Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91285 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Sorry,” she whispers.
Her free hand slides into my hair, pushing it away from my forehead so she can get a better look at the damage. Her touch is gentle, and without thinking, I lean into it. Just a little. But it’s enough to feel her still for half a beat before her fingers start moving again against my scalp.
This probably shouldn’t feel as good as it does.
Even though pain throbs behind my eye, all I can focus on is Cheyenne as she stands between my legs and runs her fingers over me. My body responds to that in ways that aren’t helping one damn bit.
“I really am sorry,” she murmurs.
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”
Guilt fills her eyes as they settle on mine. “This is all my fault.”
I catch her wrist loosely with my fingers. It’s just enough to still her hand in my hair. “No, it’s not.”
“If I hadn’t—”
“Stop.” I lower the ice pack so I can look at her properly. “This is on him,” I say, each word clipped and deliberate. “Not you.”
Her mouth trembles. “Knox—”
“No.” I tighten my hold on her wrist, wanting to stop the thoughts from spinning in her head. “You’re not going to take responsibility for his choices. That’s what guys like him do. They push too far, then act like it’s your fault for making them feel something they can’t handle.”
For a second, she just stares at me before her eyes become shiny. They’re not quite tears but close enough to make my chest twist.
Her fingers relax in my hair, turning into more of a caress. The urge to lean farther into her touch is almost overwhelming, and it takes effort to fight back.
“I don’t want you hurt because of me,” she says softly.
A humorless huff leaves me as I force myself to release her wrist and lift the ice back to my face. “You think I’m scared of that guy?”
She studies me for a second. “No, I don’t.”
Good answer.
“But,” she continues quietly, “I’m starting to realize he’s not stable.”
“All the more reason to be careful, don’t you think?”
Her gaze drops as she worries her lower lip between her teeth. “Maybe I should skip the charity event.”
As soon as I set the ice pack on the table and rise to my feet, she takes a quick step in retreat. “No.”
“Knox—”
“Absolutely not.”
I’m standing close enough that she has to tip her chin up to look at me. I see every emotion as it moves across her expression. The worry, uncertainty, and lingering guilt she hasn’t let go of.
“You broke up with him,” I say. “He doesn’t get to dictate what you do, where you go, or who you spend time with.”
Her throat works on a swallow.
I take another step toward her. “We’re not hiding out in my penthouse because he decided to show up at my building and throw a punch when he didn’t get what he wanted.”
Her eyes search mine, looking for hesitation.
Well, she’s not going to find any.
“This guy needs to understand something,” I say.
Her brows pinch. “What’s that?”
There’s half a second, maybe less, where I could choose something that sounds more strategic and less like the claim already burning its way through my blood.
“That you’re my girl now.”
The words land between us like a crack of thunder, and everything goes still as Cheyenne’s lips part.
The full impact of what I blurted slams into me a beat later.
My girl.
Jesus Christ.
I should really want to take that back, smooth it over, make it more about the plan and less about the fact that some primitive part inside me just stood up and planted a flag.
But I don’t. And that’s the problem. Because I don’t hate it at all. If anything, it feels like the truth. Like this stopped being pretend somewhere between kissing her on my couch, running beside her at sunrise, and seeing fear flash across her face when Dakota stalked toward us.
“Knox…”
I drag my hand over my jaw as my gaze stays pinned to hers. “This isn’t about pretending anymore. It’s about making sure your ex understands you’ve moved on.”
That’s the excuse.
The clean version.
The one I should probably stick to.
Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re complete bullshit. This is no longer about Dakota getting the message. It’s about me wanting her by my side. And wanting him to know we’re together.
No. It’s about wanting every man who looks at her to understand there’s a line they no longer get to cross. I want the privilege of protecting her in a way that feels a hell of a lot less temporary than this arrangement was ever meant to be.
“So he can do the same,” I finish.
Her gaze is wide and searching as it holds mine. “If you really think that’s best, then we’ll go.”
“I do.”
It’s the truth, but not for the reasons she believes. Last night, I told myself that if I kissed Cheyenne, it would settle this thing in my head once and for all. It would prove she’s no different from any other woman. That whatever is happening between us could be controlled, compartmentalized, and easily dismissed.