I pulled my gloves off, snapping them into the trash, suddenly needing something to do with my hands.
“Thank you,” I said. “For what you did.”
“Anytime, Princess.”
The nickname lit up my insides.
It wasn’t fair that he’d put a target on his back. Just for protecting me.
“Is there anything I can do? To help keep you safe?” I asked. “By your own account, you have a target on your back because of me. Can I put in a good word with someone? Request extra security?”
Knox smiled, and the sight of it did something dangerous to my pulse.
“I’m good, Princess. You don’t need to worry about me.”
But the strangest thing was, Iwasworried about him. From this point forward, at any moment, Doyle could take his revenge on Knox. Because of me.
I opened my mouth to argue, but before I had the chance, Knox reached out and took my hand.
Just that. Just his hand wrapping around mine.
And the world went quiet.
Four weeks. Four weeks of stolen glances and near touches and loaded silences that said more than words ever could. Four weeks of pretending I didn’t notice. Four weeks of building toward this moment without knowing it.
And now his palm was against mine, and everything I’d been pretending didn’t exist came rushing to the surface.
His palm was callous and warm, rough from years of whatever labor they had him doing here. But his grip was gentle. So impossibly gentle for hands that I knew could break a man. He cradled my fingers like they were made of something fragile, something precious, and I realized with a jolt that no one had ever touched me quite like this.
Silas had grabbed. Squeezed. Controlled. His touch had always been a precursor to pain, even when he was pretending to be tender. I’d trained myself to brace for impact every time a man reached for me.
But Knox … Knox held me like I was worth protecting. Like hurting me would be unthinkable.
My heartbeat slowed to something deep and steady.
I stared at our joined hands, his so much larger than mine, tanned and inked and scarred. Mine pale and small inside his grip. We shouldn’t fit. Nothing about us should fit.
But the warmth of his skin seeped into mine, and I felt it travel up my arm, settle somewhere behind my ribs. For one impossible moment, standing in a prison infirmary with aconvicted killer, I understood what safety actually felt like. Not the absence of danger. The presence of someone who would stand between you and whatever came.
And I wanted more.
The realization hit me like a sucker punch. I wanted more of this. More of him. More of whatever this feeling was that made my lungs expand fully for the first time in years.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway. The approaching rhythm of a CO’s boots.
We released each other at the same moment, the loss of contact leaving my hand cold. Empty.
Knox reached for his shirt, pulling it back on with movements that were too controlled. Too deliberate.
“Better get back to work,” he said, his voice rougher than before.
“Yeah.” Mine was barely a whisper.
He moved back toward the supply cart. But at the doorway, he paused. Looked back at me over his shoulder.
“For the record, Princess”—those silver-blue eyes held mine—“protecting you isn’t a sacrifice. It’s the only thing that’s made sense in fourteen years.”
Then he was gone.
