He flinched, but didn’t pull away. “You think you can kill a guy like that?”
“If I have to,” I said. “You’re not going back. Ever.”
He laughed again, a hollow, broken sound. “I’m not worth the trouble.”
I squeezed the nape of his neck, made him look at me. “You’re worth whatever it takes. Understand?”
He nodded, but I wasn’t sure if he believed me.
There was a crunch of gravel behind us—Knox, back from his smoke break, leaning against the porch rail. I caught his eye, saw the question there, but he didn’t come closer.
Bo watched him, then turned back to the fire. “My brothers, they don’t know. About any of it. They just think I was too wild, that I couldn’t make it in the real world.”
“Want to tell them?”
He shook his head. “Not yet. Maybe never.”
I let him have that. Some wounds needed time to rot out before you could scrape the rest clean.
He leaned into me, body finally relaxing. “It’s funny,” he said, after a while. “He always said I’d never be good enough for anyone. But with you—”
He cut off, embarrassed.
I waited.
“With you, I feel like maybe I could be,” he finished, barely a whisper.
I kissed his temple, held him tighter.
The house was silent now, everyone gone to bed or giving us space. The fire had burned down to a bed of red glass, and the air was thick with the scent of pine and something sweeter—like the night was waiting for us to do something brave.
Bo’s breathing evened out, and for a long time, we just sat there, watching the last of the fire work itself down to nothing.
But I didn’t let go.
Not then.
Not ever.
The wind shifted again, bringing the last breath of wood-smoke across the circle. The logs in the firepit had burned down to a thick, glowing crust, the heat rippling off in waves that shimmered in the dark.
I thought it was just us and the quiet, but when I looked up, I saw the brothers had gathered at the edge of the light. They weren’t talking, just standing there, hands stuffed in pockets, boots spread wide like they were bracing for a flood.
Knox was in front, arms folded, the firelight turning the scars on his knuckles into railroad tracks. Ransom and Quiad flanked him, each holding a Solo cup but not drinking. Even Harlow had drifted back, hands dangling at his sides, mouth set in a line.
They’d heard every word.
Bo noticed, too. He straightened, wiped his face on his sleeve, and tried to look casual, but it was too late for that. The scars were out, the bones all on the table.
Knox stared at me first, then at Bo, then at the empty seat beside us. He didn’t move, didn’t say a thing for so long I thought maybe he’d just walk away.
Then he spoke, and the words hit with the same weight as a shotgun slug. “We’ll end this,” he said. His voice was low, steady, the kind that didn’t need to shout to be obeyed. “Nobody puts hands on a McKenzie and gets to walk away. He’s done.”
He meant Harley, but he also meant anyone who tried. The others nodded, slow and grim, a silent agreement that made the air go thin. Ransom rolled his shoulders, jaw ticking, and I could see the want in his eyes—the old, restless hunger for a problem he could punch in the mouth. Quiad just watched, half-shadowed, hands loose but dangerous, the way I’d seen him before a fight. Even Harlow, sweet and gentle, looked like he wanted to rip someone in half.
Bo sat there, blinking, like he couldn’t believe the war machine had lined up behind him. He tried to laugh, but it came out as a hiccup, and he dropped his head again.
I wrapped both arms around his chest, pulling him into my lap, blanket and all. He fit there so easy it was like he’d been made for it.
