For once her subconscious was quiet.
CHAPTER THIRTY
KNOX woke up with a killer fucking hangover the next morning.
Jesus. Fuck. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d downed a fifth of scotch. A guy his size could hold his liquor and then some.
But he hadn’t held it very well last night. He’d blown chunks. Twice.
Took a ton of effort to slide to the side of the bed and sit up. His head and his stomach both protested. It even fucking hurt to scrub his hands over his face.
You’re in bad shape.
No shit.
He had no clue how long he sat there with his head in his hands. Thinking about what’d gone down yesterday added to his screaming-ass headache.
Demoted.
He’d been in a state of agitation since Ronin had returned. He could deal with Sensei’s questions about the dojo because it wasn’t like he hadn’t run through every damn scenario prior to the king reclaiming his kingdom. While he’d been grateful for the commiserating looks from his fellow instructors, Knox was a big boy. He could take the heat.
He just hadn’t expected to get fucking burned.
First thing yesterday morning Ronin admitted hiring Maddox to head up the MMA program had been a great decision, so Knox had gotten props for that.
Then Maddox addressed the issue of space. He required a dedicated training area, not a corner of the workout room. The one good thing about the last facility he’d worked in was the private training area. No one could just walk in and watch or interrupt. He also found having the business offices and the conference room on the same floor as the training room distracting.
Ronin hadn’t disagreed. So he’d brought Knox, Maddox, Blue, Deacon, and Gil into the discussion of how to reorganize the layouts of the rooms on all three floors to make the most use of them. When Maddox asked what businesses were on the other floors in the building, Ronin admitted he wasn’t allowing the businesses on the fourth floor to renew their leases and the fifth and sixth levels were his personal space.
At that point Knox had a burst of pride in Black Arts because Ronin had achieved his years-long goal of having the entire building dedicated to his business.
For the time being, until the fourth floor had been cleared, MMA training would take place on the third floor, which belonged to ABC.
So Knox had been feeling good when Ronin asked him to his office. He expected they’d hash out the details of scheduling. Nothing had tripped his alarms. He made himself comfy in the chair across from Ronin’s desk and tried like hell not to focus on the time he’d bent Shiori over said desk and fucked her with enough force to bruise her hips.
When he’d looked up to see Ronin fiddling with the stapler, his first suspicion all wasn’t right had kicked in. Master Black wasn’t a fiddler. Unless he was nervous.
Knox decided to break the ice first. “What’s up?”
“As you know, we’re aligned with the House of Kenji now. In addition to being tested, I had to send staff stats and all that bullshit paperwork that no one ever looks at.” He paused. “Except they did.”
“And?”
Ronin seemed torn, disgruntled, and nervous.
“Just tell me.”
“Master Daichi never cared about dojo politics, which is why we got along so well. But House of Kenji has strict ‘guidelines.’ They’re really ironclad rules. And since I’m new, I’ve been advised to adhere to them, even when it makes me fucking crazy.”
Knox slumped in his chair. “I ain’t gonna like this, am I?”
“No. You won’t. Bottom line? Shiori outranks you . . . according to the Japanese belt system. In my opinion, that system has always placed students higher than their skill level indicates. For instance, eighth-degree black belt is a high rank for my age. I imagine if I’d continued in American jujitsu, I’d be ranked about seventh degree.”
Breathe . . . Just listen.
“Shiori is Rokudan. Taking her belt system into account, I’ve always considered her Godan—on par with you. You’ve been here longer so you have the experience, which is why I never made the official title switch between you. I didn’t bring it up with Master Daichi because he’d never put a woman as Shihan.” Ronin looked away. “But the House of Kenji doesn’t agree. Their third-highest-ranking belt—”
“Is a woman,” Knox finished.
Ronin nodded. “So as of right now, I’m naming Shiori Shihan.”
Everything went fuzzy at those words. He felt sick. Ronin’s voice became distant. Unintelligible. Yet the voices in his head became considerably louder.
You should’ve expected this.
Now you’ll have to find another day job.
So much for loyalty. No different from when you were in the army, where you had to suck up to the brass only to get a boot to the face.
How can you face the rest of the staff? How will they react to your demotion? Will they laugh? Whisper behind your back?
Why didn’t she tell you this was coming?
