Page 93 of Knox
Here we go… on five.
Five… four… three… two…
Two point nine nine…
Two point nine eight…
Two point nine seven…
Goddammit, fuck it, just move!
I hold my breath, slide my leg off his hip, and lift my arm. I inch backward, millimeter by millimeter, as slowly as I can, until I manage to slip out of the bed without waking him.
I look back at him sleeping in my bed, and my chest aches with need. Need to kiss his temple, to hug him, to bring him breakfast in bed, to get on my knees and take care of him with my mouth—nope!
Patience, Cillian…
Patience…
I repeat the mantra as I back out of the room and pull the door shut.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m out on the porch in front of my easel.
It’s been a long time since I’ve painted something that makes me feel this dark and terrified, but I can’t stop my hand.
It’s as if my body needs to paint to purge all the pain, fear, and anxiety boiling inside me.
I see anger on this canvas. I see uncertainty, regret, loathing, and worst of all, death.
The glass door slides open, and Knox steps out onto the deck holding two coffees.
“Morning,” he says, offering one to me.
“Thanks.”
“You’re up early,” he points out as I take a sip of the delicious offering. “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be?”
“You forget I’ve memorized your sleep schedule.”
“You know, it’s really exhausting being around a know-it-all detective soldier.”
“Flattery won’t make me change the subject.” He grins, and goddammit!
He is so freaking hot.
“Want to talk about it, Cil?”
Ugh… absolutely not.
Why on earth would I do that?
So I can collapse into his lap and sob?
Ask him what I did to lose everyone I love, while people still come after me demanding more?
To take every last piece of me?
