Chapter Seven
~ Knox ~
Next morning, I did a perimeter check of the house before breakfast. Old habit. All clear, except the kitchen, which was now the focal point of my entire universe.
Newt moved in and out of it like he was afraid of triggering a landmine. He'd been here long enough to know the layout, but not so long he could touch anything without asking first.
The bruise on his cheek was gone. The busted lip had faded to a white line, no longer a target but a trophy. The skin at his jaw had turned back to its original, impossible pale, made more obscene by the heat that bloomed there every time he caught me looking.
I watched him from the archway, arms folded, body at rest but not relaxed. Even from a distance, the way he moved fucked with my head.
He had this bird-like habit of stretching when he thought nobody was watching, which pulled the hem of his shirt up to expose a few inches of the pale stripe along his side. I catalogued that detail. I filed it away with all the others.
I was losing discipline.
He didn't notice me until he'd started the coffee, at which point he flinched like a deer and almost dropped the can.
I kept my voice low, just for him. "You forget how to use a filter?"
He smiled, then rolled his eyes and managed to fumble the grounds into the machine without further disaster. "I was trying to remember if you guys take it black or with milk. There's, like, seven open cartons in your fridge."
"We take it black," I said, even though Ransom dumped sugar into his like a child. "You sleep?"
He shrugged. "Some. It's weird, though. I keep dreaming I'm back at my old house, but then I wake up and it's—" he paused, searched for the word, "—not terrible."
"High praise."
He flushed, which made him look younger, and I caught myself imagining how he'd look with that same color high on his face, pressed beneath my weight.
I needed to check myself. I needed to get a grip.
But then he reached up to the top shelf for a mug and went up on his toes, stretching, the shirt riding higher, and I caught a glimpse of the pale ridge at his waistband. No bruises. Nothing but skin, freckled and unmarked and waiting to be claimed.
My hands tensed around my biceps. I wanted to put him against the wall and see if he'd smile or shiver when I told him what I wanted to do.
I walked into the kitchen and boxed him in against the counter. Not touching, but close enough he had to tilt his head to meet my eyes. "You ever think about going back?" I asked, voice soft.
He shook his head. "No. Not unless you want me to."
"That's not what I asked."
His hands tightened on the mug. "I'm good here."
He meant it. I could tell from the way his body stopped shaking when he thought about it. The house was safe. I was safe.
Or so he thought.
Ransom came in and ruined the moment, a feral grin on his face. He'd probably been watching the whole thing through the glass of the back door. He made a production of slapping my shoulder as he passed, then mussed Newt's hair like they were old friends.
"Morning, lovers," he said, voice pitched just high enough to carry through the house.
Newt ducked his head and tried to look annoyed, but he was smiling. I ignored Ransom and kept my focus on the kid.
"You finish the stuff in the shop yesterday?" I said.
He nodded. "Even sorted your screws by size. You're welcome."
I grunted, but inside I was impressed. Nobody had ever managed that before.
Breakfast was a goddamn circus. Harlow cooked enough eggs to feed a platoon, and Ransom spent the entire meal making faces at Newt, who responded by stealing bacon off Ransom's plate one strip at a time.
Ma took it all in from the head of the table, eyebrows raised every time my gaze lingered on Newt for more than a second.
It lingered a lot.
He was different now. The last of the damage had healed, and he didn't flinch when people called his name or reached for his arm. Sometimes he even talked back.
I should've been happy. Instead, I was ready to crawl out of my skin.
At one point, he licked a smear of yolk from the corner of his mouth, and I almost lost it. I had to excuse myself to the porch and count to fifty before I could go back in without making a scene.
After breakfast, I found him doing dishes in the scalding water, humming under his breath. The sound carried through the house, so soft only I could hear it.
He didn't notice me behind him until I spoke. "You're going to boil your own skin off, Bridger."
He smirked. "Maybe I like it hot."
I wanted to bend him over the sink and show him exactly how hot it could get. Instead, I grabbed a towel and dried the plates, watching his hands move through the soap. The scars on his knuckles had faded, but the memory of them was sharp in my head.
"You're staring," he said, not looking up.
"That's not a question."
He laughed, but it was shaky. "You always this intense?"
"Only when I want something."
He stopped washing. The bubbles slid down his wrists, leaving his skin red and raw.
