I tuck the phone into my bag and step into the parking garage. The tension is immediate.
It’s too quiet. This place is bright and clean, the kind of expensive garage that should feel safe, but the concrete just swallows up the sound of my boots. Every footstep echoes too loud. Every dark windshield feels like a pair of eyes.
Or a hiding spot.
I stop walking. The elevator doors slide shut behind me. For about ten seconds, nothing moves. Then a dark figure steps out from between two SUVs.
My body recognizes Knox before my mind does, and every muscle locks. The warmth I carried from the boutique disappears so quickly it feels stolen.
Knox.
He looks terrible.
Not drunk. For an MC criminal, it’s surprising to say that Knox rarely drinks enough to surrender control that way. This is some
