I did a perimeter check of the room. Twice. Door locked? Yes. Window closed? Check. Knife still on the bed? Check, and also, why was I trusted with a knife, who knew, not me. My fatheralways said I was the least reliable of his spawn, and not even in an affectionate way.
I slumped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. The light fixture was a bare bulb, slightly askew, the kind of thing you’d find in a rural meth lab or a garage. But the ceiling itself was clean. No cobwebs, no secret cameras, no evidence of prior violence.
This was a good sign.
I found myself twisting the corner of Knox’s pillow in my hands, rolling it over and over like a lucky charm. The fabric was rough, probably some kind of tactical cotton, and smelled like soap and smoke and a little bit of engine oil. I pressed it to my face and inhaled, which was, on the one hand, pathetic, and on the other, deeply comforting.
The nervous energy had to go somewhere, so my body defaulted to cycling through every stupid trick I’d ever developed since third grade. I tugged at my socks—one duck, one frog, mismatched because I’d packed in a panic and, if we’re honest, I liked it that way.
I clicked the pen in my pocket until I realized I was one click away from mental collapse. I bit the inside of my cheek until the taste of iron made me stop.
Knox’s bed was big. Like, designed-for-two-adults big, which was both convenient and terrifying, given my current fixation on what we’d done earlier in the day.
My brain was very invested in replaying that memory with full sensory accompaniment—the weight of Knox’s arms, the noise he made when he came, the way he’d held me after like he was daring the universe to take me back.
I physically shook my head to clear it. This was not the time for sexual nostalgia. This was the time for threat assessment.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood, arms crossed, then uncrossed, then crossed again. I thought about my father. Ithought about Luther, the golden child, the one who’d been sent to “bring me home” more times than I could count.
I knew my family—they were about as subtle as a rhinoceros in a china shop and twice as destructive. My father didn’t like being told no, and he used Luther as his personal attack dog to keep me in line.
Every time I’d tried to get away, it had ended in bruises, lectures, and an envelope of hush money that never made it past the mailbox. I’d once tried to spend it on a bus ticket out of state, but ended up giving it to the first charity that asked.
Even my rebellion was pitiful.
I peeked through the window, careful not to disturb the curtain. The McKenzie property stretched for acres, but every inch was visible in the moonlight. The old barn. The line of pickup trucks. The flagpole, listing at a permanent forty-degree angle, like it had fought the wind too long and finally given up.
There were no cars on the drive, but that didn’t mean anything. My father wouldn’t show up with sirens. He’d send Luther first, to test the perimeter, see if I’d let him in. If that failed, he’d escalate.
I paced to the closet, opened it, and counted the shirts again. I don’t know why I did that. Knox only wore maybe four of them, but the closet was stuffed—plaid, denim, a few button-downs that looked like they’d come straight off the set of a low-budget western.
I touched each one, running my fingers over the seams. It was grounding. The same way people counted their steps or recited the periodic table to stave off panic, I cataloged shirts.
It was a system.
Halfway through the closet, my mind wandered back to Knox. To the way he’d looked at me at dinner, like I was some rare bird he was afraid might break if he held it wrong. The way he’d barked at his brothers and then turned around and checkedif I was okay. The way his hands dwarfed my own, but when they touched me, it was never too much, never more than I could handle.
God. Focus, Newt.
I forced myself to the mirror. I looked… well, alive. My bruises were almost gone, just yellow shadows under my skin. The scar on my cheek was healing. My hair looked like it had been styled by a small animal, which was fine; the McKenzies weren’t exactly a high-glamour bunch.
I squared my shoulders and tried to look tough. The effect was undercut by the fact that I was still wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon fox on it, but at least I could pretend.
“Get it together,” I muttered. “You survived worse.”
Then, immediately, I failed to get it together, because a memory hit me so hard it nearly buckled my knees: Knox, standing at the foot of the bed, shirtless, arms crossed, that tattoo of the globe and anchor stark on his skin.
“You’re not going anywhere,”he’d said.“Not unless you decide to.”
No one had ever given me a choice before.
I wrapped my arms around myself, then realized it was a dumb gesture and tried to play it off by reaching for one of Knox’s shirts, the one he’d left draped on the chair. I picked it up, breathed in, and let myself imagine, just for a second, that I could stay here. That the world might actually let me have something good.
I put the shirt on. It hung to my knees. It was soft, and smelled like cedar and fire and the faintest hint of motor oil.
I was still scared, but at least I was scared in style.
I checked the door again—still locked—and flopped onto the bed, clutching Knox’s pillow to my chest. My heart was beating like a hummingbird’s, but I could finally breathe.