Because she wants to rule you inside and outside the dojo.
Break it off with her. Then she’ll return to Japan and things won’t change. You’ll retain your title and your job.
But I love her.
Does she love you? She hasn’t admitted it.
Or are you just her plaything?
As your Mistress she’s supposed to do what’s best for you. Then shouldn’t she leave the dojo to make you happy?
“Knox?”
Knox blinked and looked at Ronin leaning across the desk. “Yeah.”
“Are you all right?”
“Surprised, but that’s expected.”
“Look—”
“No need to keep explaining.” Knox stood. “In fact, I really wish you wouldn’t.”
“Fair enough.” Ronin fell back in his chair. “But think about what I said.”
I don’t even know what the fuck you said because I was too goddamn deafened from hearing the pieces of my life crashing around me.
Knox walked out. He cut through the hallway and forced himself not to run down the stairs and out of the dojo.
He unlocked his truck and climbed in. His destination was the closest liquor store. Once inside, he went straight for the cheap stuff. Better get used to pinching pennies now that he was unemployed.
Fuck.
He’d parked at his house, locked the door behind him, and got his drink on. Hard-core.
So he deserved this motherfucking cocksucker of a hangover because he didn’t remember anything after he hit the three-quarters-of-a-bottle mark.
Wait. He had a vague recollection of Shiori . . . standing in his kitchen glaring at him? Had she really been here? Or had it been another hallucination?
If he concentrated really hard—to the point it hurt his fucking brain—then he could sort of remember talking to her, congratulating her. Her pulling that Domme voice and attitude. Then . . . nothing. They could’ve had a fight. She could’ve tucked him in after he’d hugged the toilet.
No. He remembered crawling to his bed after the second time.
He shuffled to the bathroom and popped four Excedrin. Then he hauled his dragging ass into the shower and let the hot water beat down on him.
After Knox toweled off, he brushed his teeth and dressed himself, feeling somewhat better.
But still bitter. That wouldn’t go away as quickly as his hangover.
When he couldn’t find his phone in the house, he trekked outside and found it lodged in the passenger seat of his truck. Barely enough juice to check his messages.
None from Shiori. One from Ronin. About ten minutes ago. When he scrolled to his voice messages screen and pressed play, his phone went completely dead.
Fucking great.
Then again, he couldn’t deal with Ronin today. The least the man could do was allow him some time to process this shit. The male pride part of him said he didn’t have to jump when Mas
ter Black called anymore since he wasn’t his second-in-command.
The last thing Knox needed today was face time in the dojo—with Sensei, the new Shihan, his fellow instructors, or even his students. He had to get the hell away. Clear his head, his lungs, his heart.
That forced him to stop. Was that really what he wanted? To shut Shiori out of his life?
No. The very thought of that made his stomach churn. No doubt they’d have to talk about how this dojo status change would affect the status quo in their personal relationship.
But that was another thing he couldn’t deal with today. Especially after he had no clue how he’d acted toward her last night.
Fuck. He really, really had to get gone for a bit.
In the five years he’d been part of Black Arts, he’d never not shown up to teach his classes.
There was a first time for everything.
Knox packed his fishing and camping gear, figuring he’d stop for food on the way out of town. He wasn’t running away; he was reevaluating.
Twenty-four hours later . . .
So maybe he was slightly stinky after being out in the wild, but he needed to see Shiori. He imagined she’d be pissed and demand to whip his ass for staying out of touch for a day and a half. But he felt calmer about the situation. Clearer.
In the hours he’d spent staring at the stars, he understood the last three months they’d been Domme and sub hadn’t been a game, or a trial, or even a test. It’d been him falling in love with her. Completely, totally, never-want-to-let-her-go, sit-at-her-feet-forever kind of love. He believed he was a man strong enough to love her, knowing the challenges he faced in giving a woman like her his lifelong devotion.
No matter what happened with their roles in the dojo, he’d be by her side, at her feet, in her bed every night.
He pulled up to her apartment building and parked out front. It drove the security guy nuts, but after the time Knox had shown up in his gi, the guy hadn’t said a word of complaint.
In a fit of pique Shiori might’ve scratched his name from her guest list, so he was forced to go make nice. He flashed a smile. “Hey. Knox Lofgren to see Shiori Hirano on the penthouse level.”
