Chapter Three

Knox

It’s goddamn Sunday dinner. Not a heavyweight match on a BFC fight card.

Yeah. Then why the hell is my heart pounding like I’m about to enter the ring against a bastard who outweighs me by sixty pounds, has me out-trained, out-matched, out-witted, and totally mind-fucked?

Maybe because that’s a pretty accurate description of any time spent with my mother and Dan, my stepfather.

Heaving a sigh, I push open the door to my black Escalade and step out into the driveway of the Edison Park two-story, single-family home I bought my mom with the check from my first championship fight. Yeah, I was a complete cliché, but getting my mother out of that cramped Bridgeport house that we all grew up in had been my dream when I was a kid. And I’d had the sense Dad would’ve somehow found a way to leave his celestial card game and whatever passed for Guinness up there to come down and slap me upside the head if I hadn’t. I close my eyes at just the thought of the big, boisterous, and tough Irishman who’d raised, disciplined, and loved me until I was fourteen and a fatal heart attack stole John Gordon from us. When Mom met and married Dan Keller three years later, I didn’t hate or resent him. He was—is—an okay guy. He just isn’t my father. Never could be.

Turning around, I stare at my reflection in the window of the truck, going over a mental checklist. Hair pulled back in a short ponytail, beard neat. Mom hates it, but no way in hell am I cutting it. So making it as trim as possible will have to do. A white dress shirt and black pants. Most of my tattoos hidden, except for the one crawling up my neck and the letters on my fingers. I try to conceal everything that might remind Mom of the fighter I was. Remind her of the sport that took her son.

That black hole in my chest expands the tiniest bit. It’s resided there since Connor fell to the mat, lying there so fucking still with a thin line of blood trickling from his nose, and has grown and stretched its tentacles like a virus with each passing day, month, year. At some point, I expect that void of emptiness to consume me.

Part of me is looking forward to that day.

Turning, I slowly head toward the front walk and steps. A breeze ruffles my shirt, cooling my slightly heated skin. Mid-September in Chicago, it’s still warm enough outside where we don’t need jackets. Give it a few more weeks, though, and that’s going to change fast. Better enjoy it now.

As soon as I climb the steps to the postage-stamp-size porch, the door swings open. Simon, my youngest brother, fills the doorway. And I do mean, fills. Just twenty-two years-old, he’s almost as big as Jude and me. At six-feet-four and two-hundred-and-forty-eight pounds, I still stand taller than him by three inches and outweigh him by about twenty pounds. But my little brother is big. And with the same dark blond hair as Jude, and our mom’s blue eyes, he can come across as intimidating. The truth is he’s the kindest and most sensitive of us all. He was seven when our dad died, and we’ve all been protective of him since. Not saying Simon can’t hold his own. He has a slow-burn temper, but piss him off, and he’ll demonstrate he knows how to use those huge fists for more than drawing. Yeah, Simon’s a damn good artist getting his Bachelor of Fine Arts in Studio at SAIC, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. I couldn’t be prouder of him.

“Excuse me, sir,” he says, frowning. “Who are you? I mean, you look familiar, but we don’t really allow strangers to roll up into our house.”

I snort. “Very funny.”

“No seriously.” He palms either side of the doorway. “Do we know you? You kind of remind me of a guy I know. Big motherfucker—”

“Language,” a voice calls from inside the house. I smirk as Simon grimaces. If our mother had a dollar for every time she warned us about our mouths, she could own a small country.

“A big mofo,” Simon amended with a grin. “Owns a tattoo shop, used to kick a— uh, tail for a living.” He squints, rubbing the stubble on his chin. Unlike Jude and me, he can’t grow a beard for shit. Isn’t stopping him from trying, though. “Yeah, you could pass for him. I mean, you’re a little butt-uglier, but still…”

Sighing, I step forward and slam a palm into his shoulder.

“Ouch, dammit,” he growls, ignoring Mom’s second cursing alert and rubbing the offended spot as I move by him. “You do realize your abnormally large hands—signs of an equally abnormally small brain, by the way—are dangerous to us regular folk?” Grumbling what sounds suspiciously to me like “freakish asshole,” he shuts the front door with an exaggerated scowl.

