Chapter Seventeen
~ Bodean ~
Knox waited for me at the edge of the trees, hands in his pockets and that old Marine scowl already in place. He didn't have to say a word—one look at the set of his jaw, and I knew: time to rip off the Band-Aid and find out how much blood was left underneath.
He jerked his chin at the path, the one we'd carved through blackberry brambles when we were kids and determined to build a fort so secret even the crows couldn't find it.
That path had survived wildfires, two hundred years of floods, and a dozen drunken McKenzie cousins, but it hadn't outlived the memory of the last real conversation Knox and I had out here.
We walked in silence, the world crunching and snapping under our boots.
Alders grew so close together the trunks looked like a fence painted by a drunk with double vision.
The river was somewhere ahead, invisible but loud—a constant, hungry growl gnawing at the root line.
It pulled at us, the way rivers do, but Knox wasn't in a hurry.
I was, if only to get it over with.
He didn't speak until we rounded the curve and the creek came into view, brown-green and swollen from yesterday's rain.
Cattails lined the far bank, their heads bursting with fluff that drifted on the breeze and stuck to your lips if you breathed too deep.
There was a spot, just past the fallen log, where the bank slumped down into a shelf of flat stones and moss.
It was where we'd always gone to talk about the stuff we didn't want Ma to hear—fist fights, first smokes, whose turn it was to fix the broken fence or take the blame for Harlow's science experiments gone nuclear.
Knox stopped there and waited for me to settle. I picked the driest rock, but water had already seeped through my jeans before I could even sit. I didn't care.
He sat a good four feet away, arms folded, boots planted like he meant to keep the whole valley from drifting off downstream.
We listened to the creek for a while. I tried to count how many times he'd brought me here—once for a black eye, once for a broken heart, three times for shit I'd done that embarrassed him so bad he couldn't even yell about it in the house.
I wondered if this was one of those times, and what flavor of disappointment I'd be served.
I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see Jo lurking at the tree line, but he hung back by the trailhead, feigning interest in a patch of wild mint. Even when he wasn't at the center of things, the bastard knew how to own a perimeter.
I could feel the collar at my neck—heavy, impossible to ignore, like a second mouth sucking air just above my Adam's apple.
I'd worn it to the party last night, all the way through the toast and the hundred rounds of backslaps and “goddamn, you made it” from cousins who hadn't bothered to remember I existed until this week.
I didn't take it off after, even when Jo's mouth found its way there in the dark, when his teeth left a ring of bruises just below the buckle. This morning I'd wanted to, but it felt like I'd be taking off something more permanent than a strip of leather and brass.
“Nice day,” Knox said, finally.
I shrugged. “I've seen worse.”
“You remember the time you fell in?” He jerked his thumb at the spot a few yards downstream, where a swirl of foam had eaten the bank into a perfect U. “Pa swore you'd drown, but you just came up cussing and tried to punch the river.”
“Yeah,” I said, but my voice was already gone, sucked up by the sucking sound of the water.
He waited, arms still crossed, his face giving away nothing.
“You want to just get to it?” I said. “Or is this one of those times where you make me sweat it out for an hour before the hammer drops?”
He cracked a smile—barely, but I saw it. “Never thought you’d be the one to say that. Always figured you liked a little suspense.”
“Not today.”
He went quiet again. I could see him working up to it, trying to find a way to be gentle without making it obvious. That was the problem with the McKenzie men: they never learned to talk straight about anything that hurt, so they circled the wound until someone bled out.
He let the silence fill, until even the water sounded awkward.
“You want to tell me what’s really going on with you and Jo?” he asked, voice low and flat. Not a hint of judgment, just a clean bullet point with my name on it.
I looked at the water, watched the foam catch on a stick and swirl out to oblivion. “I thought it was obvious.”
He made a noise in his throat. “It’s not the what I’m after. It’s the why.”
I picked at the moss beside my knee. My hands were shaking, but I kept them low, out of his line of sight. “What do you mean?”
He hesitated, then said: “The collar.”
My chest went tight. I could feel it—God, I could feel it—every ounce of shame, fear, pride, and relief fighting for space in my ribcage.
He stared at the water, voice softer now. “It’s not… It’s not like I care if you two want to play house. You want to belong to him, that’s your business. But, Bo, I need to know you’re safe. I need to know this isn’t…” He trailed off.
