Chapter 26 Knox
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Knox
The warehouse is silent. I stand by the kitchen island, a half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade in my hand. I drink it in long pulls, the cool, sugary liquid settling my stomach after the exertions of the night.
My body feels... different. Sated in a way it hasn’t been in years. The memory of Amber beneath me, the tight heat of her, the way she cried out my name—it plays on a loop behind my eyes.
The heavy steel door rolls open on its track, breaking the quiet.
Fallon steps inside, bringing a gust of freezing air with him. He’s hunched into his jacket, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks tired, but there’s a loose contentment in his posture that wasn’t there before.
“Got her home okay?” I ask, setting the Gatorade down.
“Yeah. Safe and sound.” He sheds his jacket, tossing it over the back of the sofa. He walks over to the island, pouring himself a glass of water.
“Good.” I nod. That was my only concern once she left, ensuring she made it back to her brother’s house without incident.
Fallon leans his hips against the counter, drinking the water. He looks at me over the rim of the glass, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Tonight was fun,” he says.
It’s a casual word, thrown out like a comment on a movie or a decent meal. But I hear what he means underneath it.
Tonight was necessary. Tonight changed everything.
I feel my own mouth twitch, threatening a smile. “It was.”
“Think she’s going to run?” he asks, setting the glass down.
“No. She’s scared, but she isn’t running.”
“She’s tough.” He stretches his arms over his head, his joints popping. “Tougher than she looks. Anyway, I’m dead. I’m going to crash.”
“Sleep well, Fall.”
“You too, Chef.”
He goes to his room, the door clicking shut behind him. I finish the Gatorade and rinse the bottle, placing it in the recycling.
I turn off the lights, plunging the living area into darkness, and head up the stairs to my own room.
My bed is made, the duvet smooth and inviting. I strip down to my boxers, the air in the room cold against my skin. I slide between the sheets, my head hitting the pillow.
I expect to lie awake, my mind racing through logistics and new variables. Instead, sleep drags me down almost instantly.
And of course, I dream of her.
We’re in the kitchen, but it’s empty of staff. I’m cooking, stirring a pot of sauce. She stands next to me, wearing that green dress.
She watches me work with a soft smile, her hazel eyes warm. I feel a sense of rightness, of pieces clicking into place, so profound it wakes me up.
I blink at the ceiling. The morning light is just starting to bleed through the blinds, gray and pale.
My body feels heavy, well-rested. I lay there for a long moment, savoring the remnants of the dream, before forcing myself up.
When I walk down to the kitchen an hour later, the smell of coffee is potent. Eli is sitting at the island, surrounded by small brown paper bags. He’s tying them with twine, looking focused.
“Morning,” he says without looking up.
“Morning.”
I go to the machine and pour a mug of black coffee. The first sip scalds my tongue, waking up my nerves.
“Miss Thea called,” Eli says, setting a finished bag aside. “She needs a delivery of herbs. Valerian root, chamomile, some dried lemon balm. She’s low on stock.”
“I can take it,” I offer.
“No, I’ve got it. It’s on my way to the bakery anyway. I need to pick up some fresh yeast.” He stands up, stacking the bags. “It gives me an excuse to check on her. She seemed tired yesterday.”
“She’s so busy, Eli. She’s always tired.”
“I know.” He shrugs on his coat. “I just like to be sure.”
Fallon shuffles in a few minutes later, looking like death warmed over. His hair is a disaster, his eyes squinting against the light.
“Coffee,” he grunts, heading straight for the pot.
“Eat first, then sleep,” I tell him.
“I’m not hungry.” He pours a cup, drinking it black. He leans against the counter, closing his eyes. “Is it just me, or does everything feel... different today?”
“It’s not just you,” I say.
“I like it.” He opens one eye. “It feels like the air cleared.”
“It does.”
He finishes his coffee in record time. “I’m going back to bed. Wake me up in like, three hours.”
“Will do.”
He disappears again. Eli grabs his bags of herbs and heads out, the cold air swirling in before the door seals shut.
I’m left alone in the quiet kitchen.
I drink my coffee, staring at the stainless steel refrigerator. My mind wants to drift to Amber, to the green dress, to the feel of her skin, but I force it away. I have work to do. I have a restaurant to run.
And right now, I need to sweat.
I head to the gym.
I start with the deadlift. The bar is cold in my hands. I load it with one hundred and thirty-five pounds to start. Not heavy, but enough to wake up the posterior chain.
I grip the bar, hands shoulder-width apart. I drive through my heels, extending my hips, pulling the weight up. The metal plates clank together, a satisfying sound.