“I take it this is your way of saying you’ve missed me?” I ask, arching an eyebrow, pausing in the foyer because, if I’m honest, I’m not eager to walk down the hallway that leads to the living room, dining room, and kitchen. To where Mom is cooking. And Eden is no doubt right beside her.

“No,” Simon drawls. “That would be my way of saying where the”—he drops his volume several decibels—“fuck you been?”

“Busy.” I shrug. The last couple of weeks have seen an increase in walk-ins, and I’ve had several sessions scheduled for big pieces. Not to mention the BFC 56 event, hosted by Bellum Fighter Championship, was held in Chicago last week. Several fighters came in the shop for new tattoos. That had been bittersweet. I’d been happy to see them and hang out. But the jagged, raw part of me that refuses to heal throbbed at the reminder that they were still doing what I’d walked away from. “I was going to call you tomorrow anyway. I have a client who wants an original piece. Kyro Men from Star Wars. Or something like that.”

Sometimes Simon draws up art for me when I have certain requests. I’m good, really good, but him? He’s fucking brilliant.

“That’s Kylo Ren, you ignorant peon.” Simon snickers, his eyes gleaming in what I recognize as excitement. Well, that and his rubbing his palms together like a Scooby-Doo villain. “Hell, yeah. I’m down. When do you need it?”

“Wednesday. He’s coming in Thursday to approve it. I’ll give you forty percent of the fee, as usual.” That might seem high, but any tattoo artist knows the art itself is as important as inking it. And Simon should be paid for his work.

“Cool,” he agrees. “I’ll bring it by since I want some more ink.” He grinned. “I’m thinking maybe I could get that hot-as-hell Heaven to do it.”

I roll my eyes. Another thing Simon has in common with Jude and me. Won’t keep his dick in his pants.

“You okay?” He frowns, losing all traces of humor. “You look like shit.”

Another sleepless night. What else is new? Walking my apartment, fucking, drawing, or sitting up watching old Murder, She Wrote reruns are all better than the nightmares. Any day. In the last two years, Jessica Fletcher, a.k.a. J.B. Fletcher, has become my girl.

I shrug in reply to Simon’s question, and his frown deepens.

“Are you two coming in, or do you plan on standing there gossiping like teen girls all night?” Eden, arms crossed and hip cocked, smiles at us from the living room entrance. Well, she does at Simon. Me, she skates over, that smile faltering just the smallest bit when our eyes briefly meet.

It’s a repeat of the last week. The past few days, she’s been her usual open, affectionate self. But there’s been a strain between us. One that didn’t exist before she walked out of my tattoo room after I tasted her body for the first time.

No, that’s not true. There was that night months ago in the shop after closing. There’d been a strain then, too. Then, I thought it’d been one of those periods when memories of Connor drew her into a funk. So, against my better judgement, I’d risked it and touched her. And for a moment, desire had darkened her gaze. For an instant, a fierce, almost excruciating joy had pierced my chest, but then the inescapable truth had slammed into me. She was grieving for her husband—my brother. That arousal that shined in her eyes hadn’t been for me. It’d been for a ghost.

I could’ve touched her, kissed her. Maybe she would’ve let me fuck her against that desk. But the regret that surely would’ve crowded into her eyes afterward would’ve ripped me apart. So I ignored it. Walked away. And I’d been right. Because everything had returned to status quo fairly quickly. Meaning me craving her, and her treating me like her brother-in-law, the eunuch.

But a week ago, in my chair…

Yeah, I fucked up and let the beast slip the chain.

Days later, and I’m still gripping that chain so tight, my palms are torn up to hell. How could I have touched her? My dead brother’s wife. There’s no other woman on this planet more off-limits than her. This insane, selfish need for her was manageable before.

Before she placed that delicate hand on my thigh, only inches from my cock.

Before she lifted her shirt and bared all that silken, dusky skin.

Before she asked me to give her pleasure…and a little pain.

