Knox would walk through that door any minute. He’d pick up his mop, nod at me the way he always did, and start his shift like it was any other day. Like he hadn’t turned his entire existence upside down to keep me safe. Like he hadn’t risked everything for a woman he barely knew.
I needed to confront him. Ask him directly. Again, and this time, demand to know why.
But we’d settled into something over the past two weeks. Not quite friendship, but something. A rhythm. An understanding. He mopped; I charted. He restocked; I treated patients. We existed in the same space, and somewhere along the way, that space had started to feel … comfortable.
What if confronting him ruined that? What if he requested a transfer to a different work assignment? What if asking why he’d protected me made him realize he shouldn’t have?
The thought of losing him—losing this, whateverthiswas—made my chest tight.
But I had to know.
I had to understand why a convicted murderer had protected me before he even met me. And then why he continued to do so.
Why me?
The question burned in my throat, demanding an answer.
For three weeks, he’d shown up to this infirmary—first getting treatment multiple times, then mopping these floors, organizing those supply closets—and never once hinted that he’d bled for me before we’d even met.
He’d just … been here. Quiet. Steady. Present.
Like protecting me was simply what he did now. Like it didn’t require acknowledgment or reward.
Like I was worth protecting whether I knew it or not.
I heard footsteps in the hallway. The familiar rhythm of his gait. Knox Blackwood was about to walk through that door.
And I was going to find the courage to ask him why.
15
HARPER
Knox Blackwood beat Doyle half to death. For you.
It couldn’t be true. There was no way Knox had risked everything to protect some woman he hadn’t even met yet. That would be unbelievable even now, nearly three weeks into whatever this strange arrangement had become.
That’s what I kept telling myself anyway, ever since Mercer told me four days ago.
She’d had to be mistaken though. Misheard perhaps. Misunderstood Doyle.
But something deeper, something instinctive, whispered that it might be true.
So, I’d spent the entire week searching for the right moment to ask him. The right words. The courage to look him in the eye and demand answers I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear.
But the infirmary had been relentless. A steady stream of patients—a sprained wrist, a suspicious rash, an inmate convinced he was having a heart attack when it turned out to be gas—had kept me running from exam room to exam room without a moment to breathe.
And through it all, Knox moved about his duties like a shadow I couldn’t shake.
My body was acutely aware of his presence. The quiet efficiency of his movements as he restocked supplies and wiped down surfaces. Every time I glanced up from a chart or a patient, his silver-blue eyes were already on me.
Sometimes with the hint of a smile.
Sometimes with a small tilt of his head, as if to say,You’re doing a really good job.
It was maddening. Four weeks into my new job, and everything felt upside down.
Now it was 4:50 on a Friday afternoon. The last patient had been discharged, Dr. Mercer had already left for the weekend, and the infirmary had finally gone quiet. Sure, the CO was positioned right outside the infirmary doors, but he was outside of earshot, and if I didn’t find the courage to ask Knox now, I’d have to carry this question through an entire weekend.
