16. Knox
Knox
Motherfucker.
I really should’ve seen that coming. The second Dakota nodded and pretended to turn away, I should’ve known the little prick was about to do something stupid. Instead, I let my guard down for half a second, and now my vision pulses on the left side each time I blink.
That’s on me.
I straighten slowly, jaw locked, and blink through the sting. Chey stands in front of me with both hands over her mouth, wide eyes filled with horror.
“Oh my God.” The words come out shaky and thin.
And just like that, the adrenaline roaring through my veins shifts. I still want to go after him. My whole body strains in that direction, every instinct I have screaming to take off down the sidewalk, catch the bastard, and return the favor.
One good sprint, and I’d have him.
One solid punch, and we’d be even.
But I don’t move because Cheyenne is standing here looking scared as hell, and whatever satisfaction I might get from chasing him down isn’t worth leaving her alone for even a second.
Not now.
Not when I can see the exact moment it slams into her that this isn’t just some dramatic ex who can’t let go. This is something altogether different that has the potential to explode.
I glare at the corner he vanished around, my hands curling into fists before I force them open again.
“We should go inside,” she says, voice trembling. “You need ice before that turns black and blue.”
My gaze darts to Chey. Her face is pale beneath the flush from the run, and her breathing is a little too erratic. Her body is stiff, as if she lets go for even a second, she might come apart at the seams.
Fuck.
“Yeah,” I mutter, because right now, getting her inside matters more than anything else.
The doorman stares at us, as if he’s unsure what to do.
I turn to him. “If you see that guy again, you call the police. Immediately.”
His eyes widen. “Yes, sir.”
Chey presses her lips together, but she doesn’t argue.
Good. I’m not in the mood to soften this or call it something it’s not just because the truth is uncomfortable.
We step into the lobby, and the blast of warmth does nothing to quell the uneasiness that clings to both of us. The elevator ride to my place is quiet except for the low mechanical hum and the faint ringing still bouncing around in my skull.
Cheyenne keeps sneaking peeks at me. I catch them in the mirrored panel. Each time, she quickly jerks her gaze away, as if she doesn’t want to get caught looking.
I don’t say anything. Mostly because I’m pissed at myself for allowing this to happen.
The punch replays in my head on a vicious loop.
Underneath that irritation is a deeper emotion.
Every time I glance at Chey, I see the fear she tried to hide on the sidewalk.
The way she froze when she spotted him, her body going rigid.
The need to keep her close feels less like a choice and more like instinct.
I’ll be damned if I allow anything to happen to her.
The elevator doors slide open, and I wait for her to step out before following as she moves through the penthouse to the kitchen.
“Sit down,” she orders.
There’s enough of an edge in her voice that I almost smile.
Instead, I do as I’m told and drop into one of the kitchen chairs while she grabs a dish towel from the drawer, crosses to the freezer, and fills a bag with ice.
Her movements are efficient, but I notice the small things.
The faint tremor in her fingers when she presses the zipper on the bag shut, or the way she draws in a steady breath before turning back to me.
She’s doing everything she can to be strong in order to get through this moment.
When Chey steps between my knees, every thought in my head short-circuits.
She’s close enough for me to feel the heat of her body.
Close enough for me to catch the clean scent of soap and sweat along with the faintest trace of her shampoo.
Close enough that if I shifted forward even an inch, my face would brush the soft fabric stretched over her chest.
She lifts the ice to my eye, and I hiss at the contact.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
Her free hand slides into my hair, pushing it away from my forehead so she can get a better look at the damage. Her touch is gentle, and without thinking, I lean into it. Just a little. But it’s enough to feel her still for half a beat before her fingers start moving again against my scalp.
This probably shouldn’t feel as good as it does.
Even though pain throbs behind my eye, all I can focus on is Cheyenne as she stands between my legs and runs her fingers over me. My body responds to that in ways that aren’t helping one damn bit.