Before I found out for myself the size and shape of her nipple with my tongue.

But now? Now, I’ve spent every damn second warring to not drag her back into my room, stretch her out on my chair, and finish what she invited me to take. Need, hard and ruthless, squeezes my chest, grips my dick. For the hundredth time tonight, I consider turning around, walking out, and not returning. I’ve never backed off from anything in my life—not taking up responsibility for my younger brothers after Dad died; not a fight against the biggest, toughest opponent; not purchasing and running my own business.

Eden has me in full retreat.

Because keeping my hands off her had been hell when she hadn’t twisted and moaned so sweetly, when she hadn’t demanded I kiss her. Now it’s a torture that would make interrogation by the Spanish Inquisition look like a game of Twister.

It’d been that breathless request that had snatched me back to cold, brutal reality. A reality where she was Connor’s wife, and I was the man who’d introduced him to the sport that had cost him his life. A reality where I had no right, where I wasn’t worthy to put my hands—or mouth—on her. A reality where a rage-and-grief-stricken accusation bound me to an oath I can’t break. Not if I don’t want to destroy a relationship that’s already dented and bent, almost beyond repair.

My reality.

“Well, I don’t know.” Simon holds his hands up, pretending to study them. “Knox did promise to paint my nails, sooo…”

She laughs in the way that’s strictly hers—a loud, joyous crack that sounds like thunder breaking across the sky. Connor used to say her laughter was God snorting. I’m not anywhere near that damn poetic. But yeah, my little brother might’ve had something there.

Simon strides down the hall and swoops Eden up in a bear hug, her feet dangling above the floor. There’s nothing sexual about the embrace, yet as her giggles reach me, I still want to tear down there, grab her out of his arms, and pull her into mine.

Instead, I wait until they both disappear into the living room. Only then do I follow. Taking my time. Preparing myself for the evening ahead. Between pretending everything is normal between Eden and me, bearing Mom’s silent accusation and disappointment, and bracing for Eden’s upcoming announcement, I wish I had something stronger than the wine served at every Sunday dinner.

Sighing, I scrub a hand down my face, my beard scratching my palm. As always, I pause and study the framed photograph of Dad and me in front of Wrigley Field when I was thirteen. And as always, a tight fist squeezes my heart as his big, booming laughter from that day faintly echoes in my head. It’s one of my happiest memories. Dad was a diehard Cubs fan, and we never missed one season opener. I haven’t been to a game since he died.

This picture used to hang on the wall at the old house. It says something about Dan that he allows photos of his wife’s first husband to be displayed so prominently. He’s a good man. I can admit that, even though we’ve never been close.

“Dinner’s ready,” Mom calls, stepping out of the kitchen entrance. She catches sight of me, and after a beat of silence, nods. “Knox. I didn’t think you were coming today.”

Nothing in her voice telegraphs if she’s happy I showed up or wished I’d stayed away. There’d been a time when her face would’ve reflected every emotion tumbling inside her. Even Dad’s unexpected death hadn’t managed to douse her light, steal her joy. Dimmed it for a while, but hadn’t snuffed it out.

Connor’s death had accomplished that.

I missed the mother who laughed easily, teased with a soft smile, loved with a big heart instead of a shattered one. I haven’t seen that version of her in two years, and I mourn it just as much as I grieve for my brother.

“I hope it’s okay,” I reply. Once, that statement would’ve been unnecessary. And I would’ve received a pop for even uttering it.

“Of course,” she says and, turning, disappears into the kitchen.

Slowly, I exhale. This is going to be a long evening.

An hour later, seated at the dining room table, I felt like a clairvoyant. Hell, set up my own 900-number, assume a name and a fake accent, and I’d be in business.

Picking up the bottle of beer I’d found in the bottom drawer of the refrigerator, I lean back in my chair, letting the hum of conversation flow around me. Dan shoots me a chagrined frown, and I shrug. Yeah, it’s one of the bottles he always keeps stowed away because he’s a beer man through and through. But sorry, that sweet Riesling Mom serves just ain’t cutting it. And hey, I didn’t touch the remaining three bottles in the vegetable crisper drawer.

