30. Knox
THIRTY
KNOX
The night air hits my face when I step out of her building.
I stand on the sidewalk for a second, breathing.
My hand is still warm from where she pulled me up the stairs by two of my fingers, her grip small and perfect and somehow the most certain thing she’s done since I met her.
Come up. I’ll make tea. Or whatever giants drink.
Maybe I’ll ask you to help me get undressed.
Maybe I’ll ask you to help me get undressed.
I was three minutes from finding out what that looked like before Milo ruined the moment.
Kitten.
I never call in sick from work. But I was damn well planning to tonight.
“Fuck.”
I flex my hand. Open. Close. The ghost of her grip doesn’t leave.
“How’s my wildcat?”
Holden’s leaning against his car across the street. Black Audi, tinted windows, parked in a loading zone because Holden has never respected a rule if it inconvenienced him. Arms crossed. Ankles crossed. The picture of casual disinterest. But his eyes tracked me the second I stepped outside.
“Your wildcat?”
His mouth kicks up on one side. “Mine. Ours. Yours. Whatever label makes you feel good, big guy.”
“Milo’s got her.”
He goes still for half a second. “That little fucker.”
I quirk a brow. He isn’t the one who just got cockblocked. In fact, Holden is still the only one of us who’s maintained silent protector status.
“He knew I was on watch tonight. I’m going to bury him in a shallow grave by the beach. Let the crabs get him.” Holden pushes off the car and rounds to the driver’s side. “Get in. I’ll drive you to work.”
I glance over to where my truck’s parked and figure I can hitch a ride back with Micah later. I slide in shotgun, slam the door, and Holden peels out before I’ve even got the belt buckled.
He always drives at marginally homicidal speeds, like every red light is a personal insult. We don’t talk for two blocks, just the hum of tires over asphalt and the grid of wayward streetlights flicking past.
“Milo fix the lock?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Keys?”
“Made a set for each of us.”
Holden snorts. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He takes a corner too fast, and a cyclist flips us off. He doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. “I want to scope out the Hudson mark. Get a feel for his routine before we build the full plan.”
“I thought Eli was handling the plan.”
Holden glances at me.
He doesn’t say it out loud. Doesn’t need to. We’ve all seen it. The extra surveillance. The tension between him and Micah in the meeting. The jacket. Eli’s not himself.
I let out a breath. “He’ll come around.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Holden watches the road, jaw set. “He’s off. Has been ever since—I want to say it’s about her, but it’s not just that.”
“It’s always about Sage.”
A beat. He signals left. “You like her.”
“Yeah. You?”
“Fuck yeah.”
“You think it’s a problem?”
“No. Not unless we let it be.” He huffs a laugh and shifts up a gear. “We’re not the first crew to get entangled. Most of the old syndicates had a rule: no socializing outside the business. Never worked. People always fuck each other, literally or otherwise.”
I bristle. “Is that what she is to you? A fuck?”
He looks at me, brow quirked. “Down boy. I’m not that big of a dick.
” Back to the road. “If that was all she was, I’d already be in her bed.
” He shakes his head. “No. This is different. It’s like that for all of us.
It’s why I’m giving her space. She’s not ready to deal with my brand of fucked up yet. ”
I nod, because he’s right. This is different.
I’ve been with women before—strong, dangerous women, the kind who walk toward gunfire instead of away.
It’s never felt like this. Never felt feral, or inevitable, or like every atom in my body wanted to crowd closer and stay there.
She’s nothing like the women I’ve known.
She’s softer and somehow more brutal at the same time.
Built from the same anger and hunger as the rest of us, she just hasn’t figured out where to put it yet.
I’ll teach her.
Holden parks in front of the club. “Hudson. Next Tuesday’s the deadline.
” His hands stay on the wheel, eyes scanning the street, always on surveillance.
“I’m not waiting on Eli to come through with a plan to start groundwork.
Hudson plays golf Sunday mornings at Pinecrest. Private club, gated, but the restaurant’s open to the public for brunch.
Figure we eat some overpriced eggs, get eyes on the layout, see who he drinks with after the round. ”
“Sunday?”
“You free?”
I think about it. I’m working at the club Saturday. But my shift ends at two. Four hours of sleep would be enough. I’ve operated on less. “What time?”
“Nine. I’ll pick you up.” He glances at my outfit—black T-shirt, black cargos, black combat boots. “Wear something that doesn’t scream hired killer. Khakis, maybe. A polo.”
“I don’t own a polo. Or khakis.”
“Then we’ll stop on the way. You can’t walk into a golf club looking like you’re there to collect a debt.” A pause. “Actually, scratch that. You can’t walk into a golf club at all without people noticing. You’re the size of a refrigerator.”
“I’ll wait in the car.”
“No. I need you inside. I need you reading the room while I read the mark.”
“Fine. Not wearing khakis.”
“Navy chinos.”
