Page 60 of Keep Me Close

20

Knox

As soon as we step inside the penthouse and the elevator doors slide shut behind us, the pressure in my chest releases. Not all of it. But enough for me to notice the difference.

Out there, everything felt exposed. There were too many people and too many cameras. Too many blind spots. The thought of Dakota slipping into the ballroom, lurking in some shadowed corner while watching Cheyenne, has been gnawing at me since the second she said his name.

I drop my keys onto the console table and then shrug out of my jacket.

Chey slips off her heels near the entryway and lets out a small breath, her shoulders sagging, as if the effort of holding herself together all night has finally caught up with her. She’s still standing tall, but I can see the weariness in her posture now that we’re alone.

The emerald gown clings to every curve, as if it was designed specifically for her, but it’s not the dress I’m staring at.

It’s the woman wearing it.

It would be impossible to miss the faint exhaustion in her eyes or the way she wraps her arms around herself like she doesn’t quite know what to do now that the noise, lights, and attention have disappeared.

She looks tired. Not weak, just wrung out.

For some reason, seeing her like this has every protective instinct shooting to the surface.

“Thank you,” she says.

“For what?”

“For everything.” Her fingers drift over her bare shoulders. “Tonight. Earlier. Leaving when I thought I saw him. I know this wasn’t how you planned for the evening to go.”

I release a breath through my nose. “I don’t give a damn about any of that.”

Not the charity event, the sponsors, or the networking opportunities. None of it means shit if she’s uncomfortable, scared, or lying awake tonight wondering whether Dakota is going to show up somewhere else in her life. The only thing I care about is whether she feels safe standing here right now.

Cheyenne studies me for a second, as if trying to decide exactly how much of that I mean.

The answer is every damn word.

“I feel bad for dragging you into this mess,” she says, her gaze flicking to the bruise under my eye. “And that he hit you.”

My jaw tightens. “He caught me off guard. Trust me, it won’t happen again.”

That part still pisses me off. Not because he hit me. But because for one split second, I thought he was backing off instead of being the unstable little prick he is.

Guilt flashes across Cheyenne’s expression, and I hate it.

“This isn’t on you,” I say. “It never was.”

Her lips part, as if to argue.

“I mean it. You’re not responsible for Dakota’s choices. He is.”

Her shoulders ease just a fraction as she takes one step toward me before hesitating. I can almost see the moment she changes her mind and decides to close the distance between us.

“Still,” she says, voice quieter now, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

She rises onto the tips of her toes. For half a second, I’m unsure what she’ll do right before her lips brush across my cheek.

It’s a light, quick kiss.

Certainly nothing like the one on the red carpet or the couch.