"Toby, wait—"
But I'm already through the door, the morning air hitting my face cool and sharp. Robin's brother's Audi is idling at the curb, and I practically throw myself into the passenger seat.
"Drive," I say.
Robin glances at me once—takes in the marks, the borrowed clothes, whatever expression is on my face—anddoesn't ask questions. Just puts the car in gear and pulls away smoothly.
We make it three blocks before he pulls over again, putting the car in park and turning to face me fully.
"What happened?" His voice is gentle but firm, the same tone he uses when I'm being stubborn about eating or sleeping. "You look like you're about to shatter. Oh, honey." He reaches out to touch one of the marks on my neck, then pulls back. "What did he do?"
"Nothing." The word comes out cracked. "He didn't—it's not his fault. I'm just stupid."
"You're not stupid."
"I am." My voice breaks fully now, the careful composure I'd been holding crumbling like wet paper. "I thought I was special, Robin. He kept sayingmineand calling mesunshineand running me baths and feeding me fruit like I mattered, and I thought—I thought it meant something."
"It does mean something."
"No, it doesn't." I can hear how pathetic I sound and I can't stop. "They have a drawer full of clothes. For all the people Knox fucks and sends home. A whole drawer, Robin, organized by size. This is just what he does. He finds someone, screws them stupid, says pretty things, and moves on. The last guy was a wolf who stayed three days. Before that, a bear shifter who literally had to go to the hospital. They were laughing about it like it was a fun story."
"Oh, Toby."
"I'm such an idiot." I'm not crying. Not quite. But my eyes are burning and my throat is tight and I'm gripping my knees hard enough to hurt. "A week ago I didn't even know he existed. Now I have his bite mark on my shoulder—he said it would scar, Robin, he said it was permanent—and apparentlythat means nothing because he's probably said the same thing to a dozen other people."
Robin is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches over and takes my hand, uncurling my fingers from my knee and holding them firmly in his.
"Can you take me home?" I ask. "I need to call in sick. I can't—I can't do story hour today. I can't stand in front of kids and do funny voices when I feel like this."
"Of course. Whatever you need."
He squeezes my hand once, then releases it to put the car back in drive. We ride in silence. He doesn't push me to talk. He doesn't try to fix it or offer platitudes. He just drives, one hand occasionally reaching over to pat my knee.
I don't cry. Not yet. Not until we're home, until Robin's settled me on the couch with a blanket and gone to make tea, until I'm finally alone in the bathroom with the shower running hot.
Then I cry.
I stand under the spray and let the water wash Knox's scent off my skin while the marks on my body stare back at me like accusations. I can't scrub them away. The bruises on my neck, the bite on my shoulder, the finger-shaped shadows on my hips—they're just there. Permanent reminders for the next week of how badly I misread everything.
Last night I'd looked at these marks and felt claimed. Wanted. Special.
Now they just make me feel stupid.
I stay in the shower until the water runs cold. Until my fingers are pruned and my eyes are swollen and I've got nothing left. Then I wrap myself in my rattiest bathrobe and curl up in bed and try not to think about golden eyes and the word mine spoken like a promise.
I'm just another name in Knox's long list.
The silly human who thought he was special.
God, I'm such an idiot.
Chapter 12
Knox
The shower takes longer than planned because I can't stop thinking about Toby.
The sounds he made. The way he begged. How perfect he looked spread out beneath me, wrecked and wanting, saying yes and please and yours like the words were being pulled out of him. The way he'd clung to me after, trembling, letting me hold him like I was something safe.
