It was a scream. Not the soft, movie-style one, but the real thing—a noise torn straight out of the throat, wild and broken and so full of terror that for a split second, my brain flickered to Kandahar, to the sound of mortars whistling overhead, to the way the world narrows when you know someone you love is in the crosshairs.
Newt.
I was already moving, legs in motion before the conscious part of my brain caught up. I sprinted through the yard, boots hammering the frozen mud, every muscle in my body tunedto the frequency of that scream. Ransom, Harlow, and Quiad followed, no need for orders.
Time distorted, warped by adrenaline. The world went blurry at the edges, colors leaching out until all I saw was the yellow porch light and the faint shadow at the top of the steps.
Ransom hit the southern edge of the porch first, boots slick with blood, and for a second even he—who'd seen more carnage at the Eugene motorcycle rally than most cops did in a career—looked taken aback.
Newt was standing over some kid, knife in hand, shirt torn at the collar and sleeve. The inside of his forearm glistened red, but it wasn't his blood. His eyes were fixed and electric, teeth bared in a way that should've looked ridiculous on someone so slight, but right then, he looked more like a wolf than any of us.
The wounded kid on the steps made a noise, a wet little whimper, and tried to scramble backward, but Newt pinned him in place with the flat of his bare foot. Blood from the guy's upper arm was pooling under the porch light, bright as fresh paint.
Nobody spoke.
I took a single step, just to put myself between Newt and the others, but it was clear he didn't need my protection. Not now. He glanced up, and the expression was all hunger, all victory.
Ransom recovered first. He let out a low whistle, grinning so wide I thought his face might break. "Christ, Bridger, remind me not to piss you off."
Quiad hung back, eyes black in the shadow, lips twisted in something like respect. Harlow was next to me, his hands loose at his sides, but the way his shoulders squared said he'd break anyone who tried to touch the kid.
Newt didn't even acknowledge them. He kept his attention locked on the guy at his feet, who was now crying, snot and blood mixing as he tried to clamp a hand over the gash in his arm. The knife Newt held dripped steady onto the boards.
"You think you can touch me?" Newt spat, voice gone gravel and venom. "You think you can just fucking take me?"
His chest heaved, the ripped shirt showing pale skin and the old, yellowed bruises that would never fade from memory.
The knife never wavered.
The sight of him, like that, made my cock harden so fast it was almost an insult to physics. Pride and something much, much darker surged up, drowning out the old logic, the tactical calculation.
I wanted to fuck him. Right there, in front of everyone. I wanted to bend him over the body and let him know exactly what "belonging" meant in this family. Instead, I just stood close, close enough that if he fell, he'd land in my arms.
Luther was at the edge of the drive, white-faced, lips working. He looked from the blood to Newt to me, then back again, like he couldn't process how he'd lost control. He’d come to reclaim his brother, and instead he’d found something he’d never seen before—a Bridger who wasn’t afraid to bleed.
"You hear me?" Newt roared, and the sound ricocheted off the porch, out into the darkness where every animal in the valley could hear it. "I belong to Knox McKenzie. No one fucking touches me unless he says so."
The guy on the ground whimpered, nodding rapidly, eyes rolling back as he tried to staunch the blood.
Newt stood there, wild-eyed, shirt torn, hands clutched around the knife I’d given him. There was blood on the blade, and more dripping down his forearm.
Truthfully, he’d never looked sexier.
I ignored the chaos and rushed up the steps heart in my throat. I grabbed him, hard, and shook him once. “You hurt?”
He blinked, then nodded. “No. Not mine. He tried to grab me and I—”
I pulled him in, pressed him to my chest, still holding the rifle in my other hand. “Good,” I said, and I meant it.
In the yard, the battle was already over. I hadn’t even heard it—too intent on Newt—but I knew my brothers had my back.
Quiad had the remaining Bridger boys pinned to the ground, faces in the mud, arms clasped behind their backs. Harlow emerged from the shadows, moving slow, eyes locked on Luther. The big man didn’t even bother to struggle. He just stayed there, silent, as Harlow squatted down next to him and whispered something in his ear.
Luther shuddered, then nodded. Yeah, he was done.
I let go of Newt, made sure he could stand, then stepped closer to the edge of the porch. My brothers looked up, waiting for the verdict.
“Get ‘em up.” I waited until Luther and his friends stood and then sighted Luther down the barrel, just for a moment, just so he’d remember the feeling.
