“I already saw what you’re capable of,” I continued. “Doyle comes back every day to get his wounds dressed. You beat the absolute shit out of him. I need to understand why.”
A beat.
“Am I done?” he asked.
The question hit me like a closed door.
Just like that. Conversation over. He’d spent days showing up with mysterious injuries, asking who hurt me, studying the scar on my face like it was a personal offense. He made himself smaller so he wouldn’t tower over me. He looked at me like I was the most fascinating thing he’d encountered in fourteen years of concrete walls.
But I ask one question. One. And he shut down.
The familiar sting of it spread through my chest. Silas used to do this too. Control what we talked about. Decide when a conversation was over. Dole out intimacy like rewards and withhold it like punishment.
I wasn’t that woman anymore. The one who accepted crumbs and called them a meal.
I stepped back. Put distance between us. Let the professional mask slide back into place.
“Well”—I snapped off my gloves and tossed them in the trash with more force than necessary—“now that I’ve tended to your lip and checked your stitches, we shouldn’t need to see each other again anytime soon.”
I expected relief. Indifference at the very least. Instead, he cocked his head. Studied me. And something in his expression shifted into what I could only describe as quiet certainty.
Knox rose from the table, unfolding all six foot four inches of him until he towered over me. But then he did something strange. He bent his knees slightly. Lowered himself. Until those silver-blue eyes were almost level with mine.
This close, I could see the silver flecks in them. Could count his eyelashes if I wanted to. Could feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
My breath caught.
His voice dropped even lower. “Well, you survived your first week.”
“Barely.”
“You did more than survive.” Those silvery-blue eyes held mine. “You impressed me.”
Before I could figure out how to respond to that—or why my face suddenly felt warm—he straightened.
“Enjoy your weekend, Harper.” My name in his mouth. Low. Rough. Like gravel wrapped in velvet.
It shouldn’t have affected me. It did.
I lifted my chin. “Good luck with your parole, Blackwood.”
He held my gaze for one beat. Two.
“See you Monday.” He said it like a fact. Like a promise. Like one way or the other, he’d make sure he’d be back in this infirmary.
Why did I find myself looking forward to it?
11
KNOX
“Jesus Christ.” Axel dropped into the plastic chair across from me, eyes wide. “Did someone go fullShawshank Redemptionon your face? Because I haven’t seen a fat lip like that since … actually, I can’t remember the last time I saw a lip that impressive.”
“Shut up.”
“No, seriously.” Axel leaned closer, examining my face like it was a particularly interesting piece of art. “That’s a masterpiece of violence right there. Your lip’s so fat, it could have its own zip code.”
“Are you done?”
