Augustine said nothing. He just squared up, jaw set, left arm hanging dead. His right hand flexed, but I saw the way it shook. He didn’t have a round two in him. He barely had a round one.
Cutler smiled, wide and cold. “You ready, boy?”
And that’s when I lost it.
I shoved past Carl Dalton’s bulk, boots pounding out a rhythm in the dirt, and threw myself between Augustine and my father. The wall of Leatherbacks tensed, a ripple of movement. Hands closed on steel. I didn’t give a shit. Isquared my shoulders, fists balled at my sides, and glared at Cutler.
He glared back, his face a mask of disgust and something worse. “Melissa,” he said, and the sound of my name in his mouth made me want to claw the world in half. “Move.”
“No,” I said, and it didn’t even sound like me. “If you want to kill him, you go through me first.”
A murmur rippled through both sides. For a second, everyone forgot what team they were on. Some of the Leatherbacks looked away, maybe embarrassed, maybe afraid. The Scythes watched with the cold curiosity of men who had never seen a woman take over a war.
Cutler blinked, like maybe I’d slapped him. “You think I won’t?” he asked.
I took a step forward, the distance between us so small I could smell the aftershave and the gasoline in his hair. “I know you will,” I said. “You always do. But not today.”
He looked at me like I was a piece of shit stuck to his boot. “Get out of the way. This is between men.”
I laughed. It was the only sound I had left. “Everything you’ve ever touched is between men, and look where it got you. You want me back, you stop now. You want to bury me? Fine. Just know you’ll have to live with it.”
I didn’t shake, even though I felt like my bones were vibrating apart. I stared him down, watching the battlebehind his eyes—old pride, old hate, old love. He had never lost a fight in his life. Not once. Not until now.
Augustine tried to get up, and almost fell. I turned and caught him, holding his weight even though I was half his size. I pressed my palm to his chest, steadying him. He looked at me, and for a second, all the pain melted away. He was just a scared, beautiful mess of a man, and I loved him so much it hurt.
Cutler saw it, too.
He opened his mouth, closed it. For a second, I thought he might just shoot Augustine in the head, right there. But he didn’t.
Instead, he looked at me like he was seeing a stranger.
“You want him?” he said, voice flat. “You want to trade your blood for his?”
I nodded. “I already did.”
Cutler’s lips twisted. He looked at the ring of his men, at the line of Leatherbacks who were suddenly not so sure about anything. He looked at the Scythes, every one of them with a gun half drawn, but waiting. He looked at Augustine, who met his eyes and didn’t blink.
Then he looked at me, for a long, long time.
The world held its breath.
He turned his back.
The Leatherbacks didn’t move until he did. When Cutler stepped away, the wall parted, and the circle collapsed in on itself. For a second, nobody did anything. Then the Scythes surged forward, a pack of rough hands and clumsy arms, grabbing Augustine, hoisting him up, shouting in a mess of voices.
I felt the moment the tension left the air—like a power grid going dark. The shouts turned to laughs, and the hands that held me stopped shaking. Augustine sagged against my shoulder, but he was breathing. He was alive.
I looked for my father, but he was gone. Just an empty space where he’d stood.
I wrapped my arms around Augustine, ignoring the blood and the stink and the way my own ribs screamed. He leaned on me, then kissed the side of my head, soft and quick.
“Thank you,” he whispered, his mouth brushing my ear.
I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just held on.
Somewhere behind me, I heard Damron calling for first aid, for beer, for anyone who still remembered how to celebrate. The world kept spinning.
But for that second, that one fucking second, I was the thing that held it together.
