Page 64 of Knox's Boy

I sat there for a moment in the dark, the engine ticking as it cooled. I felt like a criminal. My hand throbbed where I’d punched the wall, the blood dried and tight across my knuckles. I pulled my sleeve down to cover it.

Just get upstairs,I told myself.Shower. Find a repair shop on your phone.

I grabbed my backpack and slipped out of the car, squeezing through the narrow gap I’d left. I hit the button to close the garage door and scurried toward the mudroom entrance before the lights could catch me. This was a horrible plan, and I knew it. I'd never be able to pretend like that.

The house was quiet.

I moved through the living room, toes curling in my sneakers, trying to be weightless.

"Florian."

The name was spoken softly, not a shout, but it hooked me instantly, freezing my feet to the floor.

I turned.

Knox stood at the center island. The kitchen smelled incredible, sautéed garlic, earthy rosemary, and searing steak. He was in his shirt, sleeves rolled up, a chef’s knife in one hand.

He looked up from the cutting board, his expression unreadable. Not angry. Not smiling. Just... intense.

He knew it. I knew he knew.

"Hi, Daddy," I said. My voice sounded thin. I hugged my backpack to my chest like a shield.

He resumed chopping a red bell pepper, the knife moving in a hypnotic, rhythmic thud-thud-thud against the wood. "How was your day?"

The question was a trap. I knew it. He knew it. I was starting to slightly panic. I chose silence.

He picked up a towel and wiped his hands, his movements agonizingly slow. Then he leaned against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. His dark eyes locked onto mine, and suddenly I felt exposed, stripped bare of my lies and my defenses. He looked at me not with suspicion, but with a profound, terrifying knowledge.

"Florian," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Come here."

I hesitated. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to bolt up the stairs and lock the door. But the pull of him was like gravity. I took a step into the kitchen. Then another.

When I was close enough to touch, he reached out. He didn't grab me. He simply took my left hand, the damaged one, and pulled it gently from where I was clutching the backpack strap. He pushed up my sleeve, revealing the bruised, blood-crusted knuckles.

He didn't look surprised.

"Who did this?" he whispered. Knox looked up from my hand to my eyes. I didn’t answer. "Kyle called me," he said calmly. "About an hour ago."

The air left the room. Kyle. His head of security. Of course.

"He wanted to intervene, but by the time he realized Finn was escalating, it was already happening. Security protocols mean he can’t physically engage unless there’s an immediate threat to your safety. But he would have. If Finn hadn't fled.”

My knees went weak.

"I tried to fix it," I whispered, my voice breaking. "I tried to buff it out. I didn't want you to see. I didn't want to be... I didn't want to be a disappointment."

"Look at me," Knox commanded softly.

I did. He was looking at me with a sadness that hurt more than anger.

"The car is metal and paint, Florian," he said. "It can be repaired. It can be replaced." He lifted my injured hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the battered knuckles. "But you wanted to keep this from me. You tried to carry the weight of your father’s violence alone. That... that is what hurts me."

"I'm sorry, Daddy. I never want to hurt you. I was scared," I confessed, a tear slipping down my cheek. "He broke your gift. My car. I thought you'd realize I'm too much trouble."

Knox pulled me into his arms then, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest. I smelled the garlic.

"You are not trouble," he murmured into my hair. "You are mine. And when something attacks what is mine, I eliminate the threat."