Page 47 of Keep Me Close

I’m standing close enough that she has to tip her chin up to look at me. I see every emotion as it moves across her expression. The worry, uncertainty, and lingering guilt she hasn’t let go of.

“You broke up with him,” I say. “He doesn’t get to dictate what you do, where you go, or who you spend time with.”

Her throat works on a swallow.

I take another step toward her. “We’re not hiding out in my penthouse because he decided to show up at my building and throw a punch when he didn’t get what he wanted.”

Her eyes search mine, looking for hesitation.

Well, she’s not going to find any.

“This guy needs to understand something,” I say.

Her brows pinch. “What’s that?”

There’s half a second, maybe less, where I could choose something that sounds more strategic and less like the claim already burning its way through my blood.

“That you’re my girl now.”

The words land between us like a crack of thunder, and everything goes still as Cheyenne’s lips part.

The full impact of what I blurted slams into me a beat later.

My girl.

Jesus Christ.

I should really want to take that back, smooth it over, make it more about the plan and less about the fact that some primitive part inside me just stood up and planted a flag.

But I don’t. And that’s the problem. Because I don’t hate it at all. If anything, it feels like the truth. Like this stopped being pretend somewhere between kissing her on my couch, running beside her at sunrise, and seeing fear flash across her face when Dakota stalked toward us.

“Knox…”

I drag my hand over my jaw as my gaze stays pinned to hers. “This isn’t about pretending anymore. It’s about making sure your ex understands you’ve moved on.”

That’s the excuse.

The clean version.

The one I should probably stick to.

Even as the words leave my mouth, I know they’re complete bullshit. This is no longer about Dakota getting the message. It’s about me wanting her by my side. And wanting him to know we’re together.

No. It’s about wanting every man who looks at her to understand there’s a line they no longer get to cross. I want the privilege of protecting her in a way that feels a hell of a lot less temporary than this arrangement was ever meant to be.

“So he can do the same,” I finish.

Her gaze is wide and searching as it holds mine. “If you really think that’s best, then we’ll go.”

“I do.”

It’s the truth, but not for the reasons she believes. Last night, I told myself that if I kissed Cheyenne, it would settle this thing in my head once and for all. It would prove she’s no different from any other woman. That whatever is happening between us could be controlled, compartmentalized, and easily dismissed.

Instead, I’ve got a black eye and a possessive streak that’s a mile wide where this woman is concerned.

And the worst part?

Standing here with her close enough to touch, the taste of last night lodged in my memory, and the sound of her sighs echoing in my head⁠—