Instead, I smiled.
Because “not yet” wasn’t no.
It was only a matter of time.
Chapter Seven
~ Knox ~
Next morning, I did a perimeter check of the house before breakfast. Old habit. All clear, except the kitchen, which was now the focal point of my entire universe.
Newt moved in and out of it like he was afraid of triggering a landmine. He'd been here long enough to know the layout, but not so long he could touch anything without asking first.
The bruise on his cheek was gone. The busted lip had faded to a white line, no longer a target but a trophy. The skin at his jaw had turned back to its original, impossible pale, made more obscene by the heat that bloomed there every time he caught me looking.
I watched him from the archway, arms folded, body at rest but not relaxed. Even from a distance, the way he moved fucked with my head.
He had this bird-like habit of stretching when he thought nobody was watching, which pulled the hem of his shirt up to expose a few inches of the pale stripe along his side. I catalogued that detail. I filed it away with all the others.
I was losing discipline.
He didn't notice me until he'd started the coffee, at which point he flinched like a deer and almost dropped the can.
I kept my voice low, just for him. "You forget how to use a filter?"
He smiled, then rolled his eyes and managed to fumble the grounds into the machine without further disaster. "I was trying to remember if you guys take it black or with milk. There's, like, seven open cartons in your fridge."
"We take it black," I said, even though Ransom dumped sugar into his like a child. "You sleep?"
He shrugged. "Some. It's weird, though. I keep dreaming I'm back at my old house, but then I wake up and it's—" he paused, searched for the word, "—not terrible."
"High praise."
He flushed, which made him look younger, and I caught myself imagining how he'd look with that same color high on his face, pressed beneath my weight.
I needed to check myself. I needed to get a grip.
But then he reached up to the top shelf for a mug and went up on his toes, stretching, the shirt riding higher, and I caught a glimpse of the pale ridge at his waistband. No bruises. Nothing but skin, freckled and unmarked and waiting to be claimed.
My hands tensed around my biceps. I wanted to put him against the wall and see if he'd smile or shiver when I told him what I wanted to do.
I walked into the kitchen and boxed him in against the counter. Not touching, but close enough he had to tilt his head to meet my eyes. "You ever think about going back?" I asked, voice soft.
He shook his head. "No. Not unless you want me to."
"That's not what I asked."
His hands tightened on the mug. "I'm good here."
He meant it. I could tell from the way his body stopped shaking when he thought about it. The house was safe. I was safe.
Or so he thought.
Ransom came in and ruined the moment, a feral grin on his face. He'd probably been watching the whole thing through the glass of the back door. He made a production of slapping my shoulder as he passed, then mussed Newt's hair like they were old friends.
"Morning, lovers," he said, voice pitched just high enough to carry through the house.
Newt ducked his head and tried to look annoyed, but he was smiling. I ignored Ransom and kept my focus on the kid.
