Page 48 of Knox's Boy

"Get Mr. Freeman to urgent care," Knox ordered, still standing between me and the bed. "The one on 4th. Pay for his treatment. He should stay there until he’s better."

Finn blinked, confused. "You're... you're paying?"

Knox turned to look at him then. "I am ensuring you do not die on my conscience or Florian’s. But hear me clearly. Once you are discharged," Knox said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you will disappear from his life. No calls. No messages. No 'accidental' encounters. My lawyers keep very busy, Mr. Freeman, and they would be delighted to make an example of you. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Finn slumped back onto the mattress, defeated, small, and suddenly very old. He looked past Knox’s shoulder at me. "Florry?"

I peeked around Knox’s arm. I looked at the man who had shaped my life with his absence and his needs.

"Go to the hospital," I whispered. "Get better. But... don't call me. I can't do anything for you, and I don't want to, either."

Knox turned, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. "Come," he said.

He guided me out of the room, past the security team who were already moving in to collect Finn. I didn't look back. I walked into the cool night air, let Knox put me in the car, and finally, finally, I let myself cry.

The transition from the motel to Knox’s bedroom was disorienting.

I was clean now. I had scrubbed my skin until it was pink, trying to wash away the smell of the Starlight. I wore Knox’s silk pajamas, the sleeves rolled up, engulfing me in his scent.

We lay on the massive bed, the room lit only by the soft glow of the city through the glass. Knox was propped up against the headboard, and I was curled against his chest, wrapped tight in the throw he kept at the foot of the bed.

My body felt heavy. Knox’s hand stroked my hair, a rhythmic, soothing motion. "You were very brave today," he murmured.

"I was stupid," I muttered, pressing my face into the silk of his shirt. "I shouldn't have gone. You were right."

"You weren't stupid. You are compassionate. It’s one of the things I love about you. You’re too good for this world. Even after all the things you went through, you have so much love in you." He tightened his arm around me. " But you are not responsible for him, Florian. You never were. A child does not owe a parent their survival."

"He looked so sick," I whispered.

"And now he is in a hospital, getting care," Knox said firmly. "We have done what was necessary. Kyle texted. He’s admitted. He’s stable."

I let out a long breath. "And the bills?"

"Handled. Consider it a severance package." Knox kissed the top of my head. "He is part of your past now, little one. He does not get to infect your future. I won't allow it."

I looked up at him. His face was shadowed, lines of fatigue around his eyes, but his expression was soft, full of that fierce, protective love that still baffled me.

"Thank you, Daddy," I said, my voice thick. "For coming. For... saving me again."

"Always," Knox vowed. He shifted, pulling the cashmere tighter around us, cocooning us in warmth. "Close your eyes. Sleep. I’ve got you. Nothing gets past me."

Chapter 23. Florian

The house was perfect. The floors were polished, the air smelled good, and the temperature was regulated.

I felt horrible, even so.

It had been three days since the motel. Three days since the smell of rot and stale vodka had filled my nose, and I still couldn't scrub it out. I stood in the shower for forty minutes every morning, scalding my skin until it turned pink, but the moment I stepped out, I felt contaminated again. Not even the shelter had been this bad.

"Florian?"

Knox’s voice came from the kitchen island. I paused in the doorway, my backpack slung over one shoulder. I was wearing the clothes he’d bought me, slacks that fit perfectly, a soft knit burgundy sweater, but inside them, I felt hollowed out.

"Morning," I said.

"Breakfast," he said gently, sliding a plate toward my usual spot. Eggs benedict, my favorite. The hollandaise sauce was a glossy, perfect yellow.

I climbed onto the stool. Sit. Napkin in lap. Fork in hand. This was the routine.