“I really am sorry,” she murmurs.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
Guilt fills her eyes as they settle on mine. “This is all my fault.”
I catch her wrist loosely with my fingers. It’s just enough to still her hand in my hair. “No, it’s not.”
“If I hadn’t—”
“Stop.” I lower the ice pack so I can look at her properly. “This is on him,” I say, each word clipped and deliberate. “Not you.”
Her mouth trembles. “Knox—”
“No.” I tighten my hold on her wrist, wanting to stop the thoughts from spinning in her head. “You’re not going to take responsibility for his choices. That’s what guys like him do. They push too far, then act like it’s your fault for making them feel something they can’t handle.”
For a second, she just stares at me before her eyes become shiny. They’re not quite tears but close enough to make my chest twist.
Her fingers relax in my hair, turning into more of a caress. The urge to lean farther into her touch is almost overwhelming, and it takes effort to fight back.
“I don’t want you hurt because of me,” she says softly.
A humorless huff leaves me as I force myself to release her wrist and lift the ice back to my face. “You think I’m scared of that guy?”
She studies me for a second. “No, I don’t.”
Good answer.
“But,” she continues quietly, “I’m starting to realize he’s not stable.”
“All the more reason to be careful, don’t you think?”
Her gaze drops as she worries her lower lip between her teeth. “Maybe I should skip the charity event.”
As soon as I set the ice pack on the table and rise to my feet, she takes a quick step in retreat. “No.”
“Knox—”
“Absolutely not.”
I’m standing close enough that she has to tip her chin up to look at me. I see every emotion as it moves across her expression. The worry, uncertainty, and lingering guilt she hasn’t let go of.
“You broke up with him,” I say. “He doesn’t get to dictate what you do, where you go, or who you spend time with.”
Her throat works on a swallow.
I take another step toward her. “We’re not hiding out in my penthouse because he decided to show up at my building and throw a punch when he didn’t get what he wanted.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for hesitation.
Well, she’s not going to find any.
“This guy needs to understand something,” I say.
Her brows pinch. “What’s that?”
There’s half a second, maybe less, where I could choose something that sounds more strategic and less like the claim already burning its way through my blood.
“That you’re my girl now.”
The words land between us like a crack of thunder, and everything goes still as Cheyenne’s lips part.
The full impact of what I blurted slams into me a beat later.
My girl.
Jesus Christ.
I should really want to take that back, smooth it over, make it more about the plan and less about the fact that some primitive part inside me just stood up and planted a flag.
But I don’t. And that’s the problem. Because I don’t hate it at all. If anything, it feels like the truth. Like this stopped being pretend somewhere between kissing her on my couch, running beside her at sunrise, and seeing fear flash across her face when Dakota stalked toward us.
“Knox…”
I drag my hand over my jaw as my gaze stays pinned to hers. “This isn’t about pretending anymore. It’s about making sure your ex understands you’ve moved on.”
That’s the excuse.
The clean version.
The one I should probably stick to.
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re complete bullshit. This is no longer about Dakota getting the message. It’s about me wanting her by my side. And wanting him to know we’re together.
No. It’s about wanting every man who looks at her to understand there’s a line they no longer get to cross. I want the privilege of protecting her in a way that feels a hell of a lot less temporary than this arrangement was ever meant to be.
“So he can do the same,” I finish.
Her gaze is wide and searching as it holds mine. “If you really think that’s best, then we’ll go.”
“I do.”
It’s the truth, but not for the reasons she believes.
Last night, I told myself that if I kissed Cheyenne, it would settle this thing in my head once and for all.
It would prove she’s no different from any other woman.
That whatever is happening between us could be controlled, compartmentalized, and easily dismissed.
Instead, I’ve got a black eye and a possessive streak that’s a mile wide where this woman is concerned.
And the worst part?
Standing here with her close enough to touch, the taste of last night lodged in my memory, and the sound of her sighs echoing in my head—
I don’t regret a damn thing.