“Take your time,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I was going to hell. Straight to hell. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.
I administered the shot with hands that were definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent steady, then found myself studying one of his tattoos. It crawled up his forearm in elaborate black ink, but this section was different from the others I’d glimpsed on his neck and biceps. This one was a bird mid-flight, wings spread wide, breaking free from a cage that dissolved into scattered fragments beneath it.
“What does this one mean?”
Knox followed my gaze. For a long moment, I thought he wouldn’t answer.
“Freedom,” he said finally. “The kind you give someone else.”
Something in his voice made my chest ache. The way he said it, like freedom was a gift he could only give, never receive.
I wanted to ask more. Wanted to peel back every layer of this man until I understood how someone who radiated danger could also radiate such profound … protection.
But I had other questions that needed answers first. Questions that had haunted me all weekend.
Now or never, I decided. Plus, maybe talking about something more serious would stop my mouth from drooling over his muscles.
“So”—I kept my eyes on my work—“I talked to Dr. Mercer last week. She told me about Doyle.” I inspected the bandage on his arm. “About what really happened that first day.”
Silence.
“Is it true?” I finally looked up, meeting his gaze. “Did you beat a man half to death because he threatened me? Before you’d even met me?”
Knox’s jaw tightened. One hand came up to rub the buzzed hair on the side of his head.
“Yes.”
The single word screeched like a record scratch. But at the same time, it dawned on me that he hadn’t hesitated to tell me the truth this time. Over the last few weeks, our relationship had grown from him dismissing my question to answering it.
“Why did you do it?” My voice cracked, and I hated it. “It would be hard enough for me to understand if it happened today, when, by now, we’ve had weeks of conversations.”
Knox studied me intently. The air in the exam room grew charged, buzzing with something forbidden. Something that ignored every professional boundary I’d ever drawn.
The smart thing to do would be to accept that I’d never have answers. Let this go. Move on.
But I couldn’t.
“You’re not used to someone sticking up for you,” Knox realized.
His arrow landed directly on the bull’s-eye. And it bothered me more than I wanted to admit that deep down, that truth chipped away at the fragile edges of my self-worth.
Because I wanted to believe I was stronger than that. I had survived my childhood. I had survived my parents. I hadsurvived Silas. None of what happened to me had any bearing on my value as a person.
On the good days, that truth was easy to hold.
On the bad days, I wondered if something about me was fundamentally unlovable. I mean, what kind of person has not one but two parents who turn their backs on them? I wasn’t an easy child. Well, I was at first. But by high school, the resentment had reached critical mass. Take teenage hormones, add years of watching your parents choose vodka bottles over electricity bills, and you get a teenager that could land in record books.
I’d had it with them. I knew addiction was a disease. I knew they needed help. But I never saw them try. Looking back, maybe they were too far down the rabbit hole to see clearly. But back then, all I could see was that they chose their addiction over me in every possible way. Stability. Love. Safety. Even their basic responsibilities of keeping a roof over my head and food in my stomach became casualties.
The good days were the angry days. Because the bad days were the ones spent crying myself to sleep, wishing just one of them would love me enough to put me first.
That used to be my biggest fantasy. I’d wake up and find my mom in the living room with her head in her hands. She’d have been crying, and I’d see that something had finally clicked. She’d rush over and hug me and sob and say she was so sorry for everything. She’d promise to get help. She’d say I was her number one priority from now on. And wrapped in that hug, all the toxins that had poisoned my soul would finally release. I’d take her by the hand and drive her to rehab. I’d be the one to pick her up when she got out. We’d have dinner together every night. I’d tell her about my day, and she’d care. She’d listen. She’d ask questions. She’d love me.
Then reality would snap that fantasy when I’d wake up and find her passed out somewhere in the house. And the next time I saw her conscious, she’d have a bottle in her hand. That anchor would drop straight to my stomach.
The point was, my parents would never have gotten into a fight to protect me.
