“Why’d you do it?” I asked. It came out like gravel.
She didn’t look at me, just spat blood onto the step. “Because it was all I had left.”
I nodded, not trusting myself to reply.
The sky above us had gone all the way purple. The cicadas were louder than ever. I stood there, gun in my hand, and watched as the McKenzie clan boxed in the threat, reducing it to nothing but broken pride and failure.
Quiad came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders. They were steady as always, even as the adrenaline still thrummed through his veins. I let myself lean back against him, just for a second.
“We got you,” he said, voice for my ears alone.
I looked down at Gloria, at the men sprawled and bleeding on the gravel, at the shattered promise of ever being anything but what I was. I felt the last ties to my old life snap. They would never touch me again. Not while I had this family.
Not while I had him.
It all happened at once, the way violence always does.
One heartbeat, Gloria was sitting on the shop step, her eyes gone hollow and her mouth working soundlessly. The next, she was up and moving, the little gun back in her hand, the barrel swinging toward me.
She didn’t aim so much as jerk—fingers white-knuckled, breath coming in short, wet gasps. She looked at me, past me, through me. I don’t think she even saw Quiad until it was too late.
He moved with the kind of speed that didn’t belong to men his size. One second he was at my back, the next he was in frontof me, a wall of scar and muscle and instinct. Gloria’s finger flexed on the trigger just as he reached for her wrist.
The gun went off. The world shrank to a single point of sound: the sharp, stupid pop of a revolver going off at point-blank range.
Something hit Quiad—a sound like a fist smacking a steak, a red burst on his shoulder. I saw the blood before I heard the grunt, saw the way his arm dropped, limp and useless for a second. The smell of cordite and sweat and old hate mixed together in the air, so thick it burned my nose.
But he didn’t slow down.
He barreled into Gloria, slamming her backward into the gravel. The gun skittered away, vanishing under the truck. He landed on top of her, knees on her chest, one good hand pinning her by the throat. His injured arm hung useless, blood dripping onto her face in fat, fast drops.
She fought, nails clawing at his forearm, legs kicking. Her voice was a raw, animal shriek. “LET GO OF ME! He’s the reason—he’s the reason—”
The words broke off into coughing. She twisted, tried to bite at his hand, but he was all immovable weight. He leaned in, nose to nose, and bared his teeth.
“He’s mine,” he said, voice low and lethal. “He’s never going back with you.”
I wanted to move, to help, to do anything. But my legs were rooted to the ground. My hands shook so bad I couldn’t unclench them.
Knox and Ransom went to work on the thugs—Jacket Guy tried to get back to his feet, but Knox drove a fist into his jaw, the crack so loud I felt it in my own teeth. Tattoo Guy made a break for the road, but Ransom tackled him, rolling them both into the ditch, boots and fists and curses in a single writhing ball.
Gloria’s eyes rolled up, but she wasn’t done. Her hands found a rock, brought it up, slammed it against Quiad’s temple. Blood welled there, fresh and ugly. He barely noticed. His grip on her throat tightened, just a little.
She spat blood and dirt, clawed again, and this time found his wound. Her fingers dug into the ragged hole in his shirt, the torn flesh beneath. He hissed, jerked back, but didn’t let go.
I finally moved, crawling over the gravel, yanking her hand away from his wound. My palm came away red and slick. I heard her sob, a dry, mean sound.
“You think this is your family? These people? You’re garbage, Levi. You always have been. That’s why I—” She broke off, choking. Her voice dropped to a whisper, desperate and ugly. “You ruined me. You owe me. I gave up everything—”
She coughed again, flecks of blood and spit dotting her chin.
Quiad’s face was set in stone, blood dripping from his head and shoulder, teeth bared. I’d never seen him look at someone with so much hate. I grabbed his wrist, tried to get him to ease off, but he didn’t react.
“Please,” I said. “Quiad, stop. You’ll kill her.”
He looked at me, really looked, and I saw something break behind his eyes. His hand opened, just a bit, enough for Gloria to suck in a ragged breath. She lay there, gasping, eyes wild and white.
Ransom came limping back from the ditch, shirt ripped, a scrape on his cheekbone and blood on his knuckles. He hauled Tattoo Guy by the collar, dumped him next to Knox’s crumpled opponent. Knox stood behind, breathing heavy, face unreadable.
