Page 36 of Knox's Boy

When the water finally ran clear, and he was shivering from exhaustion rather than cold, I turned off the tap. I wrapped him in a bath sheet thick enough to drown in, rubbing him dry. I dried his hair, combing the tangles out with my fingers.

I found a pair of my own pajamas, navy silk, ridiculously large on him, and helped him into them. He looked tiny in my clothes, the sleeves hanging past his hands, the collar slipping to reveal his collarbone. It was a possessive mark more potent than any collar.

I led him to the bed. Florian crawled in, sinking into the mattress as if he never wanted to leave. I pulled the duvet up to his chin, tucking him in tight.

"Sleep," I said, brushing a damp lock of hair from his forehead. "I'll give you privacy. I’ll be in the study if you need…"

I turned to go, intending to let him rest while I poured myself a very strong drink and made several phone calls that would likely end in lawsuits or arrests for the shelter management.

A hand shot out, gripping my wrist with surprising strength.

"No!" Florian gasped. I looked back. He had scrambled up to a sitting position, his eyes blown with panic. "Please. Please don't go. Don't leave me," he begged, his voice cracking, "If I wake up and you're not there... please, Daddy. Please don't leave me alone."

My heart broke. It simply cracked open in my chest.

I looked at his white-knuckled grip on my wrist, at the raw desperation in his face. He didn't want the millionaire; he didn't want the savior. He wantedme.

"Move over," I said.

He scrambled to the side instantly, making room.

I kicked off my wet shoes, stripped off my soaked socks, and removed my damp dress shirt, tossing it onto the floor. I climbed into the bed in my boxers, sliding under the duvet next to him.

Before I had even settled, Florian was on me. He curled into my side, wrapping his arms and legs around me, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

I wrapped my arm around him, my hand splayed across his back, holding him securely against me. I could feel the rapid beat of his heart against my ribs, gradually slowing as the reality of my presence seeped into him.

"I'm here," I whispered into the darkness, stroking his hair. "I'm not going anywhere. Sleep, little one. I've got you."

He let out a long, shuddering sigh, the last of the tension melting from his frame. His grip on me didn't loosen, but his breathing deepened, evening out into the rhythm of sleep. I lay there in the quiet dark, listening to the rain tap against the glass, knowing with absolute certainty that I would never sleep in an empty bed again.

Chapter 18. Florian

I woke up because of the smell. Not the metallic tang of bleach or the sour reek of unwashed bodies that had become my reality over the last week, but something rich, smoky, and expensive. Bacon. And beneath that, the dark aroma of coffee.

For a second, panic seized my chest, a reflex. I reached out, my fingers expecting the cold steel frame of a cot or the damp nylon of a sleeping bag. Instead, they sank into sheets that felt perfect.

I sat up. I felt Knox’s silk pajamas super large on me sliding down my shoulder. The sleeves swallowed my hands. I brought the fabric to my nose and inhaled. Him.

I wasn't in the shelter. I was in his house.

I slid out of bed, my feet sinking into a plush rug, and padded toward the open door. The house was quiet but comfortable.

Knox was in the kitchen.

He stood at the massive island, a monolith of black marble. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his elbows just the way he liked to wear them. I stopped in the doorway, mesmerized. There was something obscenely attractive about the way the muscles in his forearms shifted as he sliced a loaf of bread.

He didn't turn around, but his posture shifted slightly. "You're awake."

"The bacon woke me up," I said, my voice raspy with sleep. "I think my stomach actually growled loud enough to echo down the hall."

Knox turned then, setting the knife down, and he had this massive smile on. His dark eyes swept over me, the messy hair, the oversized silk shirt hanging off my frame, the bare feet. It was a look of ownership, and I adored it.

"Sit," he commanded, gesturing to one of the high-backed leather stools at the island.

I obeyed instantly, climbing up and wrapping my legs around the base of the stool. He placed a glass of orange juice in front of me, freshly squeezed, pulp-free, chilled. I downed half of it in one go, the sugar hitting my bloodstream like a drug. Before the glass even touched the coaster, Knox was refilling it from a crystal carafe.

"Slow down," he said. "You'll make yourself sick."