“He’s better,” I said. “Thriving, actually.”
Ransom snorted. “You want a doctor’s note or will a DNA sample do?”
James ignored him, locked eyes with Newt. “I hope you’re making good choices, son.”
Newt froze. I could see the words dying in his throat.
I didn’t give him time to choke on them. I reached up, cupped his jaw, and forced him to meet my eyes. “You’re mine now,” I said. “Not his. Mine.”
Newt blinked. Color flooded his cheeks, high and fast. He nodded, barely.
James looked like he’d just bit into a lemon. “This isn’t over,” he said, voice so quiet I almost missed it.
“Yeah,” Ransom said. “But your part in it is.”
James glared at him, then at me, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.
I kept my hand on Newt’s face until his breathing evened out. “You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, then shook his head. “I hate him,” he whispered. “I hate how he still gets to me.”
“That’s the last time he does,” I said. “You have my word.”
He managed a shaky smile. “You’re really not scared of him.”
“I’ve faced worse,” I said. “Also, he’s got a terrible left hook.”
That got a real laugh. He leaned into my touch, almost catlike, and I let myself feel proud for half a second.
Then I saw the rest of my brothers.
Harlow, standing sentry by the kettle corn stand, arms folded, face like a mountain. Quiad, shadowing us from the spice booth, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning for threats.
Even Uncle Cyrus was lurking near the pie vendor, eating an apple and radiating a kind of casual menace that would make most people cross the street. I hadn’t called them. I hadn’t needed to. They were here for us, for Newt, for the family.
It was what we did.
I caught Ransom’s eye. He shrugged, as if to say, “What did you expect?”
We moved as a unit through the last of the market, the four of them closing ranks around us like we were royalty on a tour of enemy territory. People stared, but nobody said a word.
Not even Mrs. Henderson, who watched with an open-mouthed fascination as Harlow gently moved a toddler out of the way and then offered the kid a chunk of kettle corn.
We lingered at Rosie’s coffee stand before heading out—a McKenzie tradition, which meant skipping it would be a red flag to anyone watching for patterns.
Newt stood by the edge of the counter, one hand wrapped around the cup, the other brushing against mine in a way that was so tentative, I almost missed it.
Almost.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The crowd had thinned; only the hardcore caffeine addicts and a couple of old guys playing checkers on the bench remained. Still, every move felt exposed. Every laugh or cough or clatter of a cup echoed, louder than it should.
Newt’s fingers kept finding mine, then pulling away, then coming back like a nervous Morse code. I let him run the sequence twice before grabbing his hand, intertwining our fingers, and setting it on the counter where everyone could see.
His whole body went rigid. I felt the tremor start in his wrist and work up to his shoulder. He stared at our hands like he couldn’t figure out if this was a good idea or a public execution.
A shadow crossed the counter. Rosie herself—two cups in hand, hair tied back, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. She set them down, then gave me a look like she was grading my performance.
“Bold move,” she said, nodding at the joined hands. “You boys sure you want to start this here?”
