“He’ll figure it out,” I said.
We sat there a while, the silence softening around us. I felt the weight of the land outside, the way the dark pressed against the windows, the way the wind carried the smell of earth and wood-smoke. I’d grown up with that, the sense of being rooted to something, even when you wanted to run.
I wondered if Newt had ever felt it. I wondered if he ever would.
After a long time, Pa straightened, set the cup down and rolled his shoulders. The motion cracked the vertebrae in his neck, loud as a rifle shot. “You take care of him, you take care of yourself,” he said. “That’s the deal. You fuck it up, and I’ll take care of both of you.”
He didn’t say it like a threat. He said it like an order.
“Understood,” I said.
He nodded, and for the first time that night, I saw the flicker of approval behind his eyes. It was gone before I could hold onto it.
He left the kitchen as quietly as he’d come, boots whispering across the floor. I watched him go, then poured myself another, smaller this time.
I sat there, looking out at the fields, the night stitched together by the thin red pulse of the barn’s security light. I thought about war and home, and how maybe they weren’t so different after all. You picked a side, and then you fought like hell to keep it.
I thought about Newt, sleeping upstairs, skin still carrying the warmth of my hands. I thought about Luther, and the next time he’d show his face in this town.
I thought about blood and bruises and the ugly calculus of what I was willing to do, how far I’d go. For the first time in years, the math made sense.
I finished the whiskey and set the glass upside-down on the table. The McKenzie land was mine to defend, same as it had always been, but this time, I had something worth the fight.
I was going to win.
I sat there a minute, thinking about blood and tribe and the kind of loyalty that got men killed or made them legends. I thought about Newt—his blue eyes, his fragile wrists, and the way he let me in even when he was scared to death.
I finished the whiskey, rinsed the glass in the sink, then flicked the kitchen light off with my elbow. At the bottom of the stairs, I paused, listening. The house was still, save for the faint squeak of mattress springs and the sigh of wind in the eaves.
I took the steps two at a time.
The door to my room was cracked. I pushed it open, slow, and let the dim light spill across the floor. Newt lay on his side, knees pulled up, one hand tucked under his cheek. He was lost in the hoodie, the fabric twisted around his hips. The scar at the base of his skull was just visible above the collar, a pale line against the dark.
I watched him breathe, watched his chest rise and fall, slow and steady now. It would be easy to touch him, to wake him up and claim what I wanted. It would be even easier to close the door, crawl into bed, and let him stay small and safe for one more night.
I stood there a long time, torn between both, the war inside my head hotter than any I’d ever fought overseas.
In the end, I went to the dresser, pulled out a blanket, and tossed it over him. He didn’t wake, just snuggled deeper, a faint smile on his mouth.
Tomorrow, I’d teach him everything. Show him how a McKenzie protected what was his. Tonight, I’d let him sleep. But even in the dark, even in the quiet, I could feel him there, under my roof, in my sheets, under my skin.
He was mine now.
And I wasn’t planning on letting go.
Chapter Six
~ Newton ~
The first thing I did every morning was check the damage. Old habits, mostly; my brain liked to catalog the visible signs of progress as if I might someday wake up transformed—new, unbruised, someone else entirely.
I shuffled to the McKenzie farmhouse bathroom, teeth chattering from the chill, and peered into the mottled oval mirror. It was an antique, which meant you could see all your flaws twice.
My left eye was almost back to normal except for a yellowish crescent under the socket, like I’d been marked up for recycling. The split lip had become a souvenir, scab neat and flat, easy to forget until I smiled and it reminded me who was boss.
The rest of my face was just me—pale, high-forehead, unremarkable in every way except for the pale blue of my eyes, which the old man at the bank once said were “too big for my head.” At least my nose wasn’t broken. I pressed it gently, just to be sure.
Still aligned.