The security guard typed on his computer. Then his lips formed a sneer. “Sorry. No one by that name resides in this building.”
“Come on. Quit messing with me. Did she block me or something?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, sir. The person whose name you gave me doesn’t live in this building.”
Now Knox was getting pissed. “Since when?”
Another smarmy sneer. “I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.”
“Then what the fuck good are you, huh?” He slammed his hands down on the reception desk. “Two days ago she lived here. Now you’re telling me she doesn’t? That’s bullshit.”
“Sir. Your agitation is making me uncomfortable.”
“I haven’t even fucking started to make you feel uncomfortable, dickhead. Tell me where the hell she is.”
The security guard’s gaze moved to someone behind Knox and he whirled around.
The woman in front of him, although very pregnant, had the carriage of a former soldier. The hard eyes of one too. “Whatever the problem is, yelling at the security guard won’t solve it,” she said coolly.
Knox counted to ten. “This guy is telling me that the woman I’ve been involved with, who has lived here for almost a year, who lived here up until two days ago, is no longer a resident.”
“I’m a resident here. Who are we talking about?”
“Shiori Hirano. She leased the penthouse.”
“The exotic-looking woman about yay big?” She held her hand to her own shoulder level. “Ran around in a gi half the time like some ninja badass?”
“Yes. That’s her. Have you seen her in the past day or so?”
She pushed a chunk of blue hair behind her ear and spoke to the security guard. “Thanks, Stevo. I’ll handle this.” Then she looked at Knox and gestured to a lounge area in the corner. “Let’s sit over there.”
Right. That was some kind of code for wait here asshole; we’re calling the cops. Knox shook his head. “I’m fine standing.”
“Well, I’m not,” she snapped. “This baby weighs two hundred fucking pounds, and I need to sit. If you want to talk to me, park it.”
And . . . Knox didn’t argue. Maybe this chick was one of Shiori’s Domme friends. She certainly had the air of command.
After they’d settled in, the woman gave him a shrewd once-over. “What branch?”
Yep, his former soldier impression had been dead-on. “Army. Twelve years. How about you?”
“Ironically . . . the same.” She offered her hand. “Liberty Masterson.”
“Knox Lofgren.”
“So, Knox, have you been gone or something and didn’t know your girlfriend moved out?”
“I’ve been gone twenty-four hours. Shiori and I also work together. We had some big changes at the dojo, and I needed time to get my head on straight.”
“Dojo?” she repeated. “You mean she wasn’t making a fashion statement with her clothing?”
“Hardly,” Knox said dryly. “She is a sixth-degree black belt, and her fierceness compensates for her size. She’s rubbed my face in the mat on plenty of occasions.”
“Interesting. So you went to get your head on straight . . . ?”
“In the great outdoors, where there wasn’t phone service. So I’m uneasy about the idea she might’ve just fucking moved in the forty-eight hours since I last saw her.” He glanced at her distended stomach. “Shit. I’m not supposed to swear in front of kids.”
Liberty rubbed her hand over her belly. “Junior gets an earful from me all the time, so no worries. Daddy and I will both clean up our language postbirth.” She paused. “My husband, Devin, and I are on the floor right below the penthouse.”
“Which unit?”
“Both of them. One is our residence; the other is for my husband’s business. We knew the penthouse owners intended to rent out their place for a year. So I was surprised to see them back yesterday. I know a year hasn’t passed since they left.” She shot a look over her shoulder. “I asked the night security guard about it and he said that the renter had movers here packing her stuff up at ten o’clock, night before last.”
His sinking feeling became more acute. That was the night he’d gotten drunk. Jesus. Had he said something so wrong and stupid that she packed up?
Liberty leaned as close as her belly allowed. “Level with me. You’re a big guy; she’s a little whip of a thing. Did you somehow hurt her and it scared her, so she bailed?”
He bit back a laugh. “No. I’ll admit we had a fight that night. But I never imagined it’d result in this.”
“You said you had problems at the dojo where you both worked? Where is that?”
Knox didn’t blame this woman for her suspicions, but he couldn’t give too much away. “We’re both at Black Arts. I am—or I was—Sensei Ronin Black’s second-in-command. And before you ask, no, I haven’t contacted Ronin. I came here first.”