“He went on and on about how smart Connor was. About how much they liked and respected him,” Mom says, continuing her story about bumping into a former college classmate of Connor’s at the bank. “Imagine, the Assistant Vice President praising him like that.” She shakes her head, her smile trembling as she blinks quickly. Battling back tears.

My chest tightens, and I look away. Not before Dan covers her hand with his and squeezes.

“Yeah,” Jude chimes in from beside me. “And he was never shy about letting you know just how smart, either. ‘Jude, dude, Occam’s Razor states that all things being equal, the simplest explanation is usually the correct one.’” Jude’s imitation of Connor’s proper, hint-of-frat-boy speech is dead on. I snort, lifting the beer to my mouth. “‘So if your girl’s car was parked in front of your friend’s building at 2 a.m., more than likely they weren’t binge-watching Gilmore Girls.’”

Laughter erupts around the table, and even Mom smiles, eyes damp. I can’t help but glance across the table at Eden. Maybe it’s some kind of masochistic punishment to see her face brighten at the memories of her husband. To glimpse the love and sadness in her dark eyes. I need both to remind myself who she belongs to. To emphasize that man’s not me. Could never be me.

As if she can feel my scrutiny on her, she shifts her attention from Jude, and our gazes meet. Or clash. My gut hollows out, as bottomless as the depths of those chocolate eyes. It’s like we’ve suddenly been cast in one of those soap operas that Mom watches religiously, and everyone else at the table fades away into a shadowed, hazy mist. Yeah, corny as hell, but I can’t deny that I don’t see anything else but the spray of Eden’s cinnamon freckles across her forehead, cheekbones, and the bridge of her nose. The sensual, sinfully full curves of her wide mouth. The delicate jaw and slightly pointed chin. The fall of her thick, black-brown hair over her shoulders, hiding her breasts from me. Doesn’t do shit for my thoughts, though. Without the slightest effort, I can still picture the rounded, perfect flesh that fit my hand as if created for it. Or the beaded tips the color of henna tattoos.

I curl my fingers into my palm, my skin retaining the imprint of her breast and nipple like a brand. What I wouldn’t give right now to have my cock experience that same heaven. To cup her, rub my thumb back and forth over the tight peaks while thrusting between that soft flesh. To have her tongue flick over the head at the end of every stroke…

Lust hammers into me harder than a double-fist punch to the chest. It burrows deep, hardening my body until even breathing threatens to crack me into pieces.

Her eyes widen slightly before falling away, the pulse at the base of her throat throbbing so hard the thin, fragile skin lifts under it. I wanted to suck on that spot, drag that little, hungry whimper out of her like at the shop.

Lifting the beer bottle to my mouth again, I down a big, healthy gulp. Too bad it does fuck-all for the heat raging through me like the fire that almost took out all of Chicago at one time.

“While talking to Connor’s friend, I couldn’t help but wonder where he would’ve been today if he’d gone straight into the graduate program or to a real job.” The soft wistfulness in Mom’s voice, or that she probably didn’t intend her words as a jab, doesn’t lessen the sting of them.

I’ve been involved in MMA since I was fifteen. Trained in one of the best gyms in the world in San Diego. Have competed in MMA organizations all over the world—California, Singapore, and Japan. I’m a brown belt in Guerrilla Jiu-Jitsu, a black belt in Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, and a two-time heavyweight champion. Now, I’m a business owner. But none of that equals a “real job” to my mother. Because none of it included a suit, tie, desk, and annual salary. Security. That’s what she’d wanted for Connor, knowing she wouldn’t get it from her other sons. Not with Jude apprenticing in a tattoo shop before he even graduated from high school, and Simon’s love of art and drawing. So when Connor chose to follow in my footsteps into MMA, she’d been deeply disappointed.

“He wouldn’t have been happy,” Eden says into the strained silence. “There were several offers from big accounting firms waiting for him when he graduated. But the thought of being locked up in an office all day and chained to a desk made him feel like he was suffocating. He would’ve been miserable.”

