His hand I was holding tensed around my fingers, but then it relaxed, his eyes going hazy.
“Didn’t love me enough,” he muttered.
My throat started burning.
Hang right the eff on.
“Let me go,” he kept at it.
My mind immediately reengaged, taking over from my heart.
And we could just say, when it did, my mind was pissed.
“Let me go,” he mumbled a repeat, his eyes closed. “Walked away,” he whispered and his head fell a little to the side, so I knew he was back to sleep.
“I didn’t let you go, asshole,” I whispered. “You scraped me off.”
And he fucking well did.
Right.
Assess.
Knox was okay. He was going to be fine. He was in excellent shape. He’d breeze through PT. He’d be fighting fit before anyone could blink.
And I was angry because him spouting that bullshit, drugged or not, brought back the hurt. Or not exactly brought it back, because it was always there seeing as we shared the same friend posse, so it wasn’t like I could get away from him and heal. But that hurt resurfaced full force and again shredded me.
Thus, I could not stay there, hearing his words bumping into each other in my head, witnessing his magnificence, all that was him never to be mine…
The love of my life.
Let me go.
How had he twisted that up in his head?
Seriously, I wanted to know.
I was not going to ask, not now, when he couldn’t answer.
Not ever.
I had to get out of there.
So I did.
Right, actually, I didn’t.
He might be a big jerk, but he was Knox. If not mine in reality, mine in my heart.
So before I took off, I said, “I’m glad you’re okay. And I’m glad, with what happened, now the Nightingale boys are gonna lose their shit and deal with your sister and her idiot boyfriend, because that crap has to end.”
He just lay there.
Lay there with his chest bare.
Was he cold?
I carefully unfolded the blanket and tugged it up so it covered his pecs.
