Page 63 of Snake

Nim

Ijerk when Knox slams the bathroom door, my hands flinching into fists at my side. My eyes dart back to the dog’s bed neatly placed at the foot of Knox’s bed. It looks clean, but slightly rumpled, like it just got up to go take a wee. There’s even a half-chewed toy inside.

Giving my lips a nervous lick, I move around his room. I thought the dorm room back at the Academy was decorated like that before a student moved in, and Knox just never added his own personal touch to it. But as I look around, I realize cold, dreary, and monotonous is Knox’s touch.

The wall by his desk is filled with certificates. All neatly framed in silver. Positioned so they form a perfect square, even though some are landscape and some are portrait. Above, threeshelves filled with trophies arranged by size.

The horses are obviously polo trophies. Some are for swimming, or other forms of athletics. There are one or two for debate. Same with his certificates. Multiple accolades across various disciplines.

I feel like such a fucking waste of skin right now. I’ve never gotten a single trophy or award. I barely passed high school and never voluntarily took up sports. Guess I was too busy trying to figure out life. Hide in the shadows. Try not to be noticed.

It was only after I met Peggy that I dared to venture outside of my comfort zone. And then it was the opposite of a good thing. Clubs, drugs, EDM.

How different Knox’s life must have been to my own. I assume his parents groomed him from a young age. I bet he was born to be successful. Possibly that was the only option for him. Boy wonder, or loser.

My eyes go back to the dog bed. I want to press Knox for more information, but I think I’d actually be too scared to ask if he opened the bathroom door when I knocked. I can hear the shower running anyway—he’s not coming out to talk to me.

While I’m walking through Knox’s gray, minimalist childhood bedroom, I’m constantly rubbing my satin gloves over the thighs of my dress. I feel like I’m draped with pouring cream. Every movement sends a swish through the fabric that feels silky and cool.

I’m still barefoot, and the gown is so long that if I don’t kick out slightly with every step, I stand on the hem. I don’t want to crease the fabric, so I’m walking around like the very definition of someone with all the time in the world.

I don’t know what makes me more uneasy about this room—that empty dog bed, or just how little I find out about Knox in the few minutes he leaves me alone to wander through it. The books on his bookshelf are mostly textbooks or non-fiction titles. The only fiction titles are required reading like Catcher in the Rye and Flowers for Algernon.

He has only two photos in here, both on the mantel above his fireplace. One of him in his Academy uniform—I assume in his freshman year because he’s still got a bit of baby fat on his cheeks—and one of his mom and two sisters. I think I recognize Scarstone Lake behind them. They’re wearing hats, but they’re dressed in jeans and T-shirts. Vicky still has sneakers on. It looks weird—like they randomly went to the lake on a sunny day and didn’t bother to take their swimsuits with them.

No other family photos. No picture of Lorenzo, although that makes a ton of sense. If you know there’s a monster under your bed, then what’s the point of putting a framed picture of it on the mantel?

The shower stops. I hurry over to an armchair in the sitting area inside Knox’s bedroom. From here, I have a perfect view of the dog bed, but before I can get up and move, Knox comes out of the bathroom.

My heart shoots up into my throat.

He’s toweling his hair, his black eyes roving around, looking for me. There’s another towel barely clinging to his hips. Water beads his body and forms runnels down his deep-cut abs, collecting at his hips and draining along the V that sinks suggestively behind the fluffy white—

“Nim?” Knox snaps his fingers, and I force my eyes up to his, sudden heat flashing onto my cheeks.

“Yes?”

“Could you not sit there?” His voice is tight, but there’s a cast to his mouth like he’s trying not to be an asshole. “That was Sasha’s chair.”

“Sasha,” I murmur, then hurriedly shoot up when I make the connection. “Oh, sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he says, padding on bare feet toward his closet. “No way you could have known.”

He disappears inside without another word, leaving me to throw a grimace behind me at the armchair. Sasha? My eyes crawl back to the dog bed. Oh God.

I’m in the hallway outside Knox’s room when I run full tilt into Mason’s broad chest. “Christ, baby girl. You’ve got to look where you’re going.”

I stagger back, swallowing hard so I can speak. “Sorry.”

“You look like you saw a ghost.” Mason grins at me, then he cocks his head, his face serious. “What did he do to you?”

I can’t reply, because I’m too busy salivating over the sight of Mason Bennett in a tuxedo.

“Wow,” I murmur.

Mason spreads his arms, his cheesy grin widening. “Like Daddy in his tux?”

My mouth is dry. My heart knocks against my ribs. But before I can say something—or perhaps just pant—Mason grabs my wrist through my red satin gloves and turns me in a circle.

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