Page 32

KNOX

Tripp doesn't shout—at least, not at first. Instead, Tripp's anger radiates in visible waves, coiling through his muscles and snapping down his spine.

His fists clench so hard his knuckles shine pale under thin skin.

Shoulders bunched, jaw set, his whole body trembles with the effort of holding himself together.

Every breath is a sharp, ragged inhale, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

It's like he's been plugged into a live wire, barely containing the current.

I can almost hear it—a low, electric hum beneath his skin, the restless shifting of someone who can't decide whether to explode or collapse.

His glare pins me, raw and unfiltered, as if he's daring me to say one more word that might push him past the edge. In this moment, Tripp isn't just angry—he's a force of nature, vibrating with fury so dense it fills the air between us, hot and unyielding.

We don’t even make it to the car when Tripp is on me.

He shoves me into the back, catching me off guard.

I stumble and nearly fall onto the ground.

I right myself at the last moment and then turn toward him.

I get he’s pissed. Fuck, I’m pissed at myself.

The moment I looked into her eyes, I knew I made the biggest mistake of my life.

She proved my mistake further when she gave us such a dressing down that we could do nothing but tuck tail and leave her home. All I wanted at that moment was to take back everything I did to her.

Tripp, though. He’s a coiled snake ready to strike. And strike, he does. The moment I turn around to face him, I see his fist coming right for my face. I don’t have time to get out of the way before his fist makes contact with my face, snapping my head back on my shoulders.

“Fuck!” I yell, grabbing my nose as I feel the telltale warm liquid drip down my face, over my lips, and off my chin.

“You son of a bitch!” he growls. “What the actual fuck was that just now?!”

“Tripp, man,” Boone starts to say, but a literal growl from Tripp has him shutting up completely. He gives me a sad but understanding smile.

“Look, I thought I was doing the right thing. I now see that I fucked up beyond all compare. The moment I looked into her eyes and smelled her scent more clearly without the cloying perfume, I knew I made a mistake.”

“Damn right, you made a mistake. Now she thinks that we had some bet going for me to sleep with her! How could you? She’s our scent match, the woman we’re supposed to love above all else!”

The taste of regret is metallic and bitter, lingering on my tongue and seeping into the hollow spaces behind my ribs. Every breath is punctured by the memory of her voice—razor-edged, trembling, the sound of someone who’s finally drawn a boundary, only for me to have trampled carelessly over it.

The scene replays in my mind with merciless clarity: the way her jaw set, the indignation burning in her eyes, the finality in her words as she demanded we leave. I can still feel the echo of the slammed door reverberating through my bones, the closing punctuation on everything I shattered tonight.

Each moment since has been a slow suffocation. Guilt claws at my insides, relentless, carving hollows where certainty used to live. I see her standing there—defiant and hurting, fragile and fierce—and the knowledge that I put that pain on her shoulders gnaws at me.

I was reckless. Thoughtless. I let my pride and confusion twist into something ugly, and now the aftermath is all sharp angles and bruised conscience.

It isn’t just embarrassment or regret—it’s an ache that settles beneath my skin, a crawling discomfort that won’t loosen its grip. The guilt is alive, ravenous, pacing the cage of my chest.

Every time I shut my eyes, I see her face, mascara streaked, holding herself together with nothing but the last threads of dignity I all but tore apart. The words I should have said—apologies, explanations, confessions—snarl up in my throat, useless and late.

There’s no solace in the silence that follows. Boone’s sympathetic stare, Tripp’s outrage, even the seeping throb in my nose where his fist landed—none of it absolves me. I hurt Remi. I failed her, made her feel small in a world already determined to overlook her light.

The weight of that truth is a stone in my gut. I want to rewind the night, say the thing that would have steadied her instead of tipping her further off balance. But time is merciless, and all I am left with is a gnawing hunger for forgiveness I haven’t earned.

I am eaten up, hollowed out, undone by what I’ve done. The only certainty I have now is that I owe her more than regret—I owe her the truth, and maybe, if I can find the courage, the kind of apology that means tearing myself open and letting her see every raw, remorseful piece.

Until then, I sit with my shame, letting it devour me, hoping someday she might find it in herself to let us try again.

Before I know what’s happening, his fist comes toward my face once more.

Only this time, I have enough time to dodge the hit.

He doesn’t land the punch, and his body shifts forward, unsteady, as he slams into the side of the car.

He slams his fists down on top of the car, and he releases a yell full of agony.

“I know you’re pissed off at me, Tripp. I get that. Hell, I’m pissed at myself. By the time I put it all together, I’d already stuck my foot in my mouth.”

