Robin hit me. A human just slapped me across the face, and I'm so stunned I just stand there, cheek stinging, staring at him.
"That's for making him cry," Robin says, voice deadly quiet now. "And this is me telling you to stay the fuck away from him. Don't call. Don't text. Don't show up at the apartment or the library or anywhere else he might be. If you come near him, I will make your life hell in ways you can't even imagine."
"You can't—"
"I know every health inspector in this city. I cater for the mayor's wife, three city council members, and the fire chief's daughter. I have dirt on half the restaurant owners downtown and I'm owed favors by the other half." He steps closer, close enough that I can see the wetness still clinging to his lashes. "I'm a pastry chef, Knox. I'm very good with knives. And I will end you. Do you understand me?"
I don't answer. Can't.
"Do you understand me?"
"Yes," I hear myself say.
"Good." He steps back. "Stay away from Toby. If you actually care about him at all—which I seriously fucking doubt—you'll leave him alone until he's ready to see you. Which might be never. Live with it."
He turns on his heel and walks out. The door swings shut behind him with a quiet click that somehow sounds louder than the slam when he came in.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
"Did he just—" Jason starts.
"A human just slapped you," Vaughn says, sounding almost impressed. "And you let him."
"He's protecting his best friend." My voice comes out hollow. Empty. "He's protecting Toby."
From me.
He's protecting Toby from me.
Because I'm the threat. I'm the monster. I'm the one who hurt him.
"Boss?" Silas asks carefully, after a long moment of silence. "What do you want us to do?"
"I don't know." I touch my cheek where Robin's palm connected. It doesn't hurt—human strength can't really hurt a shifter—but it burns anyway. Burns like the truth. "I don't know how to fix this."
"Go after him," Jason suggests. "Make him listen."
"And do what? Show up at his apartment? Robin's probably there by now, standing guard with a knife." I slump onto a barstool, legs suddenly unable to hold me. "Besides, he's right. Toby threw up from crying. Because of me. Because I didn't take five goddamn minutes to tell him he was different.That he was mine. That every person before him meant nothing."
"So call him," Ezra says. "Leave a voicemail. Text him."
"And say what? 'I know my pack told you I fuck everything that moves, but you're special'?" I laugh, and it sounds broken. "Why would he believe that? If I were him, I wouldn't believe it either."
"Knox?" Vaughn's voice, gentle. "What do you need?"
"I need—" My voice breaks. I clear my throat. Try again. "I need to fix this. But I don't know how. I don't know if I can."
"You'll figure it out," Jason says, with more confidence than I deserve. "You always figure it out."
But this isn't a business problem. This isn't a pack dispute. This is Toby, sweet and soft and trusting, crying so hard he made himself sick because I let him think he didn't matter.
I put my head in my hands.
My mate is gone.
And it's entirely my fault.
