Page 35 of Knox's Boy

"Florian!" I said it sharply, cutting through the spiral.

He flinched, snapping his mouth shut, his lower lip trembling. He looked terrified. Of everything, of me. That fear was a bitter pill, one I deserved to swallow.

I reached out and took his face in both of my hands. My thumbs brushed away the fresh tears. I forced him to look at me, to see the absolute sincerity burning in my eyes.

"Stop apologizing," I commanded. "Do you hear me? You have nothing to apologize for."

"But I…"

"No," I interrupted firmly. "I told you, if anyone failed here, it was me. I knew how precarious your life was, and I failed you."

His blue eyes searched mine, confused, unable to process that he wasn't the one in the wrong.

"I should have been there," I said, the words tasting like bile. "I should have burned the city down to find you the moment youdidn't answer on Tuesday. This..." I gestured vaguely at his state, at the tremors wracking his body. "This is on me. I let you get hurt. I let you go hungry. I will never forgive myself for that. But I will do better, that I guarantee you."

Florian let out a shuddering breath, his resistance collapsing under the weight of my admission.

"You came," he whispered.

"I will always come," I vowed. I pulled him forward, tucking his head under my chin, wrapping both arms around him, and holding him as tightly as I dared without crushing him. "I will never fail you again, little one. I swear it on my life. You are never going back there. You are never going to be cold or hungry or alone again."

He collapsed against me, all the tension leaving his body in a sudden rush, leaving him limp and heavy. He sobbed into my shirt, gripping me like a drowning man clutching a lifeline.

"I've got you," I whispered into his matted hair, rocking him gently as the car sped through the darkness. "I've got you forever."

The rest of the drive passed in a blur of rain-streaked lights and silence. Florian didn't speak again. He sat pressed against me, his head resting heavily on my chest, his breathing shallow and uneven. Every few minutes, a tremor would roll through his frame.

He looked beaten. The defiance, that spark of bratty challenge that I so adored, had been extinguished, replaced by a terrifying emptiness.

I hated it. And I hated myself for allowing it to happen.

When the car pulled into the private underground garage of my house, I didn't wait for the driver. I guided Florian out, keeping a steadying hand on his lower back. He stumbled a little, his legs clearly weak from lack of food, and I simply swept him up into my arms again. He didn't protest. He just rested his head against my chest, his eyes closing.

I bypassed the kitchen, the living area. I took him straight to the master suite.

I set Florian down on the velvet-topped bench in the center of the room and turned on the shower, adjusting the temperature until steam began to curl against the glass.

"Come here," I said softly, turning back to him.

He stood up, his movements stiff and jerky. I reached out and began to undress him, my fingers working the hem of that hideous, scratchy sweater. He lifted his arms obediently, like a child.

He had always been lean, runner-wiry, but now he was gaunt. In just a week, the definition of his ribs had become stark, the skin pulled too tight over his hips. And there, blooming like a dark flower against the pale skin of his ribcage, was a bruise. Ugly. Purple and yellow at the edges.

I traced the mark with the tip of my finger, barely touching the skin. "Who did this?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.

Florian flinched, looking down. "I... I fell. In the bathroom at the shelter. The floor was slick."

He was lying. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. But I didn't push. Not today. Today was about safety, not interrogation. I would find out later, and whoever had put their hands on him would regret the day they were born.

"Into the water," I murmured, helping him shimmy out of the filthy jeans and boxers.

He stepped into the shower, hissing slightly as the hot water hit his skin. I stepped in after him, fully clothed in my dress shirt and slacks, ruining the silk and wool without a second thought. I grabbed the bar of soap and began to lather it between my hands.

"Arms up," I instructed.

He obeyed. I washed him with methodical strokes. I scrubbed the grime of the city from his skin, washing away the scent of bleach, replacing it with cedar and warmth. I was gentle over the bruise, firm over his shoulders where the tension had knotted the muscles. I washed his hair three times, massaging his scalp until his eyes rolled back and his head lolled forward against my chest.

"You're safe," I told him, over and over. "You're clean. You're mine."