Chapter 8 #2
Knox had saved her life—and she hadn't fully processed that—but being yanked onto the sand and covered with his muscular mass hadn't been great for her still-healing leg. Not that she was complaining.
She changed into a pair of comfy shorts and opened the first-aid kit Tayla had brought her. Her cuts just needed some cleaning. Maybe a small bandage.
A soft knock sounded.
She padded to the door and looked through the peephole. Knox was knocking again.
She opened the door. "Hey, come on in."
But the moment she said it, she regretted it. She was wearing shorts.
Knox was already walking into the room. And she really didn't want him to see her leg. The wound.
She grabbed a pair of lounge pants and practically ran into the bathroom. "Be right back," she called over her shoulder. He probably thought she was acting strange, but she didn't care. She changed into the lounge pants and walked back into the room.
"Has Rowan found anything yet?" she asked.
He looked confused. "Why did you change?" He held up a first-aid kit. "I brought something for your leg."
She held up the kit Tayla had brought. "Already got one, but thanks."
"Did you clean those cuts? One looked kinda deep."
"They're not bad. I'll get to it later. What about the footage? Did Rowan see the guy who threw the explosive?"
"Yeah, but he hasn't been able to get an ID yet. He's working his magic." He pointed to her right leg. "You need to clean those cuts." He opened the kit he'd brought and pulled out some disinfectant. "This one is pretty good. And it doesn't sting too bad."
"Thanks, Knox. I'll do it later."
He stared at her for several seconds. "You changed into those pants . . ." He narrowed his gaze and continued to study her in silence. His brows raised. "You don't want me to see your leg. You don't want me to see that leg. That's it, isn't it?"
Apparently, he could read her pretty well. Which was touching and frustrating, all at once. "I just . . . Knox, please. I'll clean my leg later. Can we talk about something else?"
The familiar hurt returned to his face. And she knew why. It wasn't about seeing her leg. It was because she was allowing what happened three months ago to come between them again.
No. She didn't want to do that again. She hated her wound and everything about it, but she didn't want to be the cause of that hurt look anymore. Something changed in the moments after the explosion. She didn't have everything figured out, but she knew how she felt about Knox.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean . . . Hiding my wound was a reaction. But I don't want to hide anything from you. Let me change back into my shorts so I can clean these cuts."
He opened his mouth and shut it again without a word.
She slipped back into the bathroom and changed into her shorts.
Before returning to the room, she stood with her back against the bathroom door and allowed herself a slow, deep breath.
Dear God, please help me through this. You know how self-conscious I am about this horrible scar.
I hate it so much. Please don't let it affect how Knox sees me.
She tried to enter the room like nothing awkward was happening. But that was pointless. She felt so self-conscious. Nausea burned in her stomach.
Keeping her focus on the first-aid kit, she grabbed the disinfectant and sat on the bed.
She didn't face Knox until he knelt in front of her and took the disinfectant from her hand.
His gaze locked on hers. He raised the disinfectant spray. "Let me. Please?"
Her voice was useless. But she nodded her permission.
He concentrated on her cuts at first, as if the scar from her bullet wound—located an inch from her fresh cuts—wasn't even there. He expertly cleaned the area, dabbed up the excess disinfectant, and applied a small bandage.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she watched his gaze travel to the three-month-old scar. The surrounding skin would never be smooth again. Crimped and puckered, it looked as pleased to be on her leg as she was with its presence.
Knox stared at her blemished leg for several seconds, deep in thought—thoughts she couldn't read.
He looked up at her. "Does it still hurt?"
She tried to answer, but her throat felt dry. She swallowed and tried again. "Not much. Aches a little sometimes."
His gaze flicked to her cuts. "I bet the attack tonight made it flare up."
"A little. It's okay, though. It's mostly healed, Knox. Really."
He stared at her scar again. He swallowed.
And looked into her eyes. "God protected us that night.
That bullet could have killed you. I could have lost you.
I hate that you went through all that pain.
" His eyes darted to the scar, then back to hers.
"But this will always be a reminder that God allowed you to survive that night. And I'll never take that for granted."
He lowered his head and pressed his lips to her scar. The tender kiss wasn't sensual—but incredibly intimate. This . . . was a different type of intimacy.
Allie had let him see what she hated the most about herself, and he'd kissed it—like an Olympian kissing a gold medal. He kissed that grotesque, gnarled flesh like it was a gift.
And she realized that's how he saw it.
Maybe she needed to stop looking at the scar as a reminder of everything she'd done wrong, but as a reminder of what God brought them through. They were both living and breathing on this island three months later by God's grace.
She needed to process that.
Her guilt had yelled at her for three months. But tonight, a whispered truth drowned out all that noise. Seemingly implausible—but not for the creator of the universe.
Dear God, I know I'm still not there yet, in trying to figure all this out. But I know you're trying to tell me something about your grace. Help me hear you. And not the noise in my head.
And thank you for Knox.
"Hey." Knox was brushing tears off her face now. "I didn't mean to make you cry."
She smiled. "It's okay. They're happy tears.
You're right. I need to be thankful for everything that didn't happen that night.
You could have died. But you're here. We're both here.
God has a plan for both of us." She pushed her hair away from her face with a heavy sigh.
"I may need to reevaluate my perspective on . . . a lot of things."
The corners of his mouth quirked up. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, placed a light peck on her scar again, and stood.
He didn't say anything immediately. He didn't yell, 'That's what I've been trying to tell you!' Though, he could have. She appreciated that he didn't. He wasn't going to push.
A peace she couldn't describe had eluded her until tonight. But she felt it now. Not that all her guilt, frustration, and confusion disappeared—more like she could see a light at the end of a painful tunnel. Like there was a resolution within reach.
Knox pulled his phone from his pocket. "Jason is texting." His eyebrows lowered. "Something's up. He wants to see us. Now."