“Why didn’t you wake me?”
I jump at the gravel-rough rumble behind me. Jesus. I hadn’t even heard him walk into the room. Turning, I meet an emerald gaze still a little hazy with sleep. Knox first thing in the morning, fresh from bed is…sexy as hell. Hair tangled from a pillow as well as my fingers; full, kiss-swollen lips; thick scruff; hard, inked, bare chest and arms; jeans unzipped and hanging low on his slim hips. Hell, even his bare feet conjure thoughts of him naked and sweating, hips working as he drives into me, gifting me with orgasm after orgasm.
“I know how hard sleep is to come by for you,” I reply to his question, avoiding the power of his stare by ducking around his big frame and heading for the kitchen. “I wasn’t going to disturb you. Besides, it’s my morning to open the shop.” Knox and I trade off mornings opening since we’re often both there so late in the evening.
Plucking out the pod I used to brew my coffee, I replace it with a new one, and press the button to start a fresh cup.
“I needed to go to the gym,” he mutters.
I look up from the utterly fascinating process of coffee spouting into a mug to catch him tunnel his fingers through his hair, drawing it back from his face. God, the man is just beautiful. Everything masculine, sensual, and raw. Those cheekbones could cut glass like the purest diamond, and his mouth… Whew. The phantom caress of it over my breasts and inner thighs has my belly twisting with renewed desire.
“Missing one morning won’t turn you into the Pillsbury Doughboy,” I grumble. The last of the brew hisses into the cup, and I open the refrigerator and pull out the creamer, adding just a splash to the coffee before handing it to him. No sugar, just like he takes it. In the shop, fixing him a cup doesn’t seem intimate, but here, in my kitchen, him bare-chested and me in his T-shirt? A whole different ball game.
“Thanks.” He accepts the mug, and his gaze drops over my body. It’s a visual caress that lingers on my unbound breasts, my legs before returning to my face. “And thanks for letting me sleep,” he murmurs.
“How long has it been since you slept this time?” I ask, but he’s probably going to shrug it off, like he usually does.
“Last night would have been four nights,” he says, shocking me with his candidness as well as his answer.
“Damn it, Knox.” On instinct, I reach out to him, stroke the bruises under his eyes, which aren’t as deep as they were the night of Hakim’s party, but still there, not erased by the hours he caught in my bed. “That’s not normal or healthy. And you were at the gym yesterday after not sleeping for three days? What the hell? That’s dangerous. Going without sleep for so long is dangerous. When are you going to admit you have a problem and go get some help for it?”
Fear for him loosens my tongue, when all along I’ve held it, not wanting to push. But forget that now.
“I got it handled,” he says, tone quiet and chock full of “leave it alone” as he sets his cup on the counter.
“Right,” I snap, shifting my hand to his jaw, then dropping my arm to my side. “You think I can’t pinpoint when your insomnia started?”
He stiffens, his face suddenly resembling one on Mount Rushmore. Y’know, if George Washington was a Spartan with a stare that could freeze a man on the spot and weaken his bladder.
Damn good thing I’m not a man.
“Let it go,” he orders in that quiet way of his that brooks no argument and expects obedience.
“I might have been almost comatose for the first six months after Connor died, but I’m not stupid.” I move closer, right into his personal space. “You won’t talk about it, but do you think I can’t guess what keeps you up? What you dream of when you finally do sleep?”
He remains silent, but that’s answer enough.
And my heart cracks and splinters in my chest.
From what Connor had told me, Knox had been the strong one in their family, the caretaker since age fourteen when their father died. Everyone had leaned on him, looked to him, even their mother, who is still fragile two years after Connor’s death. But who had taken care of him? Who did it now?
No one.
Not because his family didn’t care. No, the Gordon family, even with their issues, loved one another, were loyal, and would do anything for each other. But their view of their older brother and son had been skewed for fifteen years. They only saw the strength and not the hurt.
The brokenness.
Maybe because I hadn’t been born into their clan, I could perceive what they couldn’t.
Or maybe because I spent so much time looking.
“Knox,” I whisper, risking rejection and cupping his cheek again. “Sometimes I see it, too. The nightmares—they switch up. There’s the one where I’m at ringside instead of my seat, watching that fist come toward him in slow motion. I’m yelling at him to duck, feint, move,anything. But I can’t get the words out; they’re trapped in my throat but echoing in my head. And I can’t do anything but watch the blow connect and him hit the mat.” Even now, that sense of helplessness strangles me, jams up my chest. “And then, there’s the one where we’re in the locker room, and he’s stretched out on the examination table. But instead of lying there motionless, he’s smiling, laughing, talking. He’s okay.” I bow my head, squeeze my eyes closed. “I honestly don’t know which one is worse. That I replay his death or that I wake up, and for a few blissful, euphoric seconds, I believe he’s alive.”
A big hand cradles the back of my neck and tugs me forward. My forehead meets Knox’s chest, and I inhale his earth and Christmas scent. It comforts me almost as much as those months of grief counseling did. Grief counseling thatKnoxhad made me attend. I wrap my arms around him. Hold him tight, as if my embrace alone is keeping him here. Yes, the thought is melodramatic as hell, but I can’t shake it.
“I’m so sorry,” he croaks into my hair. “So fucking sorry, baby. It’s my fault. I should’ve—”
“No.” My head jerks up, and anger sparks, catching fire and spreading through me. “Don’t you ever say that again. Katherine was wrong to blame you that night and any time since. Just like she was wrong to accuse you of wanting your brother’s death.Wrong.” Though I’d still been at the hospital when Knox and his brothers had broken the news to Katherine, Jude had later told me about the ugly accusations and blame that she’d fired at Knox. And even drowning in my grief, I’d been as horrified then as I am now. “Connor had a brain aneurysm. It could’ve ruptured with him doing something as simple as walking down the street. It was Connor’s decision to go into MMA. His choice to step into that ring. Do you understand me? His. Choice. And what we now know of brain aneurysms and the percentage of people surviving ruptures, I can’t even say for certain that if he’d known about it, he wouldn’t have played the odds—still going into the fight, believing he would’ve been safe. That nothing could happen to him.”
