Chapter Nine
~ Knox ~
The house was still, but I wasn't. Every sense was dialed up to eleven, I walked the perimeter like it was a forward operating base under siege and not the same place I'd spent the morning fucking Newt in.
The adrenaline spike from the confrontation with Bridger and the sheriff hadn't faded; it had tunneled deep, a cold heat in my spine that sharpened everything, made the world feel glass-clear and breakable.
Newt was shaking. Not the nervous, bird-boned shiver from before, but a seismic tremor, like his body was running earthquake drills in anticipation of the next disaster.
He'd collapsed on the end of the couch, knees up, arms locked around himself so tight I thought his bones might snap under the pressure.
Harlow hovered nearby, pretending to read the newspaper but never once letting his eyes stray more than an inch from Newt's face.
I ignored both of them at first. Stalked the windows, checked the doors, clocked the location of every sibling and cousin still on site.
Ransom was on the back porch, smoking and muttering to himself; Ma's silhouette was visible through the frosted glass of the laundry room, probably arming herself with the cast iron again.
Even Quiad, who preferred to haunt the shop alone, had drifted into the hallway, posture alert, eyes narrowed.
The house was a hive, and the only thing more dangerous than a McKenzie on a good day was a McKenzie expecting a fight.
It was muscle memory that pulled me back to the couch, to the point where I was kneeling in front of Newt, one hand braced on the upholstery and the other hovering an inch above his hair.
He didn't look up. His gaze was fixed on some point in the middle distance, jaw clenched, pupils blown so wide the blue was just a ghostly ring around the edge.
The stress response was familiar—I'd seen it in combat zones and prison yards and once, memorably, in a middle school cafeteria right before a food fight escalated into an actual riot.
I could have spoken. I could have barked an order or made a joke. But instinct said this was a hands-on situation, so I used my thumb to sweep the hair back from his temple, slow and deliberate. He flinched, but then exhaled, the sound sharp and raw in the stillness.
"You good?" I said, voice pitched low enough that it barely registered above the tick of the wall clock.
He shook his head, the movement jerky. "He—he's coming back," Newt whispered. His voice had gone strange, half-cracked, like he was talking to a ghost or an enemy he couldn't see. "He's going to come back. He's not—he never—"
I squeezed the back of his neck, gentle but unbreakable. "He can try," I said.
Newt's breath hitched again. I didn't let go.
"He's going to make it legal," Newt mumbled. "He said he would. He said I was—I was sick, that they'd make you give me up. That no one couldn't protect me, not from him."
I didn't bother with platitudes. I just stroked his hair again, rhythmic, like calming a spooked horse. My other hand went to the inside pocket of my shirt, where the knife was sheathed and ready. The safety of this house was an illusion, and I was done pretending otherwise.
"Newt," I said, flat and level, "Look at me."
He didn't, at first. Then he did, and I let him see the truth. The cold, the calculation, the hard edge behind every soft word I'd given him so far.
"You're not going anywhere," I said. "Not unless you decide to. I don't care if he brings the law, the goddamn National Guard, or a firing squad. He sets foot on this property, I'll put him down."
Harlow, still at parade rest a few feet away, didn't flinch. He just nodded, once. Ransom, who had reentered and was loitering in the archway, grinned like Christmas had come early.
Newt's breathing slowed, marginally. The shaking lessened, but didn't vanish. "He'll find a way," he whispered, voice going thin. "He always does."
I leaned in, until our foreheads were almost touching. "Tea first," I said. "Then I deal with the rest of this shit."
I dragged him upright by the wrist, gentle as I could manage, and marched him to the kitchen. Harlow followed, silent as a bodyguard, and took up station at the door.
The rest of the house had gone to ground, but every McKenzie eye was on us, I could feel it. I made Newt sit, planted him at the end of the table where the view of every exit was clear.
I set the kettle on and grabbed a mug from the rack. It was the chipped one, the one that had survived three generations of men too stubborn to throw anything away. I poured the water, dropped the bag in, and shoved it across the table to him.
He clutched the mug in both hands, knuckles bone-white. When he sipped, the tremor in his fingers was barely visible, but I saw it.
I saw everything.
