Chapter Twelve
~ Newt ~
The kitchen had the weird, hollow quiet of a stage set after the audience had left. I was still standing, somehow, though my knees were doing an interpretive dance and the adrenaline in my bloodstream made the lights seem too bright, the edges of things too sharp.
My shirt was torn at the collar, blood drying sticky on my forearm. It wasn’t mine, but that didn’t make it less cinematic.
Knox was there, filling the doorway, eyes doing that thing where they looked everywhere at once before settling on me. He didn't say anything. Just watched, taking inventory, the way he would a new rifle or a coyote in the crosshairs.
I tried to remember if I should sit or stand or do jumping jacks to burn off the shakes, but my body had defaulted to "idiot lamprey" mode—waiting for the next order, pulse hammering in my throat.
The other McKenzies had melted away. Maybe they'd gone to check the perimeter, maybe they were stacking the bodies like cordwood. I wouldn't have been surprised either way.
Harlow had ruffled my hair and said, "Welcome to the family," then vanished with his arms full of broken porch furniture.
Ransom was probably outside, commemorating the event with moonshine or a tattoo gun or both.
I had no idea where Quiad was.
That left just me and Knox, which was, honestly, more terrifying than the horde of Bridger goons that had tried to abduct me ten minutes ago.
Knox stalked over, boots heavy on the linoleum, face unreadable except for the twitch at the edge of his mouth that meant either "you done good" or "I'm about to eat you."
Given the context, it could have gone either way.
I realized my hands were still clenched around the handle of the knife I'd used. The blade was caked with blood, some of it already flaking off in little brown petals.
My fingers were cramping. I tried to set it down, missed the countertop, and dropped it straight onto the floor with a clatter that echoed through the house.
"Sorry," I said, even though I wasn't sure what for. My voice cracked like a twelve-year-old with a secret porn stash.
Knox didn't blink. He just bent, picked up the knife with two fingers, and set it on the sink with a care usually reserved for wedding china or unexploded ordnance.
"You hurt?" he said, and it was both a question and a command.
I did a quick assessment. Bruises, sure. Some superficial scratches on my arm. Nothing new. Nothing I hadn't earned.
"I'm good," I lied, because it seemed easier than explaining the cosmic, whole-body tremor I was experiencing.
He didn't buy it. He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell the sweat and smoke and something darker under his skin. He grabbed my chin, turned my face this way and that, checking for damage.
"You ever killed a man before?" he asked, voice low.
I laughed, even though my stomach went ice-cold. "Pretty sure he's not dead. I mostly got his bicep."
Knox's lips quirked. "Good aim," he said, and for a second I saw it—the pride, the way he looked at me like I'd just aced a test nobody else could even take.
He let go of my chin, but didn't back away. Instead, he reached for the torn edge of my shirt and peeled it back from my shoulder, exposing the skin underneath. His fingers were hot and rough, but careful.
"You're shaking," he observed.
"I'd like to thank my sponsors—trauma, caffeine, and about nine gallons of adrenaline."
He almost smiled.
Almost.
I didn't know what to do with my hands, so I hugged myself, which was a terrible idea because it made me look even smaller and more breakable. Knox noticed, of course, and unwrapped my arms with his own, folding me up against his chest like a living straightjacket.
I made a noise, something between a gasp and a squeak, but it got lost in the fabric of his shirt. He smelled amazing. He felt even better.
For a long moment, we just stood there. My cheek against his collarbone, his chin resting on my hair, his arms locked around my ribs so tight I wasn't sure I could ever get loose again.
I was fine with that.
Eventually, I tried to break the tension with a joke. "So, do I get a merit badge for attempted murder or is that more of a—"
He shut me up with a finger to my lips. It was not a gentle gesture. It was possessive, absolute. "No talking," he said. "Not right now."
I nodded, feeling the heat rise in my face. My entire body was a raw nerve, every sensation cranked to eleven, but Knox's presence was the only thing keeping me from flying apart at the seams.
He tilted my chin up, just a little, and kissed me.
It wasn't soft. It wasn't tender. It was the kind of kiss that left marks, that branded you from the inside out.
His mouth was hot, and he didn't bother with the usual preamble—he just claimed me, tongue pushing in, hands fisted in my hair, like he needed to prove a point.
I kissed back, or tried to, but mostly I just let him take what he wanted. My hands went to his chest, clawed at the fabric there, desperate for something to anchor myself to.
He broke the kiss, just enough to breathe. His forehead pressed to mine, our noses bumping. "You're mine," he said, voice rough.
I nodded again, dumbly, because what else was I supposed to do? I'd belonged to a lot of things—fear, obligation, the gravitational pull of men who wanted to own me for all the wrong reasons.
But this? This felt different. This felt like the world had finally spun in my favor, even if only for a single, heart-stopping moment.
"Yeah," I said, and my voice was steadier than I expected. "I'm yours."
He kissed me again, slower this time, as if sealing a deal. My knees finally gave out, but he was ready, holding me up, refusing to let me go. I melted into him, letting the last of the adrenaline burn off. For the first time in my life, I wasn't scared of what came next.
I was hungry for it.
There’s a weird thing that happens to your brain after you almost die, or maybe after you claim someone else’s life, even temporarily.
Everything goes soft-focus around the edges, and the only things that matter are the things you can touch—skin, lips, the hot coil of another body pressed against yours.
Maybe that’s how you know you survived. You come back to your body, and you want.
Knox’s hand never left my shoulder. He steered me out of the kitchen and upstairs with the same military efficiency he used for everything, but now the grip was different—no longer checking for damage, but marking me, a statement of intent.
When we got to his room, he kicked the door shut behind us so hard the walls rattled. I barely had time to register the sound before he was on me again.
