Broken Knight (All Saints High, #2)(93)

I looked away so he couldn’t see how sad that made me. Because it did. Boon had changed me, and I was walking away from my growth, from my own accomplishments.

But wasn’t that exactly what he’d done for me all these years?

Missing football practices when I needed someone to hold my hand.

Sitting with me in the cafeteria, snubbing the rest of his friends, even though he knew he’d get shit for it.

Staying a virgin, and inexperienced, waiting for me to open my eyes, my heart, and—finally—my legs for him.

He’d given so much to me over the years. The least I could do was repay him with the same token. But not at the cost of watching him waste away. Not that.

“I told you I will not tolerate this behavior, Knight, and I won’t. I made a promise to your mother to take care of you. This is my way of taking care of you. This is your wake-up call.”

“You’re the only thing I have left.”

“You have your family.”

He looked away, his silence speaking for him.

“You have us, your friends. Vaughn. Hunter. You have Dixie,” I pressed.

His head snapped up, his thick eyebrows furrowing over his thunderous eyes. “I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do,” I cut him off sharply. “You do need her. She saved you. Twice.”

Dixie had told me about his meltdown at the beach the other day. Knight was obviously spiraling, and it was hard to watch. He needed some tough love, even amidst all the pain and anguish. He had to understand he couldn’t get away with self-destructing.

“So, you’re team Dixie.” He smiled acidly.

“I’m team Knight, and Dixie is on the same team, so I play nice.” I slapped the wall, losing patience.

If someone had told me last year that I’d be the one to save Knight Cole and not the other way around, I’d have laughed in their face. He was so formidable. Untouchable. Powerful. Yet, here he was, small and lost and in real danger.

“I don’t want her on my team,” he seethed.

“You’re not the coach. You don’t get to make that decision.” I shook my head.

“Who is? Who is the coach?”

I knew the answer to that question, but it wasn’t my answer to give.

I took a step forward and scooped his hand in mine. It was heavy and big. I couldn’t believe these hands weren’t going to touch and caress and pleasure me any time soon. Maybe not ever. I hoped to hell the plan was going to work, because there was a lot at stake.

Two hearts, two lives, and too many missed opportunities.

“I can’t live without you,” he croaked, flipping my palm so it faced him and putting it to his lips, tracing every line inside it with his hot mouth.

“So don’t.”

“But I also can’t contain all this pain, Moonshine.” He let out a desperate breath.

I stared at him boldly, perhaps more courageously than I ever had before. I could feel the strength oozing from me.

“Then let me carry some of it, too.”





It was just a simple white gown.

“A long, satin chemise,” Aunt Emilia had called it.

Like I had any goddamn clue what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

I stared at it, hung alone in an entirely empty section of the massive walk-in closet my father had built for my mother with his own hands, even though she was never big on clothes.

“Get her the white gown. It’s her favorite. She picked it exactly for this occasion,” Aunt Em had said to me.

Like the occasion was a wedding or someone’s bar mitzvah. The detail to which my mother had gone to plan her own death made me sick to my stomach.

Frazzled, I reached for the hanger. My fingers were shaky. Withdrawal was a bitch even though they’d kept me in the hospital a few days and given me a ton of shit to help wean me off all the crap in my system.

I’d had every single goddamn symptom in the book—shaky hands, fever, sleepless nights, and blood pressure so low, it’d make a thrice-dead corpse proud. I was still taking medication that was supposed to help, and Dad had slapped me with a twice-a-week therapist for coping, maintenance, and all the other bullshit.

I’d hated every single part of my existence during those days in the hospital—especially because it kept me away from Mom. But I also finally knew I had no choice. There were so many things on the line. My family. Luna. My friends. Oh, also, my fucking existence.

So, I hadn’t sipped a drop of alcohol in six days—this was my seventh. Pills were out of the question, too. Only reason I hadn’t had a seizure and died from the abrupt cut off was, I suspected, that I wasn’t asshole enough to steal Mom’s thunder.

After I was discharged from the hospital, Luna and Vaughn had walked into my house, emptied the alcohol shelves and medicine cabinets, and then proceeded to empty all the mouthwash bottles and throw them in the trash. They’d concluded by double-locking the wine cellar downstairs. Vaughn had installed the second lock and did a jacked-up job, too. My dad was going to kill him for chipping both the door and the frame when he was finally in a mood to pay attention to anything that wasn’t Mom.

Which, let’s be honest, wasn’t going to be anytime soon.

On the third try, I managed to snag the dress from the hanger. Instead of bringing it straight to Dad, who was to help her into it, I just clutched it between my fingers, staring.