“I needed air,” I say.
“This is a bar.”
“It contains air.”
“It contains shadows.Doors.Too many ways in.”
I turn back to him.“And there he is.”His brow lowers, confusion shining through.“The guard dog,” I say, because anger is easier than whatever else is clawing up my chest.“Do you follow everyone around after midnight, or am I special?”
For one second, his control slips.It’s quick.Just a flash across his face.Pain.Hunger.Something too intense for the dim room and my tired heart.Then it’s gone.
“You’re special.”
The words land like a match in dry grass, and my mouth goes dry.
Knox looks as if he wants to drag the sentence back and crush it between his hands.Good.He should.Men like him shouldn’t say things like that to women like me in empty bars while the city sleeps above us.It makes the room too warm.It makes my skin feel too tight.It makes some reckless part of me lift its head and listen.
I swallow.“Don’t.”
His voice drops lower.“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep getting close to things you have no right touching.”
“I haven’t touched you.”
No, he has not.That’s the problem.Or not the problem.I don’t even fucking know anymore.
I should be grateful.I am grateful.Knox never grabs.Never crowds.Never puts his hands on me without asking.Even now, with tension pulling tight between us, he stands several feet away, his massive body angled slightly toward the exit as if leaving is still an option he is offering me.
A monster with manners.How horribly inconvenient.
“No,” I say, softer now.“You haven’t.”
His gaze drops to my mouth.Only for a second.Only long enough for my entire body to betray me.Heat curls low in my belly, startling and unwelcome.Not soft.Not sweet.It’s sharp and sudden, like my body has remembered it’s alive and decided to punish me with the information.
I grip the water bottle harder, and Knox hears the plastic crackle.
His eyes snap back to mine, and something changes in them.Not pity.Not kindness.Something darker.Hungrier.Leashed so tightly it looks painful.
A tremor moves through him, and the tape around his right hand creaks as his fingers curl.
I stare.“Knox?”
“Go back to your apartment, Briana.”
My name in his mouth shouldn’t sound like that.Rough but careful, torn from somewhere deep inside him.
My pulse kicks.“Why?”
“Because I’m asking nicely.”
A smarter woman would leave.But then, no one has ever accused me of being smart.I step out from behind the bar, and Knox’s entire body locks.
It’s not subtle.The man goes still in a way that reminds me of predators on nature shows, right before something small and fluffy has a very bad day.His shoulders rise with a slow breath.His hands flex.The skin along his forearms seems too tight.
For a heartbeat, I imagine horns.Not because they are there.Because some indescribable instinct inside me knows they could be.
“What happens if you stop asking nicely?”I whisper.