He didn’t bother with gentle. He pinned me to the door with a single, huge hand at my chest, the other cupping the back of my neck, forcing me to look up at him. My head barely cleared his collarbone; I felt like a doll, a wind-up toy waiting for instructions.
His eyes were dark. Not angry, not even really lusty. Just… hungry. Like he’d been fasting and I was the only thing on the menu.
“You want this?” he asked, low and guttural. I nodded, but he held my jaw so I couldn’t look away. “Say it,” he growled.
“I want this,” I said, and my voice was a breathless mess, but it did the trick.
He yanked the remains of my shirt down off my shoulders. The fabric caught at my elbows and tore, leaving me bare-chested and shivering in the cool, late-afternoon air. My nipples stood out, hard and pink, and Knox’s gaze dragged over them before coming back to my face.
“Good,” he said.
He spun me around, chest to the door, hands braced on either side of my head. I could feel his cock—already hard as rebar—against the small of my back, grinding slow and deliberate. His breath was hot against my ear; he bit the lobe hard enough to make me gasp, then licked over the sting.
I felt him fumbling at my waistband, then in one fluid motion he shoved my sweats down to my knees.
My ass was bare, cold air prickling every square inch, and I had a second to be embarrassed before his hands were on me, kneading, squeezing, spreading me open like he was testing the ripeness of a fruit at the supermarket.
I squirmed, but not to get away. I wanted more contact, more of him, and I arched back into his grip like a cat in heat. He must’ve liked that, because he let out a low, animal sound and pressed his cock harder into the cleft of my ass.
“You ever been fucked like this?” he asked, and it wasn’t really a question. He lined up his cock and ground the head against my hole, slow and deliberate, not pushing in yet, just letting me feel the size of it.
I tried to look over my shoulder, but he shoved my face forward, cheek to the door. “No,” I gasped. “Not—fuck—not like this.”
“Good,” he said again.
He spit in his hand—loud, rude, primal—and slicked himself up before pushing the tip inside me. My breath caught, and the stretch was so intense I almost whined.
“You okay?” he said, and for all the roughness, there was a thread of care in his voice.
I nodded, desperate for more.
He pushed in, slow but relentless, one hand braced on the back of my neck, the other gripping my hip so hard I was sure I’d have bruises in the morning.
It hurt. It hurt in that way that’s half pain, half pure, electric sensation. My whole body was on fire; I could feel every ridge, every pulse of his cock as it split me open.
I pressed my forehead to the door and exhaled, trying to relax, but Knox didn’t give me the chance—he bottomed out, hips flush against my ass, and just held me there, letting my body adjust.
When the pain faded, it left a raw, molten hunger in its place. I wanted to move, to fuck back into him, but he held me still, controlling the rhythm, making me take it.
“Fuck,” I said, voice muffled against the wood. “You’re huge.”
Knox laughed, a single, sharp exhale. “You can take it,” he said, then started to move.
The first thrust was careful, more testing than fucking, but the second was harder, and the third drove me up onto my toes.
My cock bounced, slapping against the door, leaking, and with each movement I could feel his balls slap against mine, the wet, obscene sound of it echoing in the small room.
He fucked me like he meant it. Not some tender, romantic thing, but the kind of urgent, rough sex that left you changed, ruined, better than you were before.
His hands never stopped moving—sometimes gripping my hips, sometimes sliding up my spine, sometimes wrapping around my throat just enough to let me know who was in control.
“Mine,” he said, voice a growl. “You’re fucking mine.”
I moaned, unable to form words. My fingers clawed at the door, searching for leverage, anything to ground myself as he fucked me harder, deeper, each thrust knocking the wind out of my lungs in the best way.
He reached around, wrapped his big hand around my cock and stroked in time with his hips. The friction was almost too much, sensation ricocheting up my spine and into my skull until I thought I’d pass out.
I could feel the orgasm building, low and hot and inevitable. I tried to warn him, but all that came out was a strangled “Knox—”
He didn’t slow down. He slammed into me, over and over, until my legs started to shake and my vision blurred at the edges.
When I came, it was violent, full-body, every muscle tensing as I shot all over his hand and the door and myself. I nearly collapsed, but he held me up, fucking me through it, never letting go.
He was close, I could tell from the way his rhythm faltered, the grip on my neck tightening just a hair, his breathing going ragged.
With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself to the hilt and came, the heat of it flooding inside me, filling me up in every way. He grunted, forehead pressed to the back of my head, then went still.
For a minute, neither of us moved. The only sound was our breathing—loud, harsh, and perfectly in sync.
He pulled out, slow, and I whimpered at the loss. My legs gave out and I slid down the door, landing on the floor in a boneless heap.
Knox followed me down, wrapping his arms around my chest and hauling me into his lap. He was still hard, still half inside me, but now the touch was gentle, almost reverent.
He kissed the back of my neck, the line of my jaw, the shell of my ear. “You’re perfect,” he murmured. “You’re mine.”
I turned, twisted awkwardly until I was facing him, and kissed him back. His lips were soft now, the hunger spent, but the need was still there, coiled under the surface.
We stayed like that for a while, tangled up, the world outside the door forgotten. My ass throbbed, my body was a bruise, but I’d never felt safer. Never felt more like myself.
Eventually, he scooped me up, carried me to the bed, and tucked me under the covers. He joined me, the weight of him an anchor, a promise.
I drifted, somewhere between sleep and bliss, and listened as his heartbeat slowed, as the world outside faded to nothing. If this was what it meant to be claimed, to belong, I’d take it every time.
And tomorrow, if anyone tried to take me back, they’d have to pry me from Knox’s arms, one broken bone at a time.
Good luck to them.