I set the plate on the rack, leaned in so my voice was right at his ear. "You know you're mine now, right?"
He didn't move. "Yeah," he said, quiet. "I know."
I let the silence fill the kitchen, let it press against us until he started to squirm. Finally, I backed off. "You finish the dishes, then come find me."
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. I watched him work, cataloging every hitch in his breath, every time his knees knocked against the cabinet.
I was going to ruin him.
But not yet.
Not until he begged for it.
By noon, I was ready to snap. I spent the next hour in the shop, chopping boards for a rush order and picturing all the ways I could bend him over the workbench if I lost my grip.
Every time I turned, I expected to see him in the doorway, but he stayed away. The distance made my blood run hotter. By the time I finished, my shirt was glued to my back and my pulse was a freight train.
He finally showed up just before lunch, hair damp from a shower, wearing a clean t-shirt that clung to his chest in a way that made my fists clench. He leaned against the doorframe, eyes bright and nervous.
"You wanted to see me?"
I wanted to see all of him, preferably under me, begging for air. Instead, I said, "You done hiding?"
He shrugged. "I figured I'd get in trouble if I broke a dish."
"You're not going to break anything."
He looked at me, then at the scar on my arm, then back. "You're really not scared of anything, are you?"
I almost laughed. "Only losing control."
He came closer. His pulse was going so fast I could see it at the base of his throat. "You think I'd ever hurt you?"
I snorted. "Not a chance."
He took another step, so close I could feel the static off his skin. "Good."
He was pushing his luck.
I liked it.
I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him flush, our chests colliding. He gasped, then melted into it, all soft submission and hungry want. I didn't kiss him. I didn't have to. He knew what I wanted. He always had.
But I let him go, because the window was open and Ma had ears like a wolf. "Go help Harlow in the barn," I said, voice low. "I'll find you later."
He nodded, but he was smiling, a real one, the kind that showed all his teeth and made my guts twist.
As he left, I caught Ransom lurking in the hallway, watching with a look that said he'd seen everything. He raised his eyebrows at me and mouthed, "Finally."
I ignored him and went back to my work, but the whole time, I could smell Newt on my hands.
It was going to be a long, hard afternoon.
By evening, the house had settled into its usual chaos. Harlow was asleep on the porch, a giant hound curled up on his lap. Ma watched TV with the volume cranked to eleven. Ransom had gone off with his motorcycle buddies, which meant the house was, for once, quiet.
I found Newt in the living room, stretched out on the couch with a book balanced on his chest. He looked up, startled, then grinned like he'd been expecting me all day.
"What's up?" he said.
I wanted to say, "You are." Instead, I sat at the far end of the couch, propping my boots on the coffee table. He watched me, waiting. "You like it here?" I asked.
He nodded, serious now. "Yeah. I really do."
I thought about what Pa had said—about taking the good with the bad, about fighting for what you claimed. "You're not leaving," I said, just to hear it out loud.
He smiled, slow and knowing. "Not unless you want me gone."
I stared at him until he blushed and looked away.
Mission parameters: unchanged. Tomorrow, I'd have him. Tonight, I'd let him think he was safe.
I got up and headed for the door. "Get some sleep," I said. "It's going to be a big day tomorrow."
He watched me go, eyes bright with anticipation.
I closed the door behind me, fists clenched at my sides.
I was done waiting.
* * * *
Next day was hotter than forecast. I spent the morning in the shop, pretending I was interested in the rough planed cedar on my bench, but the only thing I saw was the window.
Specifically, the yard outside it.
Newt was out there with Harlow, washing down the trucks, a job that required, at most, a hose, two sponges, and maybe fifteen minutes of adult supervision. Instead, it had devolved into a war game of splash damage and tactical retreat.
Harlow soaked Newt from head to toe in under a minute. The white t-shirt he wore was instantly transparent, clinging to his ribs, his spine, the flat of his stomach where it bunched and showed the triangle of skin at the waistband.
I watched the outline of every muscle as he ducked and twisted, laughing so hard he almost dropped the hose. He was so goddamn pretty it hurt. That thought alone should have made me stop, but I couldn't. I stood at the window, jaw clenched, eyes locked.
Every time he moved, the shirt molded to him like a second skin. The sun made his hair look gold instead of strawberry. He was thin, but not breakable. Not anymore.
I wanted to see how hard I could push before he begged me to stop.