My boots make a quiet, deliberate crunching sound over the scattered glass and gravel as I cross the floor. I walk past the two dead guards without looking down, stopping right at the edge of the dark, thick pool surrounding Knox.
I drop to my knees.
The wet crimson spreads quickly into the denim of my jeans, cold and heavy, but I don't pull back. I reach out, my bruised, unsteady hands hovering over his shuddering shoulders, and gently roll him onto his back.
Knox’s eyes flick upward, catching mine through the haze of his fading vision.
Stripped of his ego, stripped of his leather cut, his gun, his posturing, and his endless, desperate pride, he isn't the terrifying predator he wanted to be. He isn't the ruthless club President or the scheming kidnapper.
He’s just Knox. The complex,