I sigh. “I’ll figure it out.”
He grins. “This guy’s going to be different from Davis. Connected. Careful. Probably has security on rotation. We’ll need to be smarter.”
“We’re always smart.”
“We’re usually smart. Last time, we let a wildcat loose and look where that got us.” Said without judgment, just fact. “Odin’s right. We can’t afford another situation like that. We take this guy out clean. No witnesses. No fallout.”
I unbuckle my seatbelt. Sit there a second longer than I need to.
“Sunday at nine.”
“Bring your eyes. Leave the feelings in the car.” It’s said like a joke. His face isn’t laughing.
I get out and shut the door. The Audi pulls away before I’ve taken two steps, Holden disappearing into traffic like he was never there. Two seconds later, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Holden:
fuck you, Milo
Smirking, I’m about to pocket it when it buzzes again.
Milo:
Enjoy your night off, sweetie!
I wait to see if there’s anything further, but all I get is a notification I’ve been invited to a group chat called “Kitten’s Hangmen.”
Fitting.
The building is quiet as I head inside through the staff entrance.
It’s still early enough that the club is just starting to fill upstairs.
I take the rear stairs instead of the elevator, listening for movement in the staff corridors.
Just my boots on plush carpet and the faint hum of the building’s bones.
Even the staff areas of Unholy Desires are excessively luxurious.
The corridor is paneled in the same dark walnut as the front of house, oil-rubbed to that piano-lid finish Lilith insists on.
The carpet is wool, charcoal gray, thick enough you can barely hear your own footsteps.
Brass sconces line the walls—old-timey bulbs that flicker like candles when you stand still long enough—spaced at intervals that make it feel less like a hallway and more like a slow procession.
Every door frame has the same brass numbering, hand-stamped, no two quite identical.
Lilith built this place for the people who come here, but she built the back of it for us with the same care, because she considers the people she employs as artisans.
The bartenders are mixologists. The kink instructors are sensual artists.
The security is ex-special forces. Everyone who works here is the best at what they do, and we’re paid for our expertise. Generously.
There’s a small kitchenette at the end of the corridor with a real espresso machine, a pastry case refilled twice a day, fresh fruit in a marble bowl. A quiet room next door for staff who need to step out of a scene. A medic on call. Even a damned massage therapist for anyone feeling tight.
Most clubs would call this excessive. Lilith knows it’s how you buy loyalty.
Every employee signs an NDA when they start, but one whisper here could sink not just the club but financial markets.
The dancers and dommes know which hedge fund manager can’t get hard without being slapped.
The bartenders know which politician has a side piece.
Security knows the sexual preferences of every person who walks through the doors.
Membership is invite-only. The location moves every twelve months and nobody outside the books knows where Lilith will surface next—last year it was a converted cathedral in New Orleans; the year before, a private island off the Carolinas.
Clients pay her a fortune for anonymity, for the one thing their money can’t buy them—privacy.
The anonymity holds because the staff have no reason to spill.
We’re paid like surgeons, treated like artisans, and we know exactly what we’d be giving up.
Loyalty isn’t a virtue here. It’s the product.
It’s also why I’ve stuck with Odin for eight years.
I started when he was still moving cities with Lilith, traveling with the operation—twelve months in one city, twelve in the next.
I grew up in Hunter Harbor, so when the Hangmen formed, I planted here and stayed.
Odin owns half the town quietly, and there’s always something needing to be watched—a warehouse, a property, a client who needs an extra set of eyes on a meeting.
When Unholy Desires is in town I work the floor.
When it moves on, I rotate through Odin’s other holdings.
I like the variety.
In the locker room I drop my bag on the bench.
Pull the gun from the holster at the small of my back, check the slide, store it in my personal safe.
I hate that Lilith won’t let me carry on the floor.
But, as she points out, these rich pricks might lose their shit if I pulled a weapon on one of them.
The last thing any of us needs is a lawsuit.
I head to the staff showers. Keep it short.
Cold. The water drums against my skull and I try to clear my head, but the evening clings to me—her hand around my two fingers, the way she pulled.
Come up. I’ll make tea. Maybe I’ll ask you to help me get undressed.
The shape of her words still in my chest. Her hand on the door handle, the smell of garlic from inside, Milo’s grin like a wrecking ball through the only thing I wanted—
I shut the water off.
Get dressed. The uniform’s the same for all of us—tailored black pants, black dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the forearm, black tie, dress shoes, matte black mask. The entire ensemble is provided by Lilith and has a designer name on the label I occasionally see mentioned on red carpets.
I eat standing up in the kitchenette. Protein bar, black coffee, a handful of almonds from a jar on the counter. My shift starts in fifteen, enough time to empty my brain and arrive on the floor as the version of myself that functions. Quiet. Watchful. Contained.
The version that doesn’t think about cherry pie, back-alley voyeurism, and a girl who wanted me to stay.