The sirens finally arrived, wailing up the long drive. The house and the world spun in blue and red, but for the first time in years, I wasn’t afraid of what came next.
I was just glad I was alive to see it.
And that, for once, I wasn't running.
I’d heard before that fights never end when you think they do. They just spiral, losing energy with every turn, until someone gets tired enough or dead enough to quit.
I’d thought Harley was done. I’d thought I was free.
But when the sirens hit the drive and the blue lights washed the world clean, Harley surged up from the deck like a revenant, teeth bared, knife still in his hand.
He moved fast—faster than I remembered, faster than I was ready for. The blade caught me high on the forearm, slicing clean and cold, and I saw the blood before I felt the pain.
Jo roared, tried to wrench Harley off me, but one of the bikers still left standing wrapped both arms around Jo’s waist and hauled him back, feet scraping trenches in the porch boards.
Harley locked his arm around my neck, hauling me upright, and pressed the edge of the blade flat against my throat. "One more step and I’ll open him up," he hissed, the words almost tender.
I froze, and the whole world froze with me.
The other McKenzies went rigid. Knox had his gun up, but the angle was bad—one twitch and I’d get the buckshot first. Ransom and Quiad stood tense at the bottom of the porch steps, hands empty but ready. Harlow hovered near Ma, battered and pale but still big enough to be a shield if she needed one.
Behind us, the sheriff’s cruisers screeched to a stop, doors flying open. Sheriff Floyd Hardesty and one of his deputies spilled out, guns drawn, but nobody wanted to fire into this knot of bodies.
The world spun. Harley’s hot breath was in my ear. "You’re never gonna belong," he whispered. "Not with them. Not with anybody. You’re mine. You’re always gonna be mine."
I looked for Jo, but he was tangled up with the biker, arms locked around each other like a nightmare embrace. Jo’s face was purple with rage, spit flying from his lips as he fought to break free.
But I saw the moment his eyes found mine. Everything slowed down. I felt his focus, as if we were the only people left on the planet. I remembered what he’d said, a hundred times: Don’t fight it. Flow with it.
So I went limp.
Harley laughed, thinking I’d given up. His grip loosened just enough for me to snap my head back, catching him on the cheekbone. He howled and shifted, the knife slipping for a split second.
It was all I needed.
I drove my elbow into his solar plexus, hard and sharp. He folded, air whooshing out of him, but he didn’t drop the knife. He swung it down, aiming for my gut, but I caught his wrist and twisted, letting the edge bite into my own palm if that’s what it took.
He was strong, but I was meaner. And I had something to fight for.
Across the porch, Jo finally broke free, booted the last biker in the knee so hard I heard the joint pop. He hit the ground running, feet pounding, and for a second all I saw was that big, beautiful bastard coming at me like an oncoming storm.
Harley realized it too late. He tried to use me as a shield, but I dug my heels in and threw my weight back, slamming him against the rail.
The knife slipped. Jo was there in an instant, hand closing around Harley’s wrist, squeezing until the bones ground together. Harley shrieked and dropped the blade.
With his other hand, Jo grabbed the collar of Harley’s jacket, spun him around, and planted a fist so hard in Harley’s face that I heard the jaw break. Harley went down, finally, limp as a sack of feed.
Jo caught me before I could follow. He wrapped both arms around me, holding me up, and for a second I could only breath, the pain in my arm and neck drowned out by the solid pressure of his chest.
"You with me, baby boy?" he said, voice wild and raw.
"Yeah," I managed, and then the pain hit, sharp and blooming, as the blood ran down my hand and dripped onto the porch.
Knox appeared at my side, shotgun in one hand, bandana in the other. He wrapped the bandana around my arm, cinched it tight, and gave me a look that was part pride and part annoyance.
"You did good," he said, voice rough. "But maybe next time, let us soften ‘em up first."
Ransom and Quiad were herding the remaining bikers into a pile at the bottom of the porch, where the deputies zip-tied their wrists and read them their rights. Harlow was sitting on the steps, breathing heavy, Ma next to him with a bag of frozen peas pressed to his skull.
