Chapter Eleven #2
Newt didn't even acknowledge them. He kept his attention locked on the guy at his feet, who was now crying, snot and blood mixing as he tried to clamp a hand over the gash in his arm. The knife Newt held dripped steady onto the boards.
"You think you can touch me?" Newt spat, voice gone gravel and venom. "You think you can just fucking take me?"
His chest heaved, the ripped shirt showing pale skin and the old, yellowed bruises that would never fade from memory.
The knife never wavered.
The sight of him, like that, made my cock harden so fast it was almost an insult to physics. Pride and something much, much darker surged up, drowning out the old logic, the tactical calculation.
I wanted to fuck him. Right there, in front of everyone. I wanted to bend him over the body and let him know exactly what "belonging" meant in this family. Instead, I just stood close, close enough that if he fell, he'd land in my arms.
Luther was at the edge of the drive, white-faced, lips working. He looked from the blood to Newt to me, then back again, like he couldn't process how he'd lost control. He’d come to reclaim his brother, and instead he’d found something he’d never seen before—a Bridger who wasn’t afraid to bleed.
"You hear me?" Newt roared, and the sound ricocheted off the porch, out into the darkness where every animal in the valley could hear it. "I belong to Knox McKenzie. No one fucking touches me unless he says so."
The guy on the ground whimpered, nodding rapidly, eyes rolling back as he tried to staunch the blood.
Newt stood there, wild-eyed, shirt torn, hands clutched around the knife I’d given him. There was blood on the blade, and more dripping down his forearm.
Truthfully, he’d never looked sexier.
I ignored the chaos and rushed up the steps heart in my throat. I grabbed him, hard, and shook him once. “You hurt?”
He blinked, then nodded. “No. Not mine. He tried to grab me and I—”
I pulled him in, pressed him to my chest, still holding the rifle in my other hand. “Good,” I said, and I meant it.
In the yard, the battle was already over. I hadn’t even heard it—too intent on Newt—but I knew my brothers had my back.
Quiad had the remaining Bridger boys pinned to the ground, faces in the mud, arms clasped behind their backs.
Harlow emerged from the shadows, moving slow, eyes locked on Luther.
The big man didn’t even bother to struggle.
He just stayed there, silent, as Harlow squatted down next to him and whispered something in his ear.
Luther shuddered, then nodded. Yeah, he was done.
I let go of Newt, made sure he could stand, then stepped closer to the edge of the porch. My brothers looked up, waiting for the verdict.
“Get ‘em up.” I waited until Luther and his friends stood and then sighted Luther down the barrel, just for a moment, just so he’d remember the feeling.
“You’re done,” I said. “Next time you set foot on McKenzie land, I’ll bury you on the ridge and plant a tree on top. You understand?”
Luther nodded, face white.
I flicked the muzzle toward the road. “Take your trash and go.”
Ransom stepped up, grabbed the guy on the porch by the collar, and yanked him upright. "You heard the man. Now, get the fuck off our property."
He shoved him down the steps, then wiped the blood on his jeans. He shot me a look, halfway between admiration and mischief.
Quiad circled wide, never taking his eyes off Luther, who was already up and backing away, hands up, defeated. Harlow released the dog, which limped after its owner, tail between its legs.
Ransom cracked his knuckles, then spat in the dirt. “That was almost fun,” he said.
Quiad grunted, then slung an arm around Ransom’s shoulders. “Next time, let’s use real ammo.”
I turned back to the house. Newt was sitting on the steps now, knees up, arms folded around himself. He was shaking again, but this time, it was just adrenaline, not fear.
I sat next to him, close enough that our shoulders touched. “You did good,” I said, voice low.
He looked at me, eyes still wild. “I stabbed him.”
I shrugged. “He deserved it.”
He laughed, shaky and thin. “I think I’m going to puke.”
“Do it off the side,” I said. “We just had the steps cleaned.”
He snorted, then leaned into me, body softening. He was trembling, but not with fear. He was riding the high, the after-burn of violence, same as I was.
I reached for his wrist, careful and slow. "You did good," I said, just loud enough for him to hear.
The words hit Newt like a punch. His face went slack, then flushed, a deep red that worked down his neck and up to his hairline. He blinked twice, then bit his lip and stared at me, waiting for the next order.
In front of us at the bottom of the steps us, the others fanned out, forming a semicircle at the edge of the yard. Harlow stood sentry, watching the road, while Ransom and Quiad covered the flanks.
I knew without looking that every window in the house was now filled with McKenzie faces, the extended clan lined up and ready to back the play, whatever it was.
The bleeding kid had made it to the gravel. Luther rushed to his side, clamped a hand over the wound, and glared back at me with all the impotent rage in the world.
"You'll pay for this," he hissed.
I smiled. "Send us a bill."
We watched until they stumbled off into the darkness.
Ransom waited until they were gone, then exhaled, long and low. "Well, that was fun. Who’s up for pancakes?"
Quiad grunted, then vanished back into the darkness, already thinking about the next threat.
I kept my eyes on Newt, who was still breathing like he'd run a marathon. His hands were shaking, but the fear was gone. All that remained was the adrenaline, the raw, wild confidence that comes from surviving a fight you never thought you'd win.
"You okay?" I asked, my own voice unfamiliar in my throat.
He nodded, wordless.
I wiped the blood from his hand with my sleeve, then pressed his palm flat against my chest so he could feel the drum of my heart. "You're safe," I said. "You’re home."
He sagged against me, finally letting himself collapse, and I caught him, as promised.
Harlow came up the steps, eyed the blood, and shook his head. "That’s gonna stain," he said. Then he ruffled Newt's hair, gentle, like nothing had just happened. "Welcome to the family," he said as he passed us and walked on into the house.
Ransom hooted, fist in the air, and even Quiad’s silhouette looked a little softer, standing at the edge of the yard, watching the horizon for the next challenge.
I stood up, swung Newt into my arms, and then carried him inside, past the gawkers, past the worried eyes and the stares of people who'd once wondered what a Bridger boy was doing with us.
Now they knew.
He belonged to me.
And after tonight, everyone else knew it, too.