67. Sage #2
“I should have double-parked. There were no spots. But I should have double-parked.” He says it like it’s simply a fact he got wrong, an oversight he’s correcting now. He settles me against his chest and keeps walking at exactly the same pace, not breaking stride.
“I can walk. It’s good for me to move around.”
“You shouldn’t have even been at work today. I know it hurts you to take me.”
I want to say he’s being ridiculous, but it’s kind of the opposite—he’s being so gentle it’s almost unbearable. I hook one arm around his neck, let my head rest on his shoulder like this is an everyday occurrence and not an Olympic feat of public affection for both of us.
“People are staring,” I whisper.
“Let them. Just finish your ice cream.”
I look left. There’s an old woman squinting at us from her porch, lips pressed tight. I dip my wrist and give her the tiniest wave, and her face unfolds like a time-lapse, surprise blooming into a smile.
We walk the rest of the way like this, not in any hurry, his stride slow and measured, my body cradled against his.
The ache in my body fades into something warm and pleasant.
I finish the ice cream and—when I’ve munched the cone to nothing—he takes the napkin from my hand and tosses it in a trash can.
By the time we reach my building I’ve stopped pretending I’m not enjoying it. He takes the stairs slowly, and I use the extra time to just rest my head against his chest and revel in the steady rhythm of his heart.
At my door, he sets me on the ground and pulls the keys and something else from his pocket. “Before we go inside, I want to give you something.”
He hands me a small white envelope.
“What is this?”
“Open it.”
I do. Inside is a black credit card, my name laser-etched on the bottom. I stare at it for a solid ten seconds, not tracking.
“I don’t understand.”
He shifts, embarrassed. That’s new. “It’s yours. No limit.”
“I—Knox. Why are you giving me this?”
“Because I want you to have it.”
My voice drops. “Why?”
He doesn’t waste time with bullshit. “This morning, you went to work because you said you needed money. I don’t ever want you to think you have to work when you’re hurting, or when you should be safe at home.
” His eyes stay on me, stone steady. “You never have to explain an expense. You never have to run it by me. Just use it to make your life better. I want to know you’re taken care of. ”
“Knox.” I’m not sure what to say for a while.
The card is heavier than it looks and the raised letters of my own name catch at the edge of my thumb, like a Braille reminder that this is real, that he went to the trouble of requesting it, naming me, giving something that costs him in ways I don’t understand yet.
I hand it back to him. “I can’t.”
He closes my fingers over it. “You can.”
“It’s too much.”
“No. It’s not.” He holds my hand in place until I have to look at him.
“Listen. I’m not asking you to quit working—I know you like your job.
I’m just giving you options. Peace of mind.
” His mouth kicks up a little on one side as he gets a sheepish look in his eye.
“And honestly, it’ll stop me from feeling so bad about how badly I want to fuck you again. ”
“Because you think I won’t be able to walk next time?” I give him a smile, saying it like a joke but knowing this is a genuine concern for him.
He presses my hand and the card to my chest. “Consider it aftercare.”
“Knox,” I say, and it’s pathetic how small my voice is, how not-joke it sounds. “That’s not a normal reason to give a girl a credit card.”
He shrugs. “Neither is loving five men. Or having five men love you.”
I don’t . . . I can’t. I close my hand into a fist around the card, so tight the corner bites into my palm. His expression is so open it makes my heart lurch. What he’s offering isn’t control. It’s release. A cushion. Care.
“I don’t know what to do with this,” I whisper.
“Just use it. Or don’t. It’s yours.”
I laugh, wet and ugly, and wipe my eyes with my sleeve. “I have never felt more like a sugar baby in my life.”
“You’re not a sugar baby. You’re just my Fury. And I want to take care of you.” He bends and kisses me, as if the matter is settled, and the kiss is soft, almost chaste, but it fizzes all through my body.
“Thank you,” I whisper when he pulls away. “Really. Thank you.”
He looks like he wants to say more, but the hallway light flickers and a dull slam from an apartment upstairs makes us both turn.
He tucks the card into my pocket like a parent slipping lunch money into a jacket.
Then he unlocks the door and ushers me inside, always two steps ahead, always checking.
I follow, already anticipating the comfort of my tiny apartment, the thought of collapsing on the couch together, maybe making out until the sun goes down.
But the living room stops us cold. There’s a length of rope hanging from the ceiling light fixture.
A perfect seven-coil noose, swinging gently.
For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Please tell me this is one of Milo’s jokes,” I whisper, voice shaking.
Knox shakes his head slowly. “He’d never joke about this.”
“Then where did it come from?” Pressure stings in the backs of my eyes, my brain doing something strange, the way it did the night under the jetty—going very quiet and very fast at the same time, stripping everything down to the essential facts.
Someone was in here. Someone was in here, and they left this. For me. Us.
“There’s a note.” Knox moves in front of me, crossing to the rope and reading the note where it hangs.
When he turns back, his face is flat and controlled in the way that means the opposite of calm.
“What does it say?”
Knox looks at me.
“You’re next.”