I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. His fingers curled around mine instantly. A reflex. Like holding my hand was something his body had decided it would always do.
“We have a lot of meals to make up for,” I said. “A different one every night. Italian. Mexican. Thai. Greek. Breakfast for dinner, if you want. Until you figure out your favorite.”
He turned my hand over and pressed his lips to my palm. Held them there. When he looked up, those eyes held something so open, so unguarded, that it stole the breath right out of me.
“I think I already figured out the most important thing,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“That it’s not the food.” His thumb ran across my knuckles. “It’s having someone who wants to make it for you.”
And just like that, sitting in a kitchen that smelled like garlic bread and homemade sauce, wearing nothing but an apron, I fell even harder for Knox.
True to his word, the moment the last plate hit the sink, Knox picked me up like I weighed nothing, carried me to the bedroom, and tossed me onto the mattress.
“Time for dessert.” He pulled his shirt over his head.
And I let him have every last bite.
I wish we could have stayed there. In that warmth. In that bubble where the world was just his skin against mine and the sound of his heartbeat slowing beneath my ear.
But afterward, as we lay tangled together, my phone buzzed against the nightstand. And I made the mistake of checking it.
Knox saw the message come through at the same time I did.
An unknown number.
A photo.
Me and Knox in the grocery store checkout line. Hand in hand. A quick kiss that was intimate. A moment that had been ours.
Beneath one sentence.
NO ONE TAKES WHAT IS MINE.
55
KNOX
We’d gone from tangled in the sheets to fully dressed and pacing within minutes. The photo sat on her phone like a grenade with the pin pulled. A moment that had been ours, now poisoned by six words from an unknown number.
NO ONE TAKES WHAT IS MINE.
We didn’t have to say his name. We both knew. Only one person on this earth would have followed us to a grocery store and snapped that photo. Claimed her as his. Only one person would have wanted us to know he was watching.
Silas.
Harper sat on the edge of the bed with her arms wrapped around herself, and I wore a path into the floor between the window and the door, checking the locks for the third time, scanning the tree line for the fourth. I’d already called Ryker. He was rallying the guys. All I could do now was wait, and waiting had never been something I did well.
Making coffee and watching Harper seemed as good a distraction as any.
In the kitchen, Harper busied herself with cleaning.
“I think you should move out,” Harper suddenly said.
Six words. Seven, if you count the knife she twisted between them.
I set my coffee mug down slowly. “Pardon me?”
