She laughed, the sound shaky, and patted my cheek. "You always were the stubborn one."
I went back to the porch, where Jo was waiting.
We stood together, watching the sky go from purple to black, the stars pricking through one by one. The house was quiet again, the world finally at peace.
Jo’s hand found mine. He squeezed it, then let go, but only because he wanted to see the collar on my neck, the way it caught the light, the way it marked me as his.
I wasn’t running anymore.
I belonged.
And nothing—nobody—was ever going to take that away.
Chapter Sixteen
~ Josiah ~
Our new cottage was supposed to be too small for this many people. That was what the old-timers said, every time they drove past our stretch of river road—claimed it was barely more than a glorified hunting cabin, and that the place would flood come the first good thaw. But tonight, the walls bulged with a heat and noise that made it feel twice its size.
Every inch vibrated with the McKenzie clan, their spouses, the odd straggler from the local art council, and an even odder smattering of former exes and lost causes who’d never quite detached themselves from the family’s gravity.
The air inside was dense: wood-smoke, bread, and wet wool from half a dozen coats piled haphazard on the rack by the door. The windows fogged in fat droplets, blurring the view of the river and the silver thread of moonlight that cut across it.
I tried to stay in the background, but it was hard when every other person in the place either wanted to shake my hand or punch me in the ribs. Even harder with Ransom on his fourth whiskey, leading a chorus of increasingly obscene river shanties in the kitchen while Harlow bellowed harmony and let every guest in arm’s reach admire his latest tattoo sleeve.
Bo’s paintings hung on every wall. He’d arranged them himself—on the day of the party, he’d spent four hours moving canvases from one side of the living room to the other, obsessing over sight lines and glare.
The result was a house that felt like a museum curated by someone who’d only ever seen real museums on TV. In the entry, a red-and-black triptych screamed across three feet of plaster; in the hallway, a single, sepia-tinged portrait seemed to watch everyone who passed with judgmental, sunken eyes.
On the mantle, a watercolor of the river in spring—half-melted snow and the ghostly smear of trees reflected in the water—sat next to a photo of us from the year before, both of us squinting into the sun and holding up a trout that, by all rights, should have gone back in the river to think about its life choices.
Bo hovered at the edges of the room, never in one spot long enough to be cornered. His hair was grown out now, the sharp angles of his face softened by a few months of actual meals and a life that no longer required him to sleep with one eye open.
He wore a black sweater, tight at the wrists, and the collar I’d given him—a real one, not just the stand-in from the hardware store—sat snug and proud at his throat.
I caught him once, near the bookshelves, refilling a tray of cheese and avoiding the eyes of everyone who tried to thank him for the food or compliment his “bravery” at putting himself on canvas. His mouth twitched at the word, like it was a joke only he got.
“You hiding?” I said, quiet, leaning close enough that nobody else could hear.
He rolled his eyes but didn’t turn. “I’m doing crowd control. Nobody needs to see what’s in the art room.”
“You mean the room you insisted on painting wall-to-wall in Vanta-black?” I teased, smiling because it was the only way to make him relax in public.
He snorted. “Yeah. That one.”
I watched the color rise on his neck, just above the leather. He didn’t wear it loose anymore. He didn’t wear it for shame, either.
“You want me to kick everybody out?” I asked, mostly joking.
He smirked, but the edge in his voice was real. “Could you?”
I laughed, but before I could say yes, Ransom staggered out of the kitchen, sloshing bourbon and dragging a pair of the artcouncil women behind him. “Jo! There you are. You gotta see what Bodean’s got hanging in the pantry.”
Bo shot me a look: save me, or kill me, your call.
“I’ll be right there,” I said, and Ransom gave a lazy salute before stumbling back into the kitchen.
I glanced at Bo. “Need a minute?”
