Page 28 of Devoted (Love and Burlesque #2)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
VIVIAN
White noise is overrated. Just get yourself a girl who snores.
T he bed is empty when I wake up. My eyes need a moment to adjust to the sun beaming in from the open curtains. I have no clue what time it is, but I can tell it’s earlier than the time I usually get up.
Rolling over, I let myself take in the silky sheets and how amazing they feel on my skin, noticing how the spot where Knight slept still smells like him.
Falling back asleep surrounded by his woodsy scent sounds like a dream right now, but I should probably figure out where the delightful-smelling man went.
A long time passed before I could get to sleep last night. Tracing over every scar I could find, I became obsessed with trying to soothe the pain from him. To erase the hurt they must have caused him.
I didn’t want to address his scars before he fell asleep, not when he was a moment from collapsing in my arms after he came.
I wouldn’t have discovered them if I hadn’t been hugging him while I rubbed his back.
He doesn’t owe me the story of how he got them or why he decided to cover them with a tattoo, but I want to be there for him as much as he’d let me in.
After freshening up and changing into some black leggings and one of Knight’s black T-shirts that he left out for me, I walk through the house and to the kitchen, where I hear some commotion.
Knight stands at the kitchen island, unpacking some food out of brown paper bags.
A white dress shirt sits on his shoulders, unbuttoned and rustling around as he sets the breakfast items onto the counter.
His hair is damp, making the dark brown look jet-black as it reflects the morning sun.
The streaks of gray along his temple are highlighted further.
There’s even a little curl resting on his forehead, bouncing slightly as he crumples the bag and tosses it into the trash.
He’s devastatingly handsome.
“I thought enchiladas for breakfast might be overkill, so I had something delivered for us,” Knight comments, motioning with open palms to the array of food in front of him. There are a few breakfast sandwiches, some hash browns, fresh-baked oatmeal bars, and thankfully, some lattes as well.
“Oh no, you’re a morning person, aren’t you?” I ask, teasing more than anything.
“While you were snoring the day away, I made sure you had something to eat when you woke up,” he comments, grabbing the larger of the coffees and sliding it my way.
“And some caffeine to make you a functioning member of society.” He inserts a straw into the cup.
“So yes, this morning person is taking care of you.”
Grabbing the latte and inhaling a large sip, I tilt my head in confusion. “Wait, I snore?”
“Like a dying bear.”
“Very funny.” Rolling my eyes, I snatch away one of the breakfast sandwiches in front of him, specifically the one with a ‘V’ marked on the parchment. “I didn’t keep you up, did I?” I ask as I unwrap my food.
Of course, it’s one of my favorite sandwiches—a chicken and bacon biscuit with honey. It’s one I love because the place that sells them serves them until 1 pm, and I can pick one up on my way to work.
“It was strangely soothing. I haven’t slept that well in years.” It’s an odd thing to confess when he’s mid-bite into his bagel. But it makes my stomach flutter either way. I love that I can be that comfort for him.
“I liked holding you,” I admit, hoping my sandwich covers the growing blush on my face.
“You’ll need to let me return the favor sometime.” He licks his bottom lip with heat in his eyes, sounding like he’s talking about more than just snuggling to sleep.
We continue eating in a comfortable silence with only the occasional hum of appreciation. My mind races, thinking about whether or not I should bring up his tattoo and scars. He might have been so out of it last night that he didn’t realize I noticed.
“Your tattoo is gorgeous,” I comment after wiping my lips with a napkin. Only bringing up the tattoo and omitting his scars is a way to open up the conversation without feeling like he has to talk about them.
Knight pauses, the wrinkled food wrapper sitting still in his hand as he searches my face. “I had a feeling you might have seen it.”
“What inspired the castle?” I ask. A Gothic castle is a simple way of explaining the magnificent artwork on his back. The imposing building with its pointed arches and sky-high towers combines perfectly with the ivy and other flora that take over the stone of the castle.
“My name, my past,” he replies, keeping his answer short. “It was an early artwork of mine. The first piece of art I felt truly proud of. I decided to get it tattooed during a rebellious phase shortly after the failure of my first marriage. I was nineteen.”
My mouth widens in shock as I stare at him, praying I’m properly expressing my concern. “You were married when you were a teenager?”
“I was, and it was a huge mistake I won’t be speaking more of right now, if you don’t mind.” Reaching across the counter, he grabs my empty wrappers and cup and walks over to toss them in the trash.
I can tell he’s nervous about opening up. His fingers were shaking when he grabbed the trash that was sitting in front of me.
Shit , I pushed him too far. Getting Knight to open up is a tricky balancing act.
We all have our pasts, but something tells me his is especially filled with pain.
He’s a gruff, self-isolated man for a reason, and while it’s obvious things are changing for him—for us—it’s still something to tread carefully.
Knowing he’ll berate himself if I show any hurt or apologize, I decide to leave things as they are for now. I want him to open up organically and not when he feels like he’s under some threat.
I walk around the counter, and Knight watches as I move, staying still at my approach like he doesn’t know how to react.
“Thank you for breakfast.” I smile softly.
My arms reach around, into his open dress shirt, as I hug him tightly and rest my head on his chest. His body language feels stilted and chilled for the first second, but I refuse to let him go.
After a moment, I feel his body give in to my touch.
His chin rests on my head as his strong arms envelop me in a crushing hold. It’s as if he’s afraid to let go.
“Thank you,” he whispers, and it’s so low I almost missed it. I wonder what he’s thanking me for.