Before I can protest, his hand ghosts over my shoulder—light as air—as he guides me to the table. He even pulls out a chair for me, like we’re on some strange date neither of us agreed to.
I sit because I don’t know what else to do. The chair creaks softly under me. The toast steams. My pulse still hasn’t slowed.
Once I’m settled, Knox turns back to the stove, flipping the bacon. The sound of sizzling fills the silence—bacon popping in the pan, the faint hiss of fat meeting heat. Knox glances at me once—just long enough for me to catch the guilt in his eyes before he looks away again. It’s so heavy, it almost looks like pain.
“I’ll never hurt you again, Skyla,” Knox blurts out, voice rough and too loud for the quiet room.
My heart stutters as he turns away from the stove.
He swallows hard, words spilling before I can even process the first ones. “I’ll never forgive myself for what I did to you,” he says as he crosses the kitchen in three long strides. Then he’s kneeling right next to my chair, massive shoulders tight, head tipped up so he has to look at me from below. “And I’m not saying that to make it better—I swear to you, I mean it. What I did was…” His jaw tightens, nostrils flaring as if he can’t stand the taste of his own guilt. “It was disgusting. I forced a mating on you. I took away your choice.”
He shakes his head, the motion sharp, violent with self-loathing. “You have every right to hate me for the rest of our lives.”
I force a smile, small and brittle. “It’s fine,” I say automatically, the words tumbling out like muscle memory. “Really. It’s no big deal.”
It’s the same tone I’ve used a hundred times before—with Brayden, with the others—when pretending the bruise didn’t hurt, when pretending I wasn’t scared.
But Knox’s brows pull together, his jaw set. “Don’t do that,” he says, dead serious. “Don’t smile like it doesn’t matter. Don’t say it’s fine. You have every right to be angry with me. And I’m so fucking sorry.” He tenses, like he’s trying to find a better word, but fails. “I’m really sorry, omega,” he says again, like it’s the plain, painful truth.
I swallow hard, unsure what to do with the weight in his voice. The kitchen feels too quiet—just the faint pop of bacon in the pan and the hum of the fridge. My hands twist in my lap. I don’t know what to say, what to do with him kneeling in front of me like this.
The silence stretches until he finally breaks it, voice low and rough. “Do you think you can forgive me?”
My first instinct is to sayyes—to make things easyand to dissolve his guilt. It’s what I’ve always done. But the word lodges in my throat. Because the truth is…I don’t know if I forgive him.
Knox broke the little bubble of safety I found with him and his pack. So I decide to tell him the truth, no matter how painful it is.
“I can’t,” I say softly, forcing the words out. “Not right now.”
Knox’s eyes flicker, just once, like the blow lands—but then he nods, slow and sure, as if he understands exactly what I mean. “That’s fair,” he murmurs. “You don’t owe me forgiveness.”
Something twists in me at the calm in his tone—like he was expecting this, maybe even hoping for honesty instead of comfort.
“I don’t blame you,” he admits after a moment, voice dropping even lower. “In fact, if you want to yell at me again, or if you hate me, I’d understand.” He looks deep into my eyes, making sure I believe him.
I can't help but smile at his sincerity. “I don’t hate you,” I mumble, eyes flicking away. “Much.”
“I can live with that.” Knox slowly smiles. It’s not a big one—just the faintest curve of his mouth, something sweet, yet disbelieving, like he’s surprised I can still joke with him at all. “I don’t deserve you.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of my hair behind my ear.
Warmth blooms in my chest as he cups my cheek.
I should still be furious. I should scream. But instead, I just sit there, watching the strongest man I’ve ever met look at me like he’s one wrong word away from breaking.
“The bacon's burning.” Dakota’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and unexpected.
I jump, heart skittering, but Knoxdoesn’t even flinch. His eyes stay locked on mine like he didn’t hear a damn thing.
“Knox,” I murmur, half teasing, half desperate for the alpha to go and focus on something else. “The bacon.”
“Fuck the bacon,” he says softly as his mouth twists, the faintest ghost of humor breaking through all the guilt.
It shouldn’t make me laugh, but it does. The sound escapes before I can stop it—a quick, startled sound that feels strange in my own throat.
I really do want to trust Knox. To believe he’s really sorry and won’t hurt me again, but I’m not sure if I can believe it.
The Backyard
Tadeo