“But he would’ve been here.” Mom’s voice cracks on “here.” “Alive.”

She glances at me, and the guilt that always weighs me down until I choke with it increases in size and weight.

“You did this! He’s dead because of you! You and that damn fighting. Now my boy, my baby is gone…”

I blink, and the image of my mother crumbling onto the floor, her face ravaged by tears and grief, evaporates. But her screams continue to batter my ears for a few seconds longer. Other than her broken, hoarse outburst the night we arrived here to tell her about Connor—and other equally devastating words she yelled at me—she has never come out and blamed me for his death again. But she doesn’t need to vocalize it. The accusation is there in every sideways look, every moment of her suffering, every heavy silence.

Like now.

Shoving back my chair, I stand and stride for the kitchen. Tipping up the bottle I’d carried with me, I drink the last of the alcohol and grab another beer from the fridge. Half of it is gone before I turn and head back into the dining room and reclaim my seat. This time, Dan doesn’t bother with a those-are-mine squint. Maybe he believes I need whatever I can get to make it through the rest of this dinner.

Jude arches his eyebrow, silently inquiring if I’m okay. I answer yes with a jerk of my chin.

“…was thinking we could repaint your room.” Mom pats Eden’s hand. “Or redecorate it. Really make it yours,” she continues, not noticing the wince that flashes across Eden’s face.

Oh damn. It’s showtime.

Eden peeks at me, and I nod my head, encouraging her. Letting her know I’m here for her as promised, in spite of the tension permeating our relationship this week.

“Katherine, Dan,” Eden begins. Stops. Starts again. “I have some news. I—” She breaks off and slides her fingers from under Mom’s, hiding both of her hands under the table. Probably to conceal the twisting and clenching she’s certainly doing.

“What’s wrong, Eden?” Dan asks, concern evident in his frown. Though Connor had been his stepson, he’d loved him. Had been the closest to him out of all of Mom’s kids. And that love spilled over to Eden. “Is everything okay?”

From beside Eden, Simon frowns, stretching his arm across the back of her chair. “What’s up, sis?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she hurriedly assures them. Closing her eyes, she mutters, “I’m making a complete mess of this.” Inhaling deeply, she meets Mom and Dan’s gazes. “You two have no idea how much I love you and appreciate everything you’ve done for me. You’re closer to me than my own parents. Which is why knowing this is going to hurt you kills me. I’m…moving out.”

“Oh shit,” Jude breathes.

For once, Mom doesn’t reprimand him about his language. She’s frozen, staring blankly at Eden.

I don’t breathe. Just wait. And prepare to do what I can to deflect the shitstorm that’s about to whirl in here like a demented ballerina on crack.

“Wh-what do you mean?” Mom croaks, shaking her head. “I don’t understand. This is your home…”

“Did we do something, Eden? We didn’t mean—” Dan whispers.

“No,” she denies, voice firm. “Absolutely not. You guys have been nothing but good to me. It’s just… It’s time for me to stand on my own. To try and make it on my own.”

“But why?” Mom’s confusion and distress is so obvious, I force myself to remain in my chair and not go over to her, hug her. “This is your home,” she repeats.

Eden presses a hand to Mom’s arm. “It’s not,” she softly counters. “This is your home. Yours and Dan’s. And I thank you for opening it to me and giving me a soft place to land for a while. But that’s all it was intended to be—for a while. I’m stronger now than I was two years ago. That’s thanks to you and your family. I don’t want to hurt you,” she murmured, her voice cracking on the last word. “It’s the last thing I want to do.”

“Then don’t go,” Mom pleads. A note of sharp-edged panic pitches her quivering voice higher. She grabs Eden’s hand, grips it like she’s the last piece of driftwood sweeping past her, saving her from being battered and swallowed up by treacherous, dark rapids. “First Simon, now you…”

Simon bends his head, his fingers tightening around the fork in his hand. A small muscle pulses along his clenched jaw. He left the house a year ago, moving in with a friend in an apartment closer to SAIC, where he’s a senior. He’d stayed at home longer than he’d intended because of Connor’s death, to be close to Mom. For her to throw that low, guilt-inducing blow, even if it’d been unintentional, had to piss him off. And hurt him.

