You’d think, after the adrenaline of a siege, a man would want to collapse or scream or punch a wall. But what I wanted—what I needed—was in arm’s reach and still shaking, alive and whole and mine.
The others faded out, scenery in a play where the only thing that mattered was the tight blue ring of his eyes, pupils blown so wide they were almost black.
His whole body vibrated with the aftershock. For a second, I saw the impulse to run, the muscle memory of a life spent dodging fists and humiliation, but he didn’t move.
I grabbed him—gently, but with no room for argument—one hand anchoring the small of his back, the other up under his jaw, thumb stroking the skin until his teeth stopped chattering. He looked up, helpless and wild, and for the first time since I’d met him, he didn’t try to hide it.
“You did good,” I told him, low and rough. It was the highest praise in my vocabulary.
The words seem to shake something loose in him. He blinked, then let his whole weight sink against me, a man surrendering not to fear but to the relief of being seen, defended, loved.
I kissed him. Hard. Right there in front of the family, the sheriff’s taillights still fading in the distance, the world full of witnesses and none of them mattering even a little.
His mouth was soft and sweet, open with shock, but then he made a noise—tiny and desperate and absolutely perfect—and kissed back. His hands gripped my shirt like it was the only thing tethering him to the planet.
He tasted like victory, like everything I’d ever wanted and never thought I could have.
When I let him breathe, he was glassy-eyed and flushed, lips red and swollen, hair a disaster. He didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to step away. He just pressed his face to my chest and breathed, big gulps, as if every molecule of air was a gift he might lose if he didn’t take enough.
Ransom whistled, low and dirty. Bodean elbowed Harlow, who just grinned, broad as a sunrise. Even Quiad paused in the act of rolling a cigarette, mouth twitching at the corners.
My brothers didn’t need to say anything. They’d already voted, and it was unanimous. Newt was one of us, and so was the mess we’d made together.
I wrapped my arms around him, one palm flat on the small of his back, and held him so tight I felt the heat of his blood through two layers of flannel and the slow, inevitable stirring in my jeans.
I wanted him—right there, right then, against the fence post or on the hood of my truck or in the dirt, didn’t matter—but I waited. I’d promised myself I’d make it special next time, that I’d mark him so deep he’d never remember a world before me.
He looked up, dazed, and whispered, “Thank you.”
I grinned, slow and dangerous. “You’ll think me later.”
He shivered, and this time it wasn’t from fear.
The sun cleared the horizon. The mist burned away, exposing every inch of the land we’d just defended. There was a smell in the air—something rich and green, like possibility.
We stood there, two men and a memory of a war not of our choosing, and I knew, as sure as I’d ever known anything, that no one was going to take this from us again.
Newt was mine. My hands, my heart, my problem forever.
And I was already counting the minutes until I could drag him into the house, close the door, and make good on every promise I’d ever made.
For now, though, I let the brothers see what victory looked like. I let the world see it, too. Because this time, I’d won everything. And I had no intention of ever letting it go.
And just like that we were human again—just five men and one very, very brave boy, heading back to a house where everyone knew exactly who they were and what they meant to each other.
If there was ever a victory, it felt like this. The rest of the world could burn. We’d hold this line until the mountains fell.
Chapter Seventeen
~ Newt ~
The Saturday market was more than a ritual. It was the closest thing McKenzie River had to a living, breathing organism—a weekly tide of bodies and noise and color, cycling through with the inevitability of the moon.
Today, I was part of it.
Scratch that—I was part of it in a way that made people stop mid-transaction, nod in my direction, and say things like,“Mornin’, Bridger. Heard you saved the farm.”Or,“Looking sharp, son. That’s the McKenzie cut, isn’t it?”
The last comment, delivered with an approving grin by the butcher’s wife, took me a second to parse—until I realized I’d unconsciously matched my hairstyle to the McKenzie brothers’ collective preference—short on the sides, wild on top, styled with the kind of reckless abandon only an actual McKenzie could pull off without looking like a meme.
