Page 62 of Knox Unleashed
And then, I’m on my feet, striding to the door, which I slam open.
“Where you going, Prez?” Ridge shouts behind me.
If I had any doubts about my decision to move, they’re gone when I see the look of, first, surprise, then, relief on Maren’s face when she sees me.
“Knox.” The word is filled with gratitude.
“Hey. Who the hell are?—?”
My fist connects with his gut before he has a chance to finish his sentence.
The guy doubles over as I look to Maren. “You okay, sweetheart?”
She moves as if to curl into me in relief. But I see my men moving through the lot toward me, so I grip her biceps to hold her at a distance.
The disappointment and confusion in her face probably hurts me more than the fist to the gut I just delivered.
“I was just talking to her,” the guy says.
“I told him I wasn’t interested,” Maren says, slipping out of my hold to wrap her denim jacket tightly around herself. “But I’m fine.”
“Prez,” Havoc asks. “Why are we helping Caldwell’s daughter?”
I grab the guy by the throat and force him to stand. “Because I heard this fuck bet his friend a hundred bucks that he’d fuck Maren before midnight. And given he wasn’t taking no for an answer, I decided to be the no.”
“Should have just let him have her,” North says. “Let’s see how Caldwell feels when shit hits his own blood.”
Maren balks at that. But I can’t stand up for her. Not here. Not now.
The look in Maren’s eyes is going to haunt me tonight, I know it. She reaches for the last of her bags and throws them into the car.
“Thank you,” she says curtly.
“We’ll make sure this piece of shit doesn’t follow you out of here,” I say.
Maren looks at the ground for a second, and I miss those blue eyes of hers. “That feels like the bare minimum,” she pointedly throws at me, before she hurries into her truck.
I shove the guy into Vandal’s hands. “Go teach him a lesson in manners.”
But instead of watching what Vandal does with the asshole, I keep an eye on the back of Maren’s truck until I can no longer see it.
22
MAREN
Ilean my hip against the shopping cart and try to read the label on this jar of pasta sauce for the third time. You’d think deciphering the contents of marinara would be easy.
Except, I read a word, and then, my mind drifts back to this afternoon.
I don’t even need groceries, but I knew if I stayed at home a moment longer, I’d lose my mind. Sitting, replaying those five minutes on repeat.
That man, the one who approached me in the parking lot, and his ugly bet. The way he gripped my arm, like he wouldn’t let go. The way he touched my hair.
The way he tried to tell me sweet things with a gross twist. How good I’d look taking his dick. I’d taken a shower when I got home and changed into comfort clothes. A T-shirt and soft drawstring pants.
I shake my head and put the pasta sauce back on the shelf. It’s not like I even need it, given I make my own pasta sauce from scratch. Occasionally, I’ll make a big batch and can it with my grandma’s canning supplies she kept in the storeroom.
A fluorescent light above the aisle flickers in a way guaranteed to induce a migraine. I should just grab some things I know I’ll use. Yogurt. Milk. Creamer. Pasta.