“If it’s up to me, you’ll be eating my fist,” he retorts with a blistering glare full of anger.

“I don’t usually throw this around, but I am the First Alpha of this pack. While I know you may be upset with me right now, you will respect me.”

He growls.

“Tripp!” I yell. “Stop with the bullshit. I had a good reason to do what I did. But now, I can see I made a mistake. I will do whatever it takes to make it right with Remi.”

The ache of regret is electric beneath my skin, sharper now for the silence Tripp leaves in his wake. My face throbs with the echo of confrontation, but my mind—desperate, restless—begins mapping out what needs to come next.

I sit in the hush that follows anger, letting the shards of what I’ve done prick at me, the sting forging a kind of dangerous clarity. If the only way out is through, then I have to move, have to try, even if the odds are stacked against me.

So, a plan forms, tentative at first—a flickering shape in the darkness, fragile as hope. I know Remi, know the careful way she guards her heart, the way she keeps her wounds covered, stitched with pride and silence.

If I’m going to reach her, it can’t be with grand gestures or hollow apologies. That would be another wound. She deserves more. She deserves honesty, raw and unfiltered, the kind that costs something to give.

First: I need to start with the truth. Not the easy version, not the one that paints me as anything but flawed and reckless, but the whole, uncomfortable truth.

I will go to her—not expecting forgiveness, not demanding another chance, but offering every piece of what happened, my mistakes lined up in the open, ugly and unvarnished.

She needs to know I see what I’ve done, that her pain isn’t invisible to me.

Second: I’ll show her that she’s a priority, not just in words, but in the way I show up.

I’ll be present, steady, and patient. I won’t disappear when things get hard, won’t dodge her anger or her silence.

I will stand beside her, even if all I get in return is a closed door and a cold shoulder.

She needs to know that my loyalty isn’t conditional on her forgiving me, that I’m here for the long haul, even if it means sitting with my own discomfort.

Third: Actions, not promises. I’ll find small ways to honor her, ways that matter to Remi.

The coffee she likes, a note left at her door, showing up for the things that make her feel seen.

I won’t try to fix her. I won’t crowd her wounds with platitudes.

I’ll just be there, quietly, a steady warmth against the chill that’s crept between us.

Fourth: I’ll make space for her to feel it all.

If she wants to scream, let her scream. If she wants silence, I’ll swallow my own need for reassurance and sit with the ache.

I won’t rush her healing or try to steer her towards forgiveness.

If she never lets me in, I’ll have to live with that—but she’ll know I respected her boundaries, her anger, and her right to choose.

Finally, I’ll ask—not beg—for a chance to rebuild, one splintered trust at a time. If she lets me, I’ll learn how to love her the way she always deserved: not as a prize, not as an obligation, but as the person whose presence makes the world sharper, messier, and more beautiful.

The plan is simple, but it’s everything.

No shortcuts, no shortcuts through the pain.

I’ll have to earn my way back, step by step, apology by apology.

I owe her that. For once, I’ll let my actions speak the words that failed me before, and hope that, in time, she’ll see the truth in them—a truth that’s steady, soft, and real.

“I promise I’ll fix this.”

“It’s not all on you, Knox. We shouldn’t have gone along with it.” Boone’s words have me glancing in his direction. A little bit of peace settles inside of me, but not much at all.

I give him a slight smile of understanding. He doesn’t have to go along with it. In fact, Boone could be just as upset as Tripp. Rightfully so. Instead, he’s understanding of the situation, and hopefully, he will be on board with trying to get back in Remi’s good graces.

“ We’ll fix this,” Tripp says, sighing. “Boone is right. It’s not all on you.”

Something wordless passes between us—a fragile, exhausted thread of understanding woven out of anger, regret, and the rough edges of forgiveness. The air is still raw, but for the first time all night, it doesn’t feel toxic.

We aren’t healed, not by a long shot, but there’s a shift, subtle and unmistakable: a quiet truce forming in the hollow carved out by our mistakes.

We stand together outside the car, shoulders brushing, and each of us turns to look at Remi’s house—lights off now, curtains drawn tight. The night is thick around us, pressing in all her silence and absence, and I memorize the outline of her front door, the windows that once glowed with welcome.

It’s a goodbye and a promise, both. I send a silent vow in her direction: We’ll do better. We’ll try if she’ll let us.

With heavy hearts and a shared glance that says all the apologies we can’t quite put into words, Boone and I climb into the car while Tripp walks to his bike.

The doors shut with soft, final clicks, shutting the night and our shattered pride outside.

As the engine hums to life, the weight in the car is different now—still heavy, but shared.

A beginning, or maybe just a fragile hope.