Knox squeezed my shoulder. “He’s not going with you,” he said, voice low and final.
My father stared at him, then at the sheriff, then back at me. “Newton, be reasonable. This isn’t a place for you. You have obligations. Family. You can’t just—run away.”
I looked at the sheriff, hoping he’d say something. He just shrugged, like his job description didn’t cover complicated family disputes.
For a long second, nobody moved. My father’s face went dark, then cold, then blank. He turned on his heel, said something under his breath to the sheriff, and stormed out the front door. The sheriff lingered a moment, then gave me a look that was almost sympathetic.
“Call if you need anything,” he said, and left.
The second the door closed, my knees buckled. Knox caught me before I hit the floor, holding me upright with both arms, as if I weighed nothing at all.
“You okay?” he asked, for the third time that morning.
I nodded, but then the embarrassment hit, hard and fast, like a migraine. “Oh god,” I said, pressing the sheet to my face. “Do you think the sheriff heard us?”
Ransom, leaning in the kitchen doorway, said, “Buddy, the whole county heard you.”
I groaned, wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness. Knox laughed, the rare, thunderous one, and it was so full of pride and something almost like happiness that I forgot to be mortified for a second.
I looked at him, really looked, and realized that I was still scared, but less than before. I had backup. I had someone in my corner. Maybe that was enough. Maybe, for the first time in my life, I could let myself believe it.
I let go of the sheet, straightened up, and faced the door.
Whatever happened next, I was ready.
But next time, I was going to soundproof the damn bedroom.
Chapter Nine
~ Knox ~
The house was still, but I wasn't. Every sense was dialed up to eleven, I walked the perimeter like it was a forward operating base under siege and not the same place I'd spent the morning fucking Newt in.
The adrenaline spike from the confrontation with Bridger and the sheriff hadn't faded; it had tunneled deep, a cold heat in my spine that sharpened everything, made the world feel glass-clear and breakable.
Newt was shaking. Not the nervous, bird-boned shiver from before, but a seismic tremor, like his body was running earthquake drills in anticipation of the next disaster. He'd collapsed on the end of the couch, knees up, arms locked around himself so tight I thought his bones might snap under the pressure.
Harlow hovered nearby, pretending to read the newspaper but never once letting his eyes stray more than an inch from Newt's face.
I ignored both of them at first. Stalked the windows, checked the doors, clocked the location of every sibling and cousin still on site. Ransom was on the back porch, smoking and muttering to himself; Ma's silhouette was visible through the frosted glass of the laundry room, probably arming herself with the cast iron again. Even Quiad, who preferred to haunt the shop alone, had drifted into the hallway, posture alert, eyes narrowed.
The house was a hive, and the only thing more dangerous than a McKenzie on a good day was a McKenzie expecting a fight.
It was muscle memory that pulled me back to the couch, to the point where I was kneeling in front of Newt, one hand braced on the upholstery and the other hovering an inch above his hair.
He didn't look up. His gaze was fixed on some point in the middle distance, jaw clenched, pupils blown so wide the blue was just a ghostly ring around the edge.
The stress response was familiar—I'd seen it in combat zones and prison yards and once, memorably, in a middle school cafeteria right before a food fight escalated into an actual riot.
I could have spoken. I could have barked an order or made a joke. But instinct said this was a hands-on situation, so I used my thumb to sweep the hair back from his temple, slow and deliberate. He flinched, but then exhaled, the sound sharp and raw in the stillness.
"You good?" I said, voice pitched low enough that it barely registered above the tick of the wall clock.
He shook his head, the movement jerky. "He—he's coming back," Newt whispered. His voice had gone strange, half-cracked, like he was talking to a ghost or an enemy he couldn't see. "He's going to come back. He's not—he never—"
I squeezed the back of his neck, gentle but unbreakable. "He can try," I said.
Newt's breath hitched again. I didn't let go.
