Harlow came up the steps, eyed the blood, and shook his head. "That’s gonna stain," he said. Then he ruffled Newt's hair, gentle, like nothing had just happened. "Welcome to the family," he said as he passed us and walked on into the house.
Ransom hooted, fist in the air, and even Quiad’s silhouette looked a little softer, standing at the edge of the yard, watching the horizon for the next challenge.
I stood up, swung Newt into my arms, and then carried him inside, past the gawkers, past the worried eyes and the stares of people who'd once wondered what a Bridger boy was doing with us.
Now they knew.
He belonged to me.
And after tonight, everyone else knew it, too.
Chapter Twelve
~ Newt ~
The kitchen had the weird, hollow quiet of a stage set after the audience had left. I was still standing, somehow, though my knees were doing an interpretive dance and the adrenaline in my bloodstream made the lights seem too bright, the edges of things too sharp.
My shirt was torn at the collar, blood drying sticky on my forearm. It wasn’t mine, but that didn’t make it less cinematic.
Knox was there, filling the doorway, eyes doing that thing where they looked everywhere at once before settling on me. He didn't say anything. Just watched, taking inventory, the way he would a new rifle or a coyote in the crosshairs.
I tried to remember if I should sit or stand or do jumping jacks to burn off the shakes, but my body had defaulted to "idiot lamprey" mode—waiting for the next order, pulse hammering in my throat.
The other McKenzies had melted away. Maybe they'd gone to check the perimeter, maybe they were stacking the bodies like cordwood. I wouldn't have been surprised either way.
Harlow had ruffled my hair and said, "Welcome to the family," then vanished with his arms full of broken porch furniture.
Ransom was probably outside, commemorating the event with moonshine or a tattoo gun or both.
I had no idea where Quiad was.
That left just me and Knox, which was, honestly, more terrifying than the horde of Bridger goons that had tried to abduct me ten minutes ago.
Knox stalked over, boots heavy on the linoleum, face unreadable except for the twitch at the edge of his mouth that meant either "you done good" or "I'm about to eat you."
Given the context, it could have gone either way.
I realized my hands were still clenched around the handle of the knife I'd used. The blade was caked with blood, some of it already flaking off in little brown petals.
My fingers were cramping. I tried to set it down, missed the countertop, and dropped it straight onto the floor with a clatter that echoed through the house.
"Sorry," I said, even though I wasn't sure what for. My voice cracked like a twelve-year-old with a secret porn stash.
Knox didn't blink. He just bent, picked up the knife with two fingers, and set it on the sink with a care usually reserved for wedding china or unexploded ordnance.
"You hurt?" he said, and it was both a question and a command.
I did a quick assessment. Bruises, sure. Some superficial scratches on my arm. Nothing new. Nothing I hadn't earned.
"I'm good," I lied, because it seemed easier than explaining the cosmic, whole-body tremor I was experiencing.
He didn't buy it. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the sweat and smoke and something darker under his skin. He grabbed my chin, turned my face this way and that, checking for damage.
"You ever killed a man before?" he asked, voice low.
I laughed, even though my stomach went ice-cold. "Pretty sure he's not dead. I mostly got his bicep."
Knox's lips quirked. "Good aim," he said, and for a second I saw it—the pride, the way he looked at me like I'd just aced a test nobody else could even take.
