Page 37 of Knox's Boy

He plated the food: crisp bacon, perfectly scrambled eggs, toast with real butter. He set it before me. He didn't serve himself. He just leaned his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, and watched me eat.

It was unnerving. It was perfect.

I ate with more dignity than I felt, trying not to inhale the food like the starving stray I was. The eggs were fluffy clouds of perfection. When I finished, I felt a heavy, warm contentment settle into my bones.

“More?” he asked, and I nodded eagerly. He chuckled, getting up to serve me more. “Boys your age are always starving.”

“I'm always starving,” I agreed. He chuckled again.

Then, Knox came to stand next to me. He brushed the hair from my forehead, his fingers warm, then trailed them down my jawline. His hand stopped at my side, pressing gently against the silk covering my ribcage. I winced, just a flicker, but he caught it.

"The truth, Florian," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Who put that mark on you? And don't tell me you fell."

The lie died in my throat. In the light of day, with a belly full of his food and his eyes locked on mine, deception felt impossible.

"I was in line," I muttered, looking down at my empty plate. "For the soup. A guy wanted my place... he shoved me. Into the corner of a table."

The air in the kitchen changed. The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

I looked up. Knox hadn't moved, but he had turned into a statue. His jaw was locked so tight a muscle feathered in his cheek. His eyes were black voids, devoid of the warmth that had been there seconds ago.

"He shoved you," Knox repeated. The words were flat.

"It's not a big deal," I said quickly, my heart stuttering. "People are... stressed in there. It’s not their fault."

"He touched you," Knox continued, as if I hadn't spoken. "He put his hands on what is mine and caused you pain."

"Daddy," I reached out, my fingers wrapping around his large hand where it rested on the marble. It was rigid, the tendons standing out. "Daddy, stop. Please. I'm fine. Look at me. I'm safe now. Don't... don't go back there. Don't go looking for him. Don't do anything crazy."

The truth is that he probablywouldbe able to look at security cameras, even if he bought his way in, and watch it, find the guy, and… teach him a lesson?! I didn't know what millionaires like him were capable of. A lot, that I knew. Maybe he could even see who stole my backpack. Damn, he didn’t even know about that exactly. He’d flip if he found out.

He looked at my hand on his, then up to my face. The darkness in his eyes receded, just a fraction.

"I will never," he vowed, the words grinding out like stones, "let anything happen to you again. You are under my protection. If the world tries to touch you, I will break its hands."

A shiver raced down my spine, fear and thrill tangled together.

“As long as you want me, I'll be here for you. You are mine,” he said. Butterflies.

I squeezed his hand, then let go, leaning back and giving him a slow, once-over, letting my gaze linger on the veined strength of his forearms and the flat expanse of his stomach. I needed to change subjects. The truth was that he was scaring me a little, and I couldn't deal with how hot he was being either.

"You know, Daddy," I drawled, forcing a smirk onto my face. "For a millionaire, you make pretty decent eggs. I still expectedyou to have a robot butler or something. You really know how to cook! I thought you'd be so spoiled by now that you'd forgotten everything."

Knox blinked, the murderous intensity faltering slightly.

"And that shirt," I continued, tilting my head. "It's straining a little across the chest, don't you think? Maybe you should just take it off. You know, to save the buttons. I wouldn't mind the view."

I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. Relief washed over his features, softening the hard lines of his face. He let out a short huff of air that might have been a laugh.

"Incorrigible," he murmured. "Twenty-four hours ago, you were shivering in a warehouse, and now you're objectifying me in my own kitchen."

"I'm resilient," I countered, lightly kicking my bare foot against his shin under the counter. "And you love when I'm a brat."

"I tolerate the brat," he corrected, though his eyes were warm. "We need to establish some ground rules, Florian. Structure is what you need. A routine. A curfew. Academic check-ins. And consequences for failing to meet standards."

My breath hitched. The tone was back, the Daddy voice. My body reacted instantly, a bloom of heat pooling low in my belly, my pulse thumping a frantic rhythm against my throat. I shifted on the stool, my thighs pressing together.

"Yes, please," I whispered, looking up at him through my lashes. "I want the rules."