Broken Knight (All Saints High, #2)(51)

“I get what you’re saying, but I’m a shitty boyfriend,” I gave it one last run. “I cheated on you. In your face. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I did.”

“No. I know. It’s just that…” She looked around, shrugging. “I saw the look on both your faces. Luna is not going to let you kiss her again. She regrets this. I want this, and I’m willing to take the risk.”

Was that what she’d seen? Luna regretting it? My blood sizzled in my veins.

“You’re going to regret it,” I said quietly.

She grinned, standing up and ambling my way. She parked her ass in my lap, knotting her arms around my shoulders.

“I’m not the queen, you know,” she said huskily, her gaze dropping to my lips. “You can touch me whenever you want.”

I took her mouth in mine and tried to drown myself in her beauty, giving her a sweet lie to hold on to.

“Yes, you are.” I erased Luna’s kiss from my lips, replacing it with Poppy’s sweet, soft petals. “You’re my queen.”





When the next letter arrived on Christmas Eve, obviously violating my request, I burned it in my backyard and sent Dixie a video of the whole thing.

Knight: Is it a wonder that the no-show who knocked you up left your ass? You’re clingy as all fuck. Get it into your head: I’m not interested.

This was my best Vaughn impression. Being an asshole was goddamn hard work.

“You smell like ashes,” Dad pointed out as we slicked our hair back in front of his gold-leafed mirror.

Two peacocks in Kiton Ombre suits—it was one of the rare times this past year we’d actually done anything together, which didn’t escape me. Before Mom’s lung transplant debacle, we’d still had hope, so we’d still been close. We’d spent a lot of time together. Not anymore.

“Are you okay?” He ripped his gaze from his reflection, giving me a sideways glance. I used two fingers to dab Clive Christian cologne on my neck.

“Are you?” I asked casually.

“Don’t dodge the question.”

“Ditto.”

“You’re infuriating.”

“I am yours,” I said by way of explanation.

He grinned proudly. I liked that look on Dad, the one that made me feel like I belonged in this world. In this house. In this family.

“I’m working night and day looking into experimental treatments.” He shook his head, referring to my mother. “She’ll be fine.”

“Do you actually believe that?”

“I have to, or I’ll go mad.”

“Don’t go mad. You’re already straddling the line of insanity.”

“Straddling is quite the feminine word.”

“Then you’re punching sanity in the face sometimes. Hard.”

“Much better.” He let out a sad laugh. He caught my gaze in the mirror. “Break up with Poppy yet?”

I passed him the cologne, rearranging my moussed hair. “She’s a little young for you, old man.”

More laughing, without the sad aftertaste.

This felt good, like old times.

“So you haven’t forgiven Luna for that guy yet.”

“She hasn’t asked for forgiveness,” I admitted, taking a step back from the mirror, wondering if I should confide in him.

Mom wouldn’t understand this part. I didn’t think any woman would. Dad might, although we hadn’t had talks like that in months. Still…

“I can’t stop thinking about them.” I dropped my hand from my hair. “I mean, about him…”

“Inside her,” Dad finished for me, turning around and leaning against the sink, eyes blazing. “You keep rewinding it in your head. How he touched her. How she felt to him. How he felt to her.”

“Stab me with your razor and get it over with.”

“I would, but what about the new tiles?” he deadpanned.

I pretended to scratch my nose with my middle finger. We had the same four-year-old sense of humor. He swatted the finger away, grinning with confidence.

“At the risk of sounding ancient…” he started.

“Here we go.” I rolled my eyes.

“Know what the problem with your generation is? You refuse to understand that love has a price. That’s what makes it significant, pungent, rich. It costs you anger, jealousy, heartbreak, time, money, health…” He stopped, snarling at his last word like a wounded beast.

I looked away. Watching my dad love my mom sometimes felt like watching a chest being shredded open, the heart still beating inside. It was too raw, too real.

“Food for thought—is she worth it? You have to pay your dues, you see.”

I snorted, thinking about what he was going through with Mom. “No one is.”

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. “When you refuse to pay your dues to love, sometimes the price goes up. There’s an inflation, and you end up losing more than you’d bargained.”

Don’t I fucking know it, Dad. I shook my head, thinking about Dixie. Don’t I fucking know it.





If you ever wondered how douchebags were born, this is the exact recipe: admiration that leads to false self-entitlement, multiplied by enough money to sink a battleship, divided by good genes and formidable height.