Eventually, Levi’s breathing slowed, the little hitches evening out as he drifted toward sleep. He clung to me, fingers curled tight in the fabric of my shirt, and I knew that even if the nightmares came back, even if the world tried to take him from me again, I’d do whatever it took to keep him safe.
Even if it meant becoming the monster everyone already thought I was. I didn’t care. He was mine and I was never letting go.
Chapter Eighteen
~ Levi ~
Some mornings, the only thing that woke me was the hammering from the shop—less like construction, more like a heartbeat announcing the day. I lay in bed, sunlight painting the ceiling with creek-reflected ripples, and tried to decide if the dull ache in my ribs meant I should call it a win or just another day not dead yet.
Three weeks since the alley. Three weeks of Quiad’s hands hovering at my elbows every time I shifted on the mattress, his eyes tracking every bruise as if they were enemies to be stamped out one by one.
The colors had faded, migrating from purple to jaundice-yellow, but the memory stayed sharp—a ghost fist always hovering, never quite letting go. If I moved too fast, it reminded me: Not yet.
I rolled to my side, testing what passed for healed. Not bad, if you ignored the ache in my left lung every time I tried a full breath. Quiad said the bone wasn’t cracked, just “bruised bad enough to impress the doctors.” I believed him—nobody ever doubted Quiad, especially in this house.
The hammering paused. For a second, the world was nothing but the slow wash of creek-water and the tick of the kitchen clock. Then came the low hum of an orbital sander, a noise that got inside your molars and made you want to chew glass. I smiled, because it was the best lullaby I’d ever had.
I swung my legs out of bed, shuffling across the cold wood floor in my favorite pajamas: someone else’s gym shorts and a McKenzie River Builders tee with the sleeves cut off. I could’ve called it uniform, but that would imply I worked for a living. Mostly I just haunted the margins, collecting the moments that nobody else noticed.
In the kitchen, the coffee was already made. I didn’t bother looking for a mug—I knew exactly which one would be sitting next to the pot, waiting: black, chipped at the lip, with a faded smiley face that looked more like a skull. He’d set it out for me every morning since we moved in, never asked if I wanted it. That was his way of saying “I love you” without having to break character.
The house was half new, half scavenged from whatever salvage Quiad could get for cheap. No two doors matched. The floorboards creaked in a different pattern than the old place, and the windows were just barely level, which meant every time it rained, the glass hummed like a wet guitar string. But it was ours. It was safe. I pressed my hand to the window, feeling the cool glass, and watched the shadow of a hawk circling overhead.
Another long drag from the sander. My ribs pulsed in time with it. I found the door to the shop, pressed my palm flat against it, and nudged it open with the side of my foot.
The shop was barely bigger than a two-car garage, but it felt like a cathedral: high beams, shelves packed with tools, the air thick with wood dust and the sharp bite of varnish.
Quiad stood at the bench, massive hands working a block plane over a piece of walnut the size of my forearm. He had the concentration of a sniper, head bent, eyes narrowed, lips set in that dead line I’d seen in every mug shot and yearbook photo from his teens.
He didn’t look up. “You’re supposed to be resting, Sunshine.”
“If I rest any more, I’ll start putting down roots,” I said, trying to sound casual and not like I was already winded from the walk. “Besides, you’re the one making all the noise. OSHA would have a field day.”
His lips twitched—barely, but it was there. A smile, or the ghost of one. “You ever meet OSHA, you’d know they’re cowards.”
He set the plane down, flexed his fingers. There were new scars along the knuckles, white and angry, the legacy of the alley fight and the concrete wall he’d punched through afterward.
I could tell the difference between the old and the new, even if nobody else could. He rolled his shoulders, then picked up a chisel, turning it between his thumb and index finger like it was a pen and he was deciding what to write.
I leaned against the doorframe, sipping coffee, and watched him work. I never got tired of it. Watching Quiad carve, sand, assemble—it was like seeing something evolve in fast-forward, each piece finding its place until the whole became inevitable.
He glanced over at me, and for a second I saw how tired he really was. The skin under his eyes was dark, like he’d been living off smoke and two hours of sleep a night. I wanted to ask if he’d slept at all, but I knew the answer. The nightmares came back after the attack, worse than before.
Now, instead of keeping them in, he kept them out by working until he couldn’t stand up. Sometimes I’d find him passed out at the bench, cheek pressed to a plank of rough-sawn maple, breathing so shallow I had to watch for a full minute just to be sure.
He set the chisel down, then wiped his hands on a rag. “Come here.”
I obeyed, because sometimes the best thing you can do for a man like Quiad is just go when he calls.
He reached for me, hands gentle even when they were calloused and stained with finish. His fingers brushed the edge of my cheekbone, then slid down to my collarbone, where the bruise had finally vanished. His touch was careful, as if he was checking for invisible cracks.
“You hungry?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Just bored. I thought you might be making something cool.”
He grunted—a noise that meant “maybe” or “fuck off” or “wait and see.” Then he slid the walnut block toward me, careful as if it were glass. Up close, I saw what he’d carved: a box, small enough to fit in a hand, with dovetailed joints so precise I could barely see the seams. The lid was inset, and the surface shimmered under the work light, every grain catching and reflecting the gold of the bulb.
But the real detail was on the lid. He’d carved a pattern into it—not just leaves and vines, but something more. There, in the dead center, was my name, “Levi,” ringed by the McKenzie family crest and the same protective symbols Knox had started collecting from the genealogy records.