I pulled out a chair and sat at his side, never letting my body get further than an arm’s reach from him. My left hand rested on the table, open, palm up. After a long minute, he set the mug down and put his own hand in mine, like he’d just remembered how.
We sat like that, not talking, while the rest of the house pretended not to listen. I catalogued every shadow out the window, every noise from the yard.
I replayed the encounter with the sheriff a dozen times, memorized the cadence of Bridger’s voice, the way he’d stood just a little too close, the way the sheriff had let his eyes linger on Newt’s bruises for a half-beat too long.
It was a threat assessment, pure and simple. Two targets—one predictable, one wildcard. The sheriff had limits to what he could do. He liked the McKenzies more than he hated us, and that would buy some time.
But the father was a different animal. He wouldn't come at us straight; he'd try to outmaneuver, use leverage, maybe the courts, maybe something dirtier.
Fine. I'd seen it all before. I had answers for every scenario.
I was in my own head, planning three moves ahead, when Newt finally spoke. "Why are you doing this?" he said, staring into the mug like it might spill secrets if he looked hard enough.
I didn't answer right away. I wanted to say, because I can, because it's what I do, because the sight of you shaking like that makes me want to set the world on fire just to keep you warm.
Instead, I settled for, "Because I said I would."
Newt snorted, a shaky, aborted laugh. He still didn't look at me, but his hand gripped tighter. "You don't even know me," he whispered.
"Don't need to," I replied.
He did look then, eyes red but clear. "You think you can fix this?" His voice was bitter, but there was something behind it—hope, or maybe just the need for someone to lie to him convincingly.
"Not interested in fixing," I said, voice flat. "Just making sure nobody breaks you again."
That was the truth, the only one that mattered.
The house was quiet. The kettle clicked off, and the radio in the other room played a low hum of country static.
Newt drank his tea, slower now. He didn't let go of my hand.
I let my other hand drift to his shoulder, thumb tracing the edge of his collarbone through the thin fabric. He was fragile, but not breakable. Not anymore.
I'd see to it personally.
For the next hour, we sat in silence, the kind that only made sense to soldiers and people who'd survived something together. Every so often, I'd catch him glancing over, like he was checking to see if I was still there. Like he couldn't quite believe it.
Eventually, the tea was gone, and the color started to come back into his face. The tremors faded, replaced by something steadier. I loosened my grip, but he didn't pull away.
When he spoke again, his voice was stronger. "You going to stay here all night?"
I nodded. "Long as it takes."
He didn't argue, didn't ask if I needed to be somewhere else or if I'd rather be alone. He knew the answer.
So did I.
I watched him drift off, head lolling to one side, mouth going slack with exhaustion. When I was sure he was asleep, I stood and surveyed the room one more time. Every door locked, every window sighted in, every brother accounted for.
I stood in the dark, watching the rise and fall of his chest, and thought about the things a man could be willing to die for. Some people called it love. Some called it a death wish. To me, it was just the next mission.
And this time, I wasn't planning to lose.
I barely slept that night. Even after Newt went limp in my arms, even after I swept the property twice and made sure every lock was double-barred, my brain kept spitting out contingency plans like some fucked-up survivalist’s version of a lullaby.
I lay on top of the covers, fully dressed, eyes on the ceiling until sunrise burned a thin gold line along the edge of the curtains.
By the time Newt stirred—face smashed into the crook of my shoulder, drooling like an infant—I had already mapped out the next forty-eight hours in excruciating detail.
He blinked awake, confused, then embarrassed, then scared, all in the space of a breath. I let him go, but only to roll off the bed and start prepping for war.
“You need to get dressed,” I said, voice flat.
He looked at the clock, then at me, then at the heap of borrowed clothes piled on the chair. “Is it—what time is it?”
“Doesn’t matter. Just get dressed. Now.”
He did. I watched as he peeled off the ratty t-shirt he’d slept in, his torso pale and marked up with the faded bruises of the last week. My own hands twitched, wanting to touch, but I kept them to myself.
There wasn’t time for tenderness, not today.
He yanked on a pair of sweatpants that were two sizes too big, cinching the drawstring with frantic little tugs. The hoodie was mine, and it swallowed him whole, the hem nearly to his knees. He looked ridiculous.
He looked perfect.
“You expecting trouble?” he asked, voice soft.