Chapter Nine
~ Bodean ~
I knew the sound of my brother’s truck before it even reached the town: the fucked-up, out-of-tune diesel whine, the shriek from the cracked power steering, and the way Knox always blipped the throttle twice before killing the ignition, just to let the valley know he’d arrived.
I sat up on the couch in the first floor office, my body already bracing for impact, and watched the morning’s weak sunlight crawl across the hardwood like it was trying to get away, too.
Jo was gone. He’d slipped out before dawn to work in the shop, left me burrowed in the sheets and stinking of sweat and sex and whatever strange magic he’d used to make my body forget about pain for a few hours.
I’d followed him downstairs hours later, finding a spot for myself on the couch in the reception area where the sun showed through the windows and kept me warm.
Now, with him not in the room, the aches came back in a rolling tide—ribs like cracked glass, throat raw, wrists tender from where he’d held me down. Every joint had a story to tell, and none of them were happy endings.
I heard boots hammering across the gravel. The air in the room changed—went sharp, electric, all the oxygen pulling to the center of the room. I wanted to crawl under the couch, but my pride wouldn’t let me.
Knox didn’t knock. He just threw the front door open and filled the frame, eyes scanning the room like a cop’s flashlight.
He was bigger than I remembered—shoulders stretched the seams of his flannel, red in his beard gone more to rust. He had a box of donuts under one arm and an expression that could have cracked concrete.
“Bo,” he said, voice flat as a shovel blade.
“Knox,” I managed, keeping my own voice steady. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He kicked the door shut, barely missing my foot. “Didn’t answer your phone. Figured you were dead in a ditch, but turns out you’re just shacked up in a goddamn love nest.”
“Nice to see you, too. Want some coffee?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
He set the donut box on the counter and crossed his arms. “You’re coming home with me. Now.”
The sentence hit like a brick. “Not happening.”
“Not a suggestion, Bodean.” He let the full weight of my name drag the air down a few degrees. “Mom’s worried sick, Dad’s threatening to call in favors, and Harlow keeps asking when you’re gonna show up for Sunday dinner.”
I shot to my feet, pain rippling through my side, but I stood tall anyway. “I’m not a fucking child. I decide where I stay.”
He looked me up and down, taking in the bruise on my cheek and the way I flinched when my bad leg took weight. “You’re hurt,” he said, tone softening just a little. “Come home. Let us take care of you.”
“I have someone who’s already doing that.” I jerked my chin toward the garage, where I could hear the faint clang of Jo working.
Knox rolled his eyes so hard I thought they’d get stuck. “That’s temporary. You want to piss away your life chasing tail, go for it, but you do it under a McKenzie roof where we can keep you from getting killed.”
My hands curled into fists, nails biting my palms. “What if I want to get killed? What if I want to do something for myself, for once?”
He closed the gap, so close I could smell the cedar chips from his workshop on his skin, the tang of sweat and sawdust. “That’s not funny,” he growled.
I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Wasn’t meant to be.”
For a second, neither of us moved. The air crackled with old fights, old wounds. If we’d been in the barn, we’d have gone at it with fists by now, but here, in the sanctum of Jo’s shop, there were different rules.
Knox took a deep breath, flexed his jaw, then tried another angle. “You gonna tell me you’re in love with him?” he said, voice low.
The word detonated in my chest. I wanted to lie, to tell him it was a fling, a fuck, a waystation on the road to nowhere. But my mouth wouldn’t move.
He smirked, ugly and triumphant. “That’s what I thought. He’s ten years older than you, Bo. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
“You don’t know shit about me,” I snapped, louder than I meant to.
In the other room, the clatter of tools stopped. I felt Jo’s attention like a heat lamp through the floorboards.
Knox pressed in, one hand landing heavy on my shoulder. It wasn’t a gentle touch. “Come on. I’ll help you pack.”
I twisted away, wincing as his grip tightened. “Let go.”
He didn’t. “You’re coming home,” he repeated, and for the first time I saw the crack in his armor—the panic under the anger.
I shook my head, hard. “I’m staying.”
The next words out of his mouth were pure McKenzie: “You’re making a mistake.”
“I’ve made plenty,” I said. “Might as well go for the hat trick.”
He shoved me, not hard, but enough to make me stumble. The old muscle memory kicked in, the urge to swing back, to take the first shot and worry about the consequences later.
But then Jo was there, in the doorway, and the room shrank by half. He didn’t say anything, just looked from me to Knox, then back. His eyes were dark, unreadable, but his hands were steady as ever.
