something in him. Like maybe no one had called him that in a very long time.
Or ever.
I pulled my gloves off, snapping them into the trash, suddenly needing something to do with my hands.
“Thank you,” I said. “For what you did.”
“Anytime, Princess.”
The nickname lit up my insides.
It wasn’t fair that he’d put a target on his back. Just for protecting me.
“Is there anything I can do? To help keep you safe?” I asked. “By your own account, you have a target on your back because of me. Can I put in a good word with someone? Request extra security?”
Knox smiled, and the sight of it did something dangerous to my pulse.
“I’m good, Princess. You don’t need to worry about me.”
But the strangest thing was, I was worried about him. From this point forward, at any moment, Doyle could take his revenge on Knox. Because of me.
I opened my mouth to argue, but before I had the chance, Knox reached out and took my hand.
Just that. Just his hand wrapping around mine.
And the world went quiet.
Four weeks. Four weeks of stolen glances and near touches and loaded silences that said more than words ever could. Four weeks of pretending I didn’t notice. Four weeks of building toward this moment without knowing it.
And now his palm was against mine, and everything I’d been pretending didn’t exist came rushing to the surface.
His palm was callous and warm, rough from years of whatever labor they had him doing here.
But his grip was gentle. So impossibly gentle for hands that I knew could break a man.
He cradled my fingers like they were made of something fragile, something precious, and I realized with a jolt that no one had ever touched me quite like this.
Silas had grabbed. Squeezed. Controlled. His touch had always been a precursor to pain, even when he was pretending to be tender. I’d trained myself to brace for impact every time a man reached for me.
But Knox … Knox held me like I was worth protecting. Like hurting me would be unthinkable.
My heartbeat slowed to something deep and steady.
I stared at our joined hands, his so much larger than mine, tanned and inked and scarred. Mine pale and small inside his grip. We shouldn’t fit. Nothing about us should fit.
But the warmth of his skin seeped into mine, and I felt it travel up my arm, settle somewhere behind my ribs.
For one impossible moment, standing in a prison infirmary with a convicted killer, I understood what safety actually felt like.
Not the absence of danger. The presence of someone who would stand between you and whatever came.
And I wanted more.
The realization hit me like a sucker punch. I wanted more of this. More of him. More of whatever this feeling was that made my lungs expand fully for the first time in years.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The approaching rhythm of a CO’s boots.
We released each other at the same moment, the loss of contact leaving my hand cold. Empty.
Knox reached for his shirt, pulling it back on with movements that were too controlled. Too deliberate.
“Better get back to work,” he said, his voice rougher than before.
“Yeah.” Mine was barely a whisper.
He moved back toward the supply cart. But at the doorway, he paused. Looked back at me over his shoulder.
“For the record, Princess”—those silver-blue eyes held mine—“protecting you isn’t a sacrifice. It’s the only thing that’s made sense in fourteen years.”
Then he was gone.
And I was left standing in the silence, heart pounding, palm still tingling from his touch, with one thought burning through my mind.
I was falling for Knox Blackwood.
And I had absolutely no idea how to stop.