Mr. Knight/A Jordan Knight Fanfic ✔️

13

13. catharsis

Sunlight flickers in my eyes, dancing through barren branches outside a large picture window. It's the first thing I notice, the glare being what woke me. The second thing I notice is luxuriously soft sheets on my bare arms and legs.

Bare arms and legs.

Springing upright, I clutch sheet and blankets to my body—still clothed, thank God, in the costume's corset top and skirt. The stays in back drape loosely but aren't completely undone. Mind racing, I peek under the covers to confirm the horrible truth.

Beneath wrinkled tulle, beautifully embroidered with beads and flowers, my tights are gone. I quickly drop the covers, then spy two strips of emerald silk at the foot of the bed. My gloves, that Claire had specially commissioned for my costume. Extra-long to hide the scars on my forearms and biceps.

My chest squeezes with panic. My eyes bounce erratically around, cataloging details of the bedroom. Dove grey walls, white molding, dark floorboards, rustic furniture. There's a cozy armchair by the window draped with a soft, butterscotch blanket. No pictures or knickknacks on the dresser. The closet door is open, but no clothes hang inside.

"Guest bedroom," I tell myself, voice shaking. "Relax. It was probably dark. He didn't see. Underwear intact. Nothing happened."

I drag cold fingers through my hair; they snag on the silk flowers stuck into several braids. The rest of what I feel is an unholy mess. With a sinking feeling, I remember the elaborate makeup and carefully touch my face. Surprisingly, my fingers come away with only minimal glitter.

I glance back at the pillow I slept on.

"Shit."

It's covered in gold.

A footstep creaks on a floorboard outside the room. I freeze and hold my breath, praying he didn't hear me talking to myself. What the hell happened last night? I don't remember anything past being in a warm car.

"Darcy?" asks Knight softly through the door. "Are you awake?"

"No!" I blurt.

He chuckles, and I hear a distinctly canine whine. "I'm going to leave some clothes outside the door. Bathroom is across the hall. And in case you're a little muddled, we texted Claire last night. She knows you're safe."

I sigh in relief. "Okay, thanks."

A floorboard creaks again. "I have aspirin for you when you come downstairs. And breakfast." He hesitates. "Do you need anything else right now?"

"Nope," I croak.

"Okay." A moment later, I hear his fading footsteps.

Flopping back onto the bed, I push the heels of my hands into my eyes. Disjointed memories emerge from the fog in my pounding head, each one more embarrassing than the last. A living room with a cozy fire. Me, stumbling around like a drunken idiot trying to pull off my tights. Babbling about letters and secrets and green punch.

Throwing my gloves at him. Throwing myself at him.

The rest is still fuzzy.

Eventually, humiliation fades enough for logic to make a reappearance. Go downstairs. Pretend like nothing happened. Ask him to drive you home. Hide in your bed for at least twenty-four hours.

Taking a breath for courage, I throw back the covers and walk across the room to open the door. Folded neatly on the ground are a long-sleeved thermal shirt and sweatpants, both of which I know I'll swim in. I pick them up, holding them to my face to breathe in faint detergent and an undercurrent of his scent. The temptation to wear them is too great; without further thought, I dart into the open bathroom and close the door.