“It’s looking good,” Frank says, stepping back to admire today’s progress. “Another few days, and she’ll be ready for walls.”
A cub races past, chased by two others, their laughter bright in the dancing firelight.
This is what we’re building. Not just houses, but homes.
“Incoming,” Mason mutters beside me.
I turn to see Garrett striding across the clearing with five of his supporters. Their approach dampens the peaceful atmosphere.
Conversations die. The hammering stops.
Garrett’s wearing his good clothes, dark jeans and a leather jacket, despite the warm evening. His supporters fan out behind him.
This isn’t a casual visit.
“Mitch,” Garrett calls out, voice carrying across the space. “Time to settle this.”
Mitch sets down his beer with deliberate calm. He wipes his hands on his jeans, taking his time, making Garrett wait. When he finally turns, his expression is neutral as always, but anyone who really knows Mitch knows not to mistake his quiet stillness for mild mannerliness.
“The challenge is set for tomorrow,” Mitch says evenly.
“I’m here now.” Garrett spreads his arms wide, playing to the gathering crowd. “Unless you need more time to prepare? To find your spine?”
My bear surges forward at his transparent ploy to take advantage of the fact that Mitch has just done hours of hard labour. I take a step, eager to let Garrett know what I think of his cheap tactics, but Mitch’s hand catches my arm.
“This is my challenge to answer, Bodhi.” His voice is quiet but firm. There’s steel under that calm exterior, strength that’s held this clan together despite everything that’s happened here. “Stand down.”
I force myself to step back and uncurl my fists. The clan forms a natural circle around us. Some climb onto the picnic benches and stacks of timber around us for a better view. Others emerge from their homes, drawn by palpable tension that’s seeping into the atmosphere.
“Terms?” Mitch asks, still utterly unfazed as he removes the tool belt still slung around his hips.
“First blood or submission.” Garrett’s smile is all teeth, but Mitch’s non-reaction has him slightly rattled. Maybe he’s beginning to realise he’s underestimated him. “Unless you’d prefer to step down now and save yourself the embarrassment.”
Mitch pulls off his work shirt and folds it with the same careful precision he brings to everything. Underneath, he’sbroader than Garrett, and every bit of him is solid muscle. If anyone should be retreating, it’s Garrett.
“First blood it is.”
They circle each other. Garrett moves like a brawler, all aggressive energy and sharp movements. Mitch is patient and watchful, confident after years of kicking the asses of his younger brothers, including me, before I got too big for him to match.
Garrett strikes first, a vicious right hook that would drop most men, but Mitch isn’t there anymore. He’s moved just enough, letting the blow whistle past. Garrett stumbles off balance, and Mitch’s elbow catches him in the ribs in a restrained, precise strike. The crack of bone is audible.
“Shit.” Mason breathes beside me. “When did Mitch learn to fight like that?”
He’s always been able to fight. As the oldest brother, he’d draw Dad’s ire to keep his attention away from Mum and the younger kids in the house. He learned how to defend himself while staying under the radar.
But Garrett’s about to learn that you underestimate a Lennox at your own peril.
Garrett recovers, charging in with a flurry of punches meant to overwhelm. Mitch weaves through them, deflecting what he can’t dodge, letting Garrett tire himself out. When an opening comes, Mitch’s knee drives into Garrett’s thigh, dropping him to the ground.
Marcus grimaces from across the clearing, and Maddox rubs his quad like he can feel the dead leg Mitch just doled out. “I remember that move. Hurts like a bitch.”
“Yield,” Mitch says quietly, giving Garrett the opportunity to leave with his dignity still somewhat intact.
“Fuck you.” Garrett lunges up, going for a takedown.
Mitch hooks Garrett’s arm, and suddenly, Garrett’s face-down in the dirt with Mitch’s knee on his spine. The position is perfect. Textbook. No wasted movement. Mitch hasn’t even broken a sweat.
And there’s no escape.
