He kissed the back of my neck, the line of my jaw, the shell of my ear. “You’re perfect,” he murmured. “You’re mine.”
I turned, twisted awkwardly until I was facing him, and kissed him back. His lips were soft now, the hunger spent, but the need was still there, coiled under the surface.
We stayed like that for a while, tangled up, the world outside the door forgotten. My ass throbbed, my body was a bruise, but I’d never felt safer. Never felt more like myself.
Eventually, he scooped me up, carried me to the bed, and tucked me under the covers. He joined me, the weight of him an anchor, a promise.
I drifted, somewhere between sleep and bliss, and listened as his heartbeat slowed, as the world outside faded to nothing. If this was what it meant to be claimed, to belong, I’d take it every time.
And tomorrow, if anyone tried to take me back, they’d have to pry me from Knox’s arms, one broken bone at a time.
Good luck to them.
Chapter Thirteen
~ Knox ~
The first rule of public relations is to control the narrative. The second is to always look like you’re the one in charge, even if you’d rather be anywhere else. By ten A.M., I was already failing at the first and nailing the second.
Saturday morning meant the market. It always did—since before the river was the river and before my last name was more of a brand than an identifier.
I hated it, but I went anyway, because if I didn’t, the gossips would get creative, and if I left a void, someone like Luther Bridger would fill it.
So I put on my cleanest jeans, the black shirt with the buttons that made my biceps look less like a war crime and more like a farmhand’s wet dream, and took Newt to the market. I’d never brought a boyfriend here before.
I’d never had a boyfriend to bring.
He was two steps behind me, head down, hands shoved in his pockets. He wore an old sweater I’d probably left out for him on purpose and boots so new they still creaked. He wasn’t looking at me.
He was looking at the sidewalk, then at the weeds in the cracks, then at the sign for Rosie's Bakery. I could feel the tension in him from five feet away—like a live wire, vibrating with the effort of not running back to the truck and hiding behind the seat.
“Keep up,” I said, more out of habit than malice. I didn’t have to look back to know he obeyed.
The market was already a feeding frenzy—kids running wild, dogs on leashes, vendors shrieking about turnips and cheese. The air was saturated with the scent of sugar and fertilizer andthe kind of sweet decay you only get in a town that thinks composting is the solution to everything.
People noticed us immediately. They always did. Some McKenzie part of me was proud of it. We moved like a unit—my stride was longer, but Newt matched it by walking faster, his steps measured, like he was counting them in his head.
I could sense his unease, the way it pulsed off him with every glance from the crowd. I found it funny that someone so prone to disappearing could be so conspicuous when he wanted to blend.
I kept my eyes moving. That’s how you survive in places like this. It’s not just about spotting the threat; it’s about noticing who notices you, who talks to whom, who looks away too quickly.
In the first hundred feet, I’d already catalogued Mrs. Kimura—floral dress, hands full of kale, eyebrow arched up a full centimeter—the cluster of local teens vaping by the bandstand, and three separate pairs of eyes from the Bridger camp.
Mrs. Henderson almost dropped her jars of jam when we passed her stall. She did a double-take—first at me, then at Newt, then at me again, like she was making sure the headline in her brain matched the byline. I stared back. She blinked first.
A win, but a petty one.
I heard the whisper ripple down the line, each vendor passing the torch. “That’s him, the Bridger boy. No, with Knox, not—well, I’ll be.” Even without turning around, I could feel them adjusting their stories, revising the script to include the new detail.
Newt tensed beside me, his hands curled so tight in the sweater cuffs I worried he’d rip the seams. I didn’t blame him. I’d lived here my whole life and even I wanted to crawl out of my skin.
He edged closer to me, so close our elbows brushed. It was instinct, not affection, and I decided not to punish him for it.
“Stay close,” I said, and dropped a hand to the small of his back. I pressed, gently, but there was no mistaking the message: mine.
The way his body reacted—shoulders rising, head ducking—was both a confession and an apology.
The bakery stand was our first stop, not because I wanted a scone but because if we lingered anywhere else, the rumors would get ahead of us. Rosie was there, as usual, face flushed and arms dusted with flour. She gave me a nod, professional but not unfriendly, and then her eyes darted to Newt.
