Things We Left Behind (Knockemout, #3)

by Lucy Score

I hated how my body reacted to the man every time he walked into a room. That tingling awareness like every nerve in my body just got the same message at the same time. I could deal with that innate, biological warning that danger was near. After all, there was nothing safe about the man. What I couldn’t handle was how the tingling turned immediately into a warm, happy, reflexive There you are, as if I’d been holding my breath for him to appear.

God, he was beautiful. Supernaturally molded by the gods beautiful. He would make gorgeous little demon babies.

He was tall, dark, and evil. I was short, fair, and awesome.

“Sometimes in order to build things back up, you gotta tear them down to the studs.

Energy was a precious commodity, and I’d already used all mine up putting my hair in a ponytail.

sometimes the feelings we resist the most are the ones that have the most to teach us.

I was filled with the kind of anger that festered deep down, that never found a release, that changed who you were as a person.

Broken men broke women.

And every time we touched, no matter how innocently, part of me wished for more. But that wasn’t an option. I was broken and she was beautiful.

I brought darkness with me. My bruises were contagious.

The track changed again. The third song was the ballad “I Won’t Leave You Lonely,” and despite my best efforts, the words got in my head and tattooed themselves on my soul. I’d never be able to hear this song and not think about Sloane and how safe she made me feel. I wanted to hear it again, but I wasn’t about to ask her to replay it. Maybe I’d buy the album myself…and hide it in my car. When the final chords of the song played in my ear, Sloane slid a slim arm over my stomach and clung to me. I’d fulfilled my promise of three songs. But there was nothing for me at home. And there was everything for me here. She didn’t say anything when the next song began. Neither did I.

The air in the room was electric. I could practically see the sparks flying between us. But they weren’t the romantic, will-they-won’t-they sparks. These were the kind that burned things to the ground. The kind that destroyed everything in their wake.

A reward was a marker for an accomplishment. A crutch was a symbol of weakness. And I had no tolerance for weakness, especially not within myself.

“There are some things we never get over. Some things we hide from the light,”

One look at Sloane’s earnest face, those eager eyes, and Mary Louise Upshaw was going to feel what I had felt at seventeen. Hope.

And there it was. That sneaky bastard that would only lead to disappointment, devastation. Hope.

He kissed like he’d invented it.

She tasted like secrets and truth, and I was instantaneously addicted.

“Aren’t relationships supposed to make you feel worthy?” I asked. It sounded like something my therapist would have said. “Pretty sure the only dumbass who can make you feel worthy is you,” Nash said.

“The second you think you’re as good as or better than your woman is the second it all starts goin’ to hell,” Knox said. I swiped my bleeding mouth across my sleeve and took another drag. “So you’re just supposed to what? Drag them down to your level?” Knox threw a pea-sized piece of gravel at me. “No, you fucking moron. You’re supposed to spend the rest of your lucky-ass life trying to live up to them.”

Maybe getting my heart ripped out and stomped on is better than being too afraid to try in the first place.”

“Love makes men stupid,” I quipped. “Yes, it does. But does denying it make us stupider?”

“Nothing worthwhile is easy. Finding a partner isn’t about ticking all the boxes. No one is perfect, not even you, Sloaney Baloney. Falling in love is about discovering someone who makes you better than you are alone and vice versa.”

I plucked at the carpet. “What if they hurt you?”

“People make mistakes. A lot of them. You get to decide which o...

“Mom? I don’t know if I ever really told you, but thank you for being such a great mom. You and Dad never once made me feel like I couldn’t…”

Mom sat up and grabbed a tissue from the box between us and held it to her eyes. “Sloane, I appreciate your heartfelt sentiments, but if you want me to stop crying anytime soon, you’d better insult me in the next ten seconds.” “Your pot roast is dry, and I think your obsession with teeth is creepy.” We were still half crying, half laughing when the doorbell rang.

She paused, staring at the mound of pillows I’d arranged in a U. “You remembered,” she said softly. “I remember every second of us.”

“No, Pixie, you don’t understand. I could have lost you last night. I’m not going to let that happen again. Ever. If you want ten kids, we’ll have them. If you want a six-story library full of medieval first editions, I’ll buy every book for you. If you want to raise a family here, I’ll move back and feed your asshole cat every morning. If you decide you want to throw it all away and move to a tasteful hut on a tropical beach, I’ll build the fucking hut.”

“When you have everything to lose, you’ll do anything to keep it,” I said darkly.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” I reminded him over the hammering of my heart. “You’re right. It means everything,” he countered.

“Broken men break women, Sloane.”

“But thinking about all the what-ifs is a waste of what we both know is precious time,” I continued. “I’m so sorry you’ve spent your life believing that you’re tainted. That you don’t deserve happiness. That breaks my heart, Lucian, because you’re the most stupidly generous person I’ve ever met. You see a need to be filled, and you quietly go about filling it. You don’t require an audience or accolades. You’ve spent your life righting wrongs at the highest level. And that’s heroic. You’re heroic.”

“Sloane Walton, I have loved you for so long I don’t remember what my life was like before my heart was yours. It’s changed over the years. But I’ve loved you as a friend, an enemy, a lover. It would be my greatest honor in this lifetime if you would let me love you as my wife.”

“This is for you,” I said, thrusting it at him. While he carefully undid the wrapping, I resumed the fanning of my eyes. “What is it?” he asked, flipping over the frame. He went statue still, looking like he’d been carved from marble by a besotted sculptor. It was a picture from this summer of me, Maeve, Mom, and Chloe on the front porch. Lucian was grinning in the middle, his arms around us protectively. Beneath the photo was a slip of paper. The last text my dad had sent him. If I could have chosen a son in this lifetime, it would have been you. Take care of my girls.