“Katherine,” Eden rasps.

Though her head is turned toward Mom and I can’t clearly see her eyes, the anguish of causing the woman she considers a mother heartache rolls off her. She’s wavering, caving. I can hear it in the tremble in her voice. In the weakening of her tone. With her big heart, Eden would rather sacrifice her own needs and wants than inflict any emotional damage to Mom and Dan.

And Mom must sense it, too. She clutches Eden’s hands tighter, drawing her closer. “Don’t go,” she insists again, more fervently. Desperately. “You’re all I have left of Connor…”

“Well, fuck,” Jude mutters, the same mixture of sadness, helplessness, and anger broiling inside my chest darkening his harsh words.

Pressure shoves against my rib cage, an exact replica expanding inside my skull. Keep your ass still and mimic a mute, the self-preserving side of me orders. That’s what I usually do at family get-togethers, and I’m able to come through relatively unscathed, my armor just scratched, not dented.

But the other half of me—the emotionally suicidal half whose purpose and calling is to protect Eden—growls and snaps with the need to defend her. She asked me to attend this dinner to back her up, to stand by her side. I can’t sit here and be a mime when she’s hurting. Even if the cost is going to mentally bankrupt me.

“Staying here, wrapped in a cocoon, isn’t what Connor would’ve wanted for her,” I interject. “He would approve of her being independent, of her taking this step to stand on her own two feet and start her life again.”

Mom jerks as if an electrical current zipped through her. Slowly, she releases Eden and turns to me. Thick cotton fills my throat, my mouth, my nose. The pounding of my heart is a sonorous drumbeat in my head. Like the death march of a man on his last trek to the gallows.

I wait for it. Knowing what’s coming.

Because I willingly asked for it.

Twin red flags slash across her too-prominent cheekbones, all the brighter for her pale skin. Her mouth flattens until it almost disappears into a thin line, and bitterness gleams in her diamond-blue eyes. She’s a stranger at this moment, but familiar. I met this woman the night of Connor’s death.

“You’re behind this, aren’t you?” she snaps. “I should’ve known. It’s not enough that you took my son from me; now you’re trying to steal the last part of him I have, too.”

The pain. The goddamn pain. It burns, leaving its poison in every organ, so I embody it, breathe it. If I could breathe.

I expected it. Braced myself for the impact. But that preparation was for shit. I can’t move, can’t… Just can’t.

“Are you kidding me?” Jude spits, the shout hitting my ears as if it traveled through a long tunnel first. His fist slams against the table, the plates and silverware rattling in protest.

“The hell, Mom,” Simon demands, and his hurt, his disappointment barely penetrates.

I want to calm both him and Jude, assure them I’m fine.

But that would be a bald-faced lie; I’m not.

Horror creases Mom’s face, bleaching what little color she had from her skin. She covers her mouth with her hands, her eyes filling with tears. One drops, rolls down her ashen cheek as she stares at me, stricken.

“I can’t believe you would say that to him,” Eden whispers. “I asked him to come here, to support me because I knew hearing my news would upset you. If you want to attack someone, here I am. But you have no call to do that to him. To say…” The screech of wood meeting wood sounds as she shoves her chair back from the table and jumps to her feet. She glances at me, and the stark agony in her eyes accomplishes what my brothers’ rage and my mother’s regret and dismay haven’t. That anguish reaches me. Pierces the layers of numbness starting to encase me.

Before I can react, she rushes from the dining room.

Mom’s first sob is a ragged, terrible thing, and it ricochets in the room, filling it. The harsh cry burrows into the opening Eden left behind, and I can’t take it. My lungs seize, constrict, and I’m seconds away from scratching at my throat like an animal fighting for survival.

Pushing away from the table, I launch out the chair and stalk from the room, ignoring my brothers calling me back.

I don’t stop until I’m in my truck and cranking the ignition.

Tires squealing, I back out of the driveway and roar down the street.

My guilt chasing me.