Daxton’s car was already parked and empty when we pulled into the wide circular drive. Knox’s home was a sprawling brick mansion, and though the estate was as wet and gray as the rest of D.C., it had a warm, inviting feel to it that I resented. I didn’t know what I’d expected from the place Knox had grown up, and where he had slowly been forged into a rebel, but this wasn’t it.
The inside was cozy. Nothing like the cold, elegant starkness of both Somerset Manor and Mercer Manor, which had technically belonged to the Hart family anyway. The floors were made of wood, bright curtains opened up to wide windows, and artwork hung on the walls not to intimidate, but to complement. It was a beautiful home, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was walking down the hallways with a ghost.
Greyson followed me with his arms crossed, looking as uncomfortable as I felt. “I’ve been here a few times. I know where the guest rooms are.”
I wasn’t interested in the guest rooms. Not yet anyway. “Can you show me his room?” I said, and Greyson nodded. Together we trudged up the winding staircase and into the bright and airy upper floors, where he led me down a maze of hallways until we stopped at a doorway toward the end of the wing.
“I’ll be across the hall,” he said, nodding to another door. “If you don’t want to sleep in Knox’s room, you can sleep in here, too. There are two beds.”
I would have slept on the floor if it meant waking up and having instant reassurance that Greyson was all right. “Okay. I’ll be in soon,” I said.
He flashed me a sad smile and slipped inside, leaving me alone to face Knox’s room and the questions and memories that would undoubtedly come with it. I took a deep breath and slowly turned the handle.
The musky scent of Knox hit me hard, and I stood in the doorway, struggling for air and gripping the handle so tightly I could feel the lock leave an imprint on my skin.
His bedroom—his suite, really—was decorated much like the one in Somerset; in rich golds and blues, with a leather sofa, desk, and an entire wall full of books that looked read and cherished, not just put on display. Even though I knew it was an invasion of privacy, I wandered into his bedroom as soon as I could make myself move. I sat down on his king-size bed and picked up one of the pillows, hugging it to my chest.
I’d never imagined where he’d lived when he wasn’t at Somerset. He was there so often that I’d nearly forgotten he was a guest, rather than a permanent resident, and I racked my brain trying to think of any period of time where he’d been gone for longer than a day. He probably hadn’t come back here, anyway, I reasoned, at least not for the night. Given the way Knox had spoken about his family, I couldn’t imagine this had been a happy, welcoming place for him. It was hard to picture Somerset as a safe haven for anyone, but maybe that was exactly what it had been to Knox.
“Your pillow smells like you.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and my face grew warm, but there was no one around and no reason to be embarrassed, not really. Back at the Stronghold, during the few moments Greyson had left me alone, I’d caught myself talking to Knox every now and then, in the hope that he could hear me. Here, surrounded by his things, it felt as natural as breathing.
“It wouldn’t have been that bad, would it?” I looked around the bedroom. A mahogany dresser stretched across one wall, along with a matching armoire, and a door led into what I assumed was a bathroom. Or a closet. “I know thatwasn’t the plan—that you probably never intended for us to ever actually get married, fake as it would’ve been anyway. But once we stopped trying to kill each other in our sleep, it wouldn’t have been that bad.”
I buried my nose in the pillow again and closed my eyes. With his scent came a rush of memories, and I let myself wallow in them for far longer than I should have. After losing the people I loved the most—Tabs, Nina, Benjy—I didn’t understand why Knox’s death had hit me so hard. But over the past several months, despite our differences, we had become inseparable. He had been there for me, guided me, protected me in his own way, stopped me from blowing everything on more than one occasion—he had become my compass, and I didn’t know where to go without him.
Losing Knox wasn’t just about him, though; it was also about losing the war. If Knox was alive, we would still stand a chance. But the more time that passed without word from him, the less I could convince myself to believe it. Whether he was alive or not, he wasn’t here. He was gone. We were adrift—I was adrift—and the revolution was over. I mourned that as much as I mourned him. Or so I told myself, because nothing else made sense. We’d barely tolerated each other the past few weeks we’d been together. I had no right to mourn him like this.