Chapter Fourteen #2
I opened my eyes, let them focus on the dust motes tumbling through the last rays of light. “Bodean likes the collar. It’s not a punishment, it’s a promise. It says, ‘I see you, and I won’t let you get lost.’ He wears it because he wants to, not because I make him.”
Knox looked at me, expression unreadable. “He says you let him do whatever he wants. That you’re not even that strict.”
I smiled, couldn’t help it. “That’s because he wants to fight. He needs to know he can break the rules and I’ll still be there, every damn time. It’s a game, but it’s also real. He needs both.”
Knox frowned. “You really think that’s love?”
I picked at the straw until it snapped, then looked him square in the face. “I do. I think it’s the only kind he trusts.”
He was silent for a long time, thinking it over like he was plotting out the next year’s harvest. Then he said, “He’s been different since he moved in with you. Not… fixed, but less wild. Like he’s waiting to see what he turns into when the world doesn’t hate him.”
“That’s what I want to give him,” I said. “A world where he can fuck up, and I’ll still be there when he wakes up.”
Knox shook his head, but not like he was saying no. More like he was surprised to find himself on my side of the argument. “And you won’t ever raise a hand to him?”
I snorted. “He’d put me in the hospital if I tried. The only thing I want to raise is the bar for what he thinks he deserves.”
He almost smiled, just the ghost of one. “You’re serious about this.”
I met his gaze. “I’ve already built an art room for him. Do you know how much oil paint costs? It’s like feeding a Ferrari pure gold.”
He laughed, for real this time, the sound cracking the tension in the air. “Art room?”
I nodded. “Spare bedroom of my place. Took two days to sand the floor. He’s already ruined the walls with paint, but I can’t bring myself to be mad. He makes things I don’t even have words for.”
Knox’s brow furrowed, something new flickering in his eyes. “He’s never shown us anything. Always said he couldn’t draw a straight line.”
I shook my head. “Your baby brother is a fucking artist, Knox. He sees colors the way you see lines on a field. When he paints, he’s not scared anymore.”
He stood there, shovel forgotten, staring at me like I was the last honest man in the county.
Ransom poked his head in the barn, saw the two of us, and stepped all the way inside. “You still here? I figured you’d have run off by now.”
I shrugged. “Nowhere to go.”
He raised an eyebrow, skeptical as ever. “So you’re sticking around? Even after the family welcome?”
I stood, wiped my hands on my jeans. “I’m not leaving him.”
Ransom looked at Knox, who gave him a tiny nod. Ransom’s face shifted, just enough that I could see a truce forming behind the sarcasm.
Quaid appeared behind Ransom, filling the door. “Supper,” he said, one word enough for everyone.
Knox didn’t move. He just watched me, weighing every lie and half-truth I’d told in my life. “Paintings,” he said, voice almost soft. “He never showed me.”
I smiled, a little bitter. “Ask him. He’ll want you to.”
Knox nodded, then turned and left, boots muffled in the new silence.
I followed, the air behind me lighter than when I’d come in. I’d done it. I’d made my case. Now I just had to survive the rest of the night.
We didn’t even make it to supper before the next surprise hit.
Knox lingered by the side door, still processing, while Ransom and Quiad flanked me as we crossed the yard toward the main house.
The sun was gone, but the windows glowed yellow, and you could hear the faint thump of someone—probably Bo—knocking around the kitchen like a kid left unsupervised with a bag of flour.
Knox hesitated at the bottom step, hand on my arm. “You got a picture?” he asked, like it was a thing that needed physical proof.
I pulled my phone from my back pocket, thumbs clumsy from the leftover adrenaline.
I flipped to the folder where I’d been collecting the shots, every one a blurry treasure.
I found the one I wanted—a photo of Bo hunched over the canvas, every muscle in his back alive, the colors burning off the painting like it was on fire.
The brothers crowded around, their shoulders bumping mine, Harlow peering over the top like a curious bear.
“Holy shit,” said Ransom, voice gone low and reverent. “That’s not what I expected.”
Uncle Cyrus, who’d joined from nowhere, let out a whistle. “That’s damn near genius,” he said.
Knox took the phone, holding it at arm’s length, then up close, then at a slant, like maybe the truth would change if he viewed it from a better angle. “How come I never saw this?”
I shrugged. “Ask him. But don’t tell him I showed you. He’s weird about it.”
Harlow grinned, all teeth and soft eyes. “He’s good. Like, really good.”
For a second, the night was gentle—brothers jostling and arguing, the photo passed around with something like pride.
Then, from inside the house, a scream tore through the windows.
It wasn’t just a yelp or a startled shout—it was the kind of scream that meant terror, or pain, or both. Every head snapped up.
Knox was already moving, boots hammering the porch. Ransom and Quiad were a half-step behind. I didn’t even think—I just ran, legs eating up the ground in three big strides, the door flying open before my hand touched the knob.
Inside, the air was thick with burnt sugar and fear. Bodean was nowhere in sight, but the scream had come from the stairs.
I took the steps two at a time, the old boards sagging under my weight. At the top, the hallway was a tunnel of cold light, all the bedroom doors wide open.
Another scream, higher this time, echoing off the plaster.
It was Bo’s voice.
I slammed down the hall, shouldered past Ransom as he fumbled with a door, and burst into the guest room.
Bo was on the bed, knees drawn up to his chest, arms locked around them. His face was white as paper, eyes huge. He didn’t see me—not at first—but when I called his name, he snapped into focus.
“Jo,” he said, voice shredded. “He’s here. He’s in the house—”
I grabbed his arms, hauled him off the bed and into my chest. “Who’s here?” I demanded, scanning the room.
He shook, teeth chattering. “Westbrook. I saw him, Jo, I fucking saw him—”
There was movement in the hallway—heavy, purposeful footsteps. I spun, body on autopilot, bracing for a fight. But it was only Knox, shotgun cradled in his arms. He looked past me, saw Bo shaking, then scanned the rest of the room with a cop’s precision.
“Clear,” he said, but I could hear the doubt in his voice.
The rest of the brothers flooded in, filling the space with heat and sweat and the smell of fear.
I kept Bo locked to my side, hands running up and down his arms, trying to get him to ground.
“He was here,” Bo repeated, quieter now. “He was looking through the window. I saw his face.”
Knox moved to the window, looked out, then shook his head. “Nothing,” he said, but he kept the gun up, eyes never leaving the darkness outside.
Ransom checked the closet, then under the bed. “All clear,” he said.
But Bo wouldn’t calm. He clung to me, breath coming in short, desperate bursts. “You believe me?” he said, and the rawness in his voice made something inside me twist.
“Always,” I told him, and it was true.
Quiad took up position by the door, Harlow moved to the window. Knox, for once, looked at me like maybe I was the only person who could fix this.
I held Bo tighter, letting my words be the anchor. “He’s not getting to you,” I said, over and over, until the shakes slowed and the color came back to his face.
The family closed in around us, a living wall, and for the first time, I saw what it looked like from the inside.
Unbreakable. Furious. Loyal to the bone.
I met Knox’s eyes, and he nodded—just once, enough to say: I trust you now.
Outside, the night was alive with possibility and threat. But in here, with every brother standing guard, I knew what side I was on.
I was home.
And no one—not Westbrook, not the whole world—was going to take Bo from me again.