One. Two. Three.
I increase the weight. Two hundred and five pounds.
The strain increases. My lower back tightens, my hamstrings engaging. I focus on my form. Back straight. Neck neutral. Drive up.
The rhythm of the lift clears my head. With every rep, the chaotic thoughts of the night—the fear of breaking the rule, the anxiety of sharing—organize themselves into neat rows.
I control the weight. I control the lift. I am in command here.
I move to the squat rack. Three plates on each side. Three hundred and fifteen pounds.
I duck under the bar, settling it across my traps. The pressure is immediate, heavy on my shoulders. I descend, breaking parallel, and drive up.
My legs burn. My breath comes in sharp hisses.
Squat. Stand. Squat. Stand.
I think about Amber. I think about her fear.
I add another ten pounds to each side. Three hundred and thirty-five.
It’s getting heavy.
I step under the bar. The steel digs into my skin. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs, and drop.
My legs shake on the way up. Gravity fights back. I grit my teeth, forcing my body to obey. The weight tries to fold me, but I lock my knees.
This is what it is to be an Alpha. To carry the load. To hold the weight up when everything else wants to bring you down.
I thought sharing her would divide the load, make it lighter. But maybe it makes it heavier. It triples the responsibility.
I finish the set, racking the bar with a loud clang.
I move to the bench press next. Flat on my back, looking up at the ceiling. I load the bar. I lower it to my chest, press it up. Over and over.
My triceps burn. My chest pumps full of blood.
I finish with pull-ups. I grip the bar, hanging loose. I pull myself up, chin over the bar, then lower slowly. Ten. Twelve. Fifteen.
My lats scream. Sweat drips down my spine, soaking into the waistband of my shorts.
I drop to the floor, breathing hard. The concrete is cool under my hands.
I feel better. The physical fatigue masks the emotional turmoil. For now, the confusion is quieted by the endorphins.
I stand up, grabbing a towel to wipe down the equipment. It’s respectful to the gear, and to the space. I strip the weights, returning the plates to the rack. Then I head back home to shower.
I turn the water as hot as I can stand it. Steam fills the room instantly.
I step under the spray, letting it hammer against my shoulders. I scrub the sweat from my skin, the smell of iron and chalk washing down the drain. I use soap that smells of cedar and sandalwood, scrubbing until my skin is red.
I stand there for a long time, letting the water run over me. I think about the dream again. Her smile.
I turn off the water and towel off roughly. I dress in clean clothes—dark slacks, a pressed button-down, my apron rolled in my hands.
The whole drive home, I think of her.
I walk to the office, my domain. The desk is mahogany, heavy and imposing. The chair is leather. I sit down, the leather creaking under my weight.
I boot up the computer and the screen glows to life, displaying the inventory logs and the reservation list.
I pick up a pen, clicking it open.
I scan the produce order. We’re low on microgreens. The halibut price is fluctuating. The linen service delivered the wrong size napkins yesterday.
I make notes. I adjust orders. I plan.
This I know how to do. This, I can control.
But as I work, I catch myself glancing at the door, waiting for her to come in as I make myself busy cleaning up the kitchen.
The stainless steel table glows under the harsh overhead lights. I run a microfiber cloth over the surface for the third time, erasing an imaginary smudge. It’s a compulsion, this need for order.
The kitchen is clean. The prep is organized. The inventory is logged.
But I can’t settle.
The back door opens. I don’t have to turn to know who it is. The air shifts, carrying a scent that overrides the lemon cleaner and the lingering odor of coffee grounds.
I turn, tossing the rag into the bin.
Amber walks in. She looks soft and vibrant. She’s wearing a thick, cream-colored cable-knit sweater that swallows her hands, and a long, woolen skirt in a deep forest green.
Her brown boots are dusted with snow. Her hair is loose today, falling in waves over her shoulders.
She looks like warmth personified.
“Hey,” she says. Her voice is cheerful, but her eyes dart around the room, checking for Fallon or Eli.
“They’re not here,” I tell her. “Fallon is dead to the world. Eli went to the apothecary.”
“Oh.” She steps further in, the door hissing shut behind her. “Good. I mean... I just came in to pick up my checkbook. I left it here yesterday.”
I round the island. The distance between us vanishes in two strides.
“You’re wearing a skirt,” I observe. It’s a stupid thing to say, a Captain Obvious remark, but my brain is stuck on the curve of her hips under that wool.
She laughs, a bright, breathy sound. “I know. Risky, right? Kitchens are dangerous.”
“Very.”