“Isn’t what?” I said. My voice cracked on the last word, but I let it hang.
He raked a hand through his hair, short and already going gray at the sides. “Isn’t some bullshit you’re doing to keep from getting hurt again.”
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or maybe just curl up in the creek and let the cold eat me. Instead I swallowed, then said: “You think I’m letting him own me because I can’t do it myself?”
He turned and looked me dead in the eye. “You were never good at being small, Bodean. I don’t get how this fits.”
I rolled the collar between my thumb and finger, the leather warm from my skin. I didn’t answer for a while.
“You remember Westbrook,” I said, not a question.
His jaw went hard. “Yeah.”
“You remember what he did.”
“I do.”
I picked a stone from the mud, tossed it into the current, watched the ripple erase the foam.
“He fucked me up, Knox. Not just with the fists, or the screaming, or all the head games. He made me feel like even the parts of me that were different were broken. Like I could never just be what I wanted, because what I wanted was wrong.”
Knox’s face didn’t move, but his hands flexed against his elbows.
I kept talking. I had to, or I’d never get it out. “I spent years thinking it was my fault. That if I’d just fought harder, or been louder, or more like you—”
“Hey.” The word was a punch. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you put this on yourself.”
I looked at him, really looked, and saw the pain there, the kind of pain only brothers can inflict on each other by accident.
“I don’t. Not anymore. But after I left him, I didn’t know what I was supposed to be.
I came home, and I saw you, and Harlow, and Ransom, and even Pa—men who never had to apologize for taking up space, who never needed someone else to tell them what to do.
And I tried. I tried so fucking hard to be like that. ”
He nodded, slowly.
“But it never fit,” I said. “It felt like I was walking around in boots two sizes too big. Every time I tried to be the one in charge, I screwed it up. And every time I let someone else lead, it felt… better. I liked it, Knox. I liked having someone who could keep up, who knew what I needed before I even asked. And it scared the shit out of me, because in this family, you’re supposed to be the one breaking wild horses, not the one wearing the halter. ”
I waited for the punchline, for the mocking laugh or the “get the hell out of here, you’re not my brother” look. But it didn’t come.
He just stared at the water, like it could answer for me.
“You never told us,” he said, after a long time.
I kicked at a pile of dead leaves, the scent of rot and rain sharp in my nose. “I was afraid,” I said. “I thought if I admitted it, you’d see me as weak. Or worse, that you’d stop seeing me at all. Like I was just another screw-up to hide from the neighbors.”
His head whipped around. “You think that low of us?”
I shook my head, quick and rough. “No. Just… I think that low of myself, some days.”
He let out a sound, low and bitter. “You know what I see?” He jabbed a finger at me. “I see the only one of us who had the balls to leave. The only one who ever chased what he wanted, even when it went to hell. You think Ransom could’ve survived what you did? You think I could?”
I didn’t answer. He wasn’t looking for one.
He sighed, then sat forward, elbows on his knees. “You want to wear the collar? Fine. You want to let Moxley boss you around? Go for it. But promise me you’re doing it because it’s what you want—not because you think you have to.”
I nodded, hands finally still.
He let the sound of the creek fill the space between us. “Just so you know,” he said, “Newt’s the same way. You think he’s a pushover? Try arguing with him about what to have for dinner. You’ll be eating vegan stir-fry until you die.”
That made me laugh, real and sudden. “You serious?”
He cracked a grin. “Why do you think I’m losing weight? Bastard hides the jerky in his truck.”
I smiled, and the world felt a little less heavy.
We sat like that a while, not talking, just letting the river do its thing.
“I’m happy, Knox,” I said, after a while. “With Jo. With myself, for the first time in a very long time. I’m still a fuck-up, but I’m his fuck-up.”
He looked at me, the old, familiar steel in his eyes, and nodded. “Good. Just don’t let anyone else tell you how to do it, least of all me.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
We stood, both of us stiff from the cold and the confessions.
At the top of the path, I saw Jo waiting. He must’ve heard everything, but he stayed put, arms folded, just watching us.
Knox nodded at him, then at me. “He’s good for you. Just… don’t make me watch the PDA.”
I smirked. “Don’t worry. I’ll save that for Harlow and Dan.”