Tangled in His Shadows

I didn't remember how we got to the car.

I only remembered Knox's hand wrapped around mine, dragging me through the emergency exit, down the fire escape, and into the sleek black SUV waiting below.

The rain had returned, falling in sheets across the windshield as he sped us through the city like a man possessed. No words. Just silence and sirens in the distance.

"Where are we going?" I asked eventually, my voice barely audible over the hum of the engine.

"Somewhere safe," Knox said, jaw tight. "Somewhere no one can find you."

He didn't say us. He said you.

We drove for nearly an hour before pulling through a set of iron gates flanked by trees. The road curved up toward a hidden property—stone, steel, and shadows. A place that didn't exist on any map.

"This yours?" I asked as the gate closed behind us.

He gave a single nod. "One of them."

The SUV rolled to a stop in front of the house, and Knox was out of the car before I could unbuckle my seatbelt. The passenger door swung open, and his hand was there—steady, warm, waiting.

I hesitated.

Then I took it.

Inside, the house was minimal and cold. Black walls. Clean lines. A fireplace flickered in the far corner, the only warmth in the entire space.

"Security is activated," he said, typing a code into a keypad. "No one can track you here."

I stepped out of my heels, my feet aching. My dress clung to my skin, damp from the rain and still torn at the shoulder where I'd hit the ground.

I felt like a ruin.

Knox turned to me. His voice softened.

"Kaia," he said, "I need to see if you're hurt."

"I'm not."

"You're shaking."

Only then did I realize my hands were trembling. I couldn't stop them.

He stepped closer, his eyes scanning me like he already knew where I was bruised. "Let me look."

I didn't protest.

His hands moved gently—lifting the hem of my dress, brushing up my thighs, along my sides, across my back. His fingers found the bare skin above my waist, and I shivered.

When his hand grazed the curve of my hipbone, our eyes met.

Something shifted.

The tension that had lived between us since the moment we met stretched taut between our bodies like a thread pulled to its breaking point.

"Does this hurt?" he asked, his voice low.

"No."

"What about this?"

He touched the inside of my thigh, and I sucked in a breath.

"Still no," I whispered.

His thumb moved in slow, deliberate circles over the fabric of my panties. His face darkened with restraint.

"I should stop."

"You won't."

And I was right—because in the next second, his mouth was on mine.

This kiss was different.

Not wild like before. Not violent or desperate.

It was slow. Searching. Full of unspoken things.

Knox's hands slid down my arms, then under my thighs. He lifted me easily, carrying me to the oversized leather couch by the fireplace, laying me down like I was made of something fragile.

He knelt between my legs, pulling me to the edge.

"Let me make you feel something real," he said, voice raw.

He didn't wait for my permission this time. He didn't need to.

Because I was already arching toward him, aching for him.

He peeled my dress down with reverence, his fingers brushing over my skin like I was something holy. My bra followed. Then my panties. Every touch was slow, careful, like he was learning me by feel.

When he kissed down my stomach, I nearly stopped breathing.

Then his mouth reached the place I needed him most.

I gasped.

His tongue moved with practiced precision—circling, tasting, claiming. His hands pressed into my thighs to hold me still, but I was already gone.

My hips bucked. My fingers fisted the couch.

"Knox—"

He groaned softly against me. "Say my name again."

"Knox—please—"

He took his time, letting me climb higher and higher until I shattered, legs trembling, mouth open in a silent scream. It wasn't just release—it was relief. Like something inside me had uncoiled for the first time in years.

He pulled back slowly, his mouth slick with me, and looked up at me like I was the only thing he'd ever wanted.

I reached for him. "Come here."

He moved over me, his mouth finding mine again. I could taste myself on his lips, and I didn't care. I wanted all of him.

But when my hands found the waistband of his pants, he stopped me.

"Not yet," he whispered.

"Why not?"

He pressed his forehead to mine. "Because this wasn't about me."

"That's not fair."

He smiled—tired, warm, and devastating.

"You deserve more than a man who just got you shot at."

My hands slid around his neck. "Maybe I want the man who carried me out of that ballroom like I mattered."

"You do matter," he said, his voice breaking. "Too much."

We lay together like that—him shirtless, me half-naked, our bodies wrapped in the tension of everything almost said, almost done.

And for the first time in days, I felt safe.

Not because the house was secure.

But because he was.