Knox glared at him. “You think you can keep him? You think this is what he needs?”
Jo shrugged, all calm menace. “He’s a grown man. He stays if he wants.”
My brother scoffed. “You think you know better than family?”
Jo smiled, slow and cold. “In this case? Yeah.”
Knox moved like he was going to close the distance, but Jo didn’t budge. The air between them was a loaded gun, safety off.
Then Jo said, “Enough.”
It wasn’t loud, but it froze the room. Even Knox paused, like his brain was trying to catch up.
Jo turned to me, voice gone quiet. “Go upstairs. Wait for me there.”
I should have fought it. Should have said “fuck you” and stormed out, or at least made a show of slamming a door. Instead, I just… went. Like he’d rewired the circuits in my brain, and all I could do was obey.
Knox watched me go, eyes wide with shock. I caught the look, the way his mouth curled down, and for a second I thought he might break. Instead, he just shook his head and let his arms fall to his sides, defeated.
I climbed the stairs two at a time, not caring how much it hurt. Upstairs, I sat on the edge of the bed, every muscle in my body vibrating with the aftershocks of the fight. Not the yelling kind—the kind where nobody threw punches, but you still walked away with something broken.
The shop was quiet now, but every thud from below made my heart climb into my throat. I could hear Jo’s voice, a low, steady rumble through the floor, punctuated by Knox’s sharper replies.
I strained to make out words, but the insulation muffled everything except the tone—command, protest, the scrape of two men used to getting their way.
“…he’s staying here with me,” Jo said, his voice clear as a bell, no room for argument.
Something in my chest did a slow, tight flip. I waited for Knox to fire back, but instead there was just a grunt, then the heavy tread of boots on concrete.
The shop door slammed, and then, through the window, I saw the old truck’s lights blink on. The engine coughed to life and idled for a long minute, like Knox was hoping someone would come out and change his mind. Then it backed up and peeled down the drive, gravel pinging off the siding.
I sat there for a while, staring at nothing, until I realized my hands were shaking. I didn’t know what to feel. Relief? Guilt?
Mostly, I just felt tired.
And maybe a little sick at how easy it had been to obey Jo—how all he had to do was say the word, and I’d dropped every defense and gone up the stairs like a kid sent to his room.
I buried my face in my hands, groaned, and tried to decide if I wanted to puke or jerk off. Both, probably. My brain wouldn’t stop replaying the last ten minutes: the way Jo had looked at me, like I was his, like nothing else mattered.
And the way I’d felt about it.
I stood, paced the length of the room, then stopped at the window. The world outside was pure winter—trees rimed with frost, the river flat and gray, snow dusting the roofs like powdered sugar on a crime scene.
I leaned my forehead against the glass, watched my breath fog the pane, and wondered what came next. Was I supposed to just… wait? Would Jo come up here and fuck me into the mattress, or would he ignore me, leave me to stew in my own anxiety until I lost my nerve and bolted?
I didn’t have to wait long to find out.
The stairs creaked, slow and even, each step louder than the last. My skin went electric, nerves dancing in anticipation. By the time Jo reached the landing, my heart was going so fast I thought I might pass out.
He paused in the doorway, arms crossed, filling up the space with a calm that was anything but. He looked at me for a long, long moment, and there was nothing gentle in it.
“Take off your clothes,” he said.
I froze. “What?”
He stepped forward, not breaking eye contact. “You heard me.”
The order hit somewhere deep in my spine. I waited for the anger, the old familiar urge to fight, but it didn’t come. Instead, I felt my skin flush, my cock twitching to life as if it’d been waiting for this exact moment since the day I met him.
Jo’s gaze flicked to my hands, then back to my face. “I won’t repeat myself.”
The words were low, soft, but the authority in them was a hammer blow.
I moved, slow and clumsy, unbuttoning my shirt with fingers that didn’t want to work. The fabric stuck to my shoulders, sweat gone cold against my skin. I stripped it off and let it fall to the floor. My hands went to my jeans, but I hesitated.
Jo just watched, silent, arms still folded. “You want me to help?” he asked, and there was a challenge in the question, a dare.
I shook my head, managed to pop the button, and wriggled out of the denim, careful not to wince when the waistband scraped over the worst of the bruises. Underneath, I was already half hard, the outline of it obvious in my briefs.
He noticed, and the edge of his mouth curled up, slow and mean. “Keep going.”