11. Knox #2
“You didn’t read it.” Holden’s voice is almost a whisper.
“You read the words, Knox, but you didn’t—you weren’t lying next to her when it came through.
You didn’t feel her breathing against your chest while some piece of shit tried to tell her she should have let that asshole fuck her throat.
” The words come out hoarse, hands shaking.
“So don’t tell me what she can handle. I know what she can handle. I don’t want her to have to.”
My hands ball into fists. I don’t get angry the way Holden does—I can’t afford that punch-walls, break-shit kind of anger—but it lives in me the same. Only mine is a heat rising in the center of my chest until I feel like I’m breathing boiling water.
Holden’s glare digs a hole in me, then moves on, scraping the rest of the room raw. But Micah’s the first to break—he steps in, sets a hand on Holden’s shoulder. It’s not a comfort, not with the way their muscles lock against each other, but it shifts the momentum from a fight to triage.
“I get it. No one wants to make her relive it,” Micah says. “But if she finds out on her own . . . she’ll feel we don’t think she’s strong enough. That’s worse.”
“I know she’s strong,” Holden says. “But how many hits does she have to take? God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. But maybe Eli was right. Maybe we should have sent her—”
“Don’t you fucking say it,” Milo warns. “Kitten knows what we are. She’s one of us.”
He’s right. She is one of us, and we’re fucking nothing without her. And if whoever’s coming for us thinks terror works, he’s about to learn different.
“Okay.” I scrub a palm over my scalp. “We tell her first thing. All of it. Let her decide what we do.” My eyes slide to Eli. “We ask her who she wants protecting her. And how.”
Eli pulls his head back. “You know this wasn’t me, right?”
“No one even suggested it, Eli,” Holden says, sounding tired.
“Maybe not directly. But you’re all thinking it. It’s crossed your minds—some more than others.”
“Jesus, Eli,” Milo says. “Main-character syndrome much?”
“Maybe this is my fault.” Eli’s eyes find Micah’s and hold.
“I’m the one who tried to push her away.
I was the one who called Micah that night.
I created the window for whoever’s doing this.
It wasn’t me—I had nothing to do with the attack on Sage.
Nothing.” He looks around the room. “But it was my fault. This whole situation is my fault. I can own that much.”
Nobody says a word. We just watch Eli hang there, every ounce of pride or rebellion wrung out, nothing left but a man who looks like he’s dying to be hurt, or forgiven, or both.
“You don’t get to be the martyr.” I let out a sigh. “No one thinks you tried to kill her.”
Holden nods. “We know you didn’t try to kill her, Eli. You wouldn’t be here if you were a suspect.”
“But you hurt her,” Milo adds. “You hurt kitten. You made her fall in love with you and then you broke her heart. And that’s just as bad—do you know what I like to do to people who hurt my kitten?”
“Knowing you, Milo. I’m sure it involves knives, loud music, and an interpretive dance.”
Milo smiles. “Then you know what’s coming if you hurt her again.” The warning lands as a joke, but the threat underneath lingers in the cold, oil-soaked air.
“I won’t hurt her again,” Eli says, his tone serious as he meets each of our eyes in turn.
“I love her. Same as you. I want her safe. It’s all I ever wanted.
” I meet Eli’s dark, steady stare. There’s nothing in him but guilt and an ache I can feel from across the room.
I don’t like that he hurt Fury. And I think that if we all had our way, he wouldn’t even be in this room.
In this house. But Sage wants him here—even if it’s just to be angry in the vicinity of him—and what she wants, I tolerate.
“Hurt her again, I’ll kill you myself,” I grunt as I collect Sage’s phone.
Eli pushes off the wall and steps into the center of the garage.
“Words aren’t going to fix this,” he says. “I know that. You can’t trust what I say, that’s fair.” He rolls his shoulders back. Opens his stance. “So take it out of me. Hit me, kick me, whatever you need. Get it out of your system.”
Milo looks up from his laptop. “Shit, are we going full fight club? Hot. Let’s all take our shirts off.”
“I’m serious.” Eli spreads his arms wide. “Do it. Hit me. I deserve it.”
“This is stupid,” Holden says.
“Maybe.” Eli’s eyes move across us. “But maybe it’ll help you all realize I’m in this. I know I fucked up.” His eyes move to mine. “This is me groveling like a motherfucker. This is me choosing her.”
I let out a grunt, knowing he’s referring to the visit I paid him the night after he tried to make Fury leave us by calling her easy. I told him if he couldn’t be in this, if he couldn’t love her wholeheartedly, he needed to pack his shit and go—otherwise he’d be dealing with me.
I square up, the memory of my fist in his gut still fresh from the last time, but it’s not anger pushing me now.
It’s the hard gravity of an apology the size of a planet.
Eli stands absolutely still, the set of his face resigned and raw, like he’s already decided this is what has to happen and he’s not backing down.
“One hit,” I say. “Then you shut the fuck up. No more dramatics.”
He nods. Doesn’t flinch.
I cock my arm back and let it fly. Open hand, flat across the jaw. It’s a bitch slap that’s hard enough to snap his head sideways. A punch from me at full force would break bone, and I don’t want him broken. I want him to feel like he’s atoned for what he did and walk out of this garage upright.
Eli takes it. Breathes through his nose. Straightens. His cheek is already reddening.
“Feel better?” he asks, blood on his teeth as he tongues the inside of his cheek.
I step back. “A little.”
Holden moves next. He doesn’t wait to be invited. He closes the gap fast and hits with a closed fist, shorter range than mine, right under Eli’s ribs. Eli folds, catching himself on his knees, and coughs.
“Jesus,” Holden mutters, flexing his hand by his side. “You were right. I do feel a little less ragey.”
“My turn! My turn!” Milo bounces off the crate, dancing around Eli. “Where to hit, where to hit?”
“Just pick a spot,” Holden growls.
“But there are so many good options.” Milo feints left, feints right. Eli tracks him but doesn’t make a move to protect himself.
“You know, I’ve always thought your face was a little too symmetrical. Very punchable. Like a TV host who got lost on the way to a reality TV show inter—”
He hits mid-sentence. Fast, clean, right across the cheekbone. Eli’s head rocks back and a cut opens thin and bright above the bone.
“Fuck!”
“That’s for kitten,” Milo says, shaking out his hand since faces are bony and they fucking hurt to punch. “Ow. Your face is harder than it looks.”
“Thanks?”
“Not a compliment.”
Micah steps forward. Eli squares up to face him. Of all of them, I think Eli expects this one to hurt the most.
Micah stops in front of him. They look at each other for a long time.
Then Micah shakes his head.
“You’re not fucking worth it.”
He turns on his heel and leaves the garage.
Milo lets out a low whistle, elbowing Eli in the ribs. “Dude, you are so gonna have to grovel.”