I hate that my first instinct is not to run.I hate that some traitorous part of me settles because he is here.
“I could say the same to you,” I say, because apparently fear has not killed my ability to be difficult.
His dark eyes narrow.“I work here.”
“So do I.”
“No.”His voice is quiet.“You don’t.”
The words hit wrong, and my spine snaps straight.“Excuse me?”
Something shifts in his face.Not regret, exactly.Knox doesn’t seem like a man who lets regret show where anyone can see it.But the muscle in his jaw jumps.
“That isn’t what I mean.”
“It sounds exactly like what you mean.”
“You’re healing.”
I laugh, but it’s not a pretty sound.Healing.Recovering.Resting.Such delicate words for bleeding out in places no one can see.
“I’m so glad everyone keeps telling me that,” I say, my words heavy with sarcasm.“Very helpful.I had no idea.”
Knox takes one step forward, and I take one back before I can stop myself.He freezes, and the air between us changes instantly.His gaze drops to my boots, then lifts back to my face.He saw.Of course, he saw.He probably sees everything.The tremor in my fingers.The way I keep my back close to the wall.The fact that I measure exits before entering a room now.
Shame burns through me, bright and vicious.I hate shame most of all.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
“You didn’t.”
His expression doesn’t change.Liar,his silence says.
I twist the cap off the bottle until the plastic cracks under my grip.“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you know something about me.”
His eyes darken.“I know enough.”
“No, you know what they told you.”My voice sharpens before I can leash it.“You know I was taken.You know vampires drank from me.You know Akasha, Korvin, and whoever else pulled me out.You know I was weak and unconscious and probably pathetic.”
A low sound vibrates in his chest.Not human.Not even close.And the hairs on my arms rise.
Knox’s face goes still, but the shadows behind him seem to breathe.“You were not pathetic,” he says.
The words are soft, but the fury beneath them is not.My throat tightens, and I hate him for that too—for sounding so certain.For standing there like his belief is a thing I can borrow if mine runs out.
“You weren’t there.”
His nostrils flare.“No,” he says.“I wasn’t.”
There’s something in his voice I don’t understand.Something ragged and buried deep.Guilt maybe.Which is ridiculous.Knox doesn’t owe me anything.None of them do.
That makes their kindness harder to stomach.
I look away first, focusing on the bottles lined behind the bar.Gin.Vodka.Whiskey.Labels shining in neat rows.Order pretending chaos doesn’t exist.
