I drag in a shaky breath. "I'm yours. Right now, I'm yours."
His whole body falters, composure slipping for a beat as the qualifier lands somewhere he wasn't braced for. Then his eyes go molten and he drives deeper, harder, like he can fuck the right now into always if he just gets close enough.
"Good girl," he groans. "That's it. Take all of me."
Pleasure builds, hot and fast, winding tight under my skin. Gathering. A wave about to break. "Knox," I gasp. "I—"
"I got you," he says, forehead to mine. "Come for me, sweetheart. Let go. I want to feel you."
The way he says it, like he wants more than my body, wants the moment I come apart for him, undoes me. My orgasm hits hard.I clamp down around him, muscles fluttering, a cry ripping from my throat that might be his name. The world whites out at the edges.
For a few perfect seconds, there's nothing but bliss and his voice in my ear. Rough, awed, and filthy, telling me how good I am, how beautiful I look coming on his cock. He follows a heartbeat later, burying his face in my neck, whole body going taut as he spills inside me with a guttural sound that shakes through both of us.
We ride it out tangled and shaking, bodies pressed so close I can't tell where his ends and mine begins. The world comes back in pieces. The lamp casts a soft halo. Our breaths are loud, ragged, uneven. My skin is damp, slick against his. His heart thunders against my chest.
He eases out, then shifts enough so he's not crushing me, rolling us to the side so I end up half draped over him. I let my cheek rest over his heart. His hand finds my back, drawing lazy lines up and down my spine. Every stroke a silent I'm here.
"You okay?" he asks eventually. Quiet, almost shy. I think about lying. About saying I'm fine like always.
But fine isn't the word. Right now, with his fingers sketching patterns over my shoulder blade, the sharp edges inside me are… duller. Not gone. Softer.
"Right now? With you? Yeah. I'm okay."
He exhales, drawn out, as though he's been holding that breath for days. "Good," he says, lips brushing my hairline. "Because I could stay like this forever." Then, quieter, almost to himself, "I—" He stops. Swallows. His fingers dig into my skin. "I like having you here," he finishes.
My throat tightens. Forever is a dangerous word. A fragile one. That pause? Worse. I heard it in the hitch of his breath. In the way he wouldn't let go. I don't call him on it. Don't ask what he was really going to say.
I slide my arm more firmly around Knox's waist, letting my full weight settle on him, letting my body say what my mouth still can't.
I'm here. I want this. I want you.
His arm tightens around me. "Sleep," he murmurs.
For once, I think I might actually be able to. Wrapped around the man who terrifies me with how much I want him, in a bed that's starting to feel like more than a place I crash between shifts and nightmares, I close my eyes.
The world is still broken. Fathers are still monsters. Secrets still buried under my skin, sharp as shrapnel. But here, in this small pocket of warmth and breath and steady hands, I rest.
For the first time, the thought slips through before I can slam the door on it. Maybe—just maybe—if my ghosts ever come calling, they'll stand behind me too. Only a crack in my certainty that this is temporary. That I am temporary. But I don't push it away. Not tonight.
Chapter 22
Sloane
Knoxalwayssayshecan tell what kind of day I've had by the way I cut vegetables. Tonight, the onions don't stand a chance. Two weeks since the warehouse, and the girls decided the best medicine for collective trauma was organized chaos. I'm half dancing between the stove and the counter, bare feet sliding over cool tile, his T-shirt hanging off one shoulder. The kitchen smells like garlic, tomato, and a whiff of mischief. Music is playing low on my phone, something Ruby added to the girls' "Prank War Soundtrack." I'm smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.
My phone buzzes with the chaos coven group chat.
Ruby: Phase 3 is a go. Clown is in position. Garage Bay #1 has been ballooned. Repeat: the eagle has landed.
Frankie: This is a stupid idea. I'm obsessed with it.
Darla: If he passes out, I call not-it for starting CPR.
Candace: Film it if you can.
I bite back a laugh and set the knife down, wiping my hands as the familiar rumble of Knox's bike rolls up the drive. I move toward the front window. It's muscle memory; hear the bike, go to the glass, make sure he's home. The instinct is still there, but it's changed. Less terror. More… ache.
The sky is washed in gold and pink, Knox's black bike cutting through it. He swings off in that easy, predatory way, shoulders broad under his cut, helmet dangling from his fingers. He looks tired, but he still looks like mine.