Chapter Thirteen #2
I wanted to say something clever. Something that would make him back off, or at least make him question his own authority, but the only words that came to mind were direct and ugly, so I went with those.
“He’s not yours,” I said, loud enough for the booth vendor to overhear. “Not anymore.”
James Bridger’s lips tightened. He flicked his gaze past me, as if looking for backup. All he found was Ransom, leaning against a crate of honey, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
I hadn’t even noticed my brother until that moment. He winked at me, then at Newt, and sauntered over, hands in his jacket pockets.
“Is there a problem here?” Ransom asked, voice light, eyes deadly.
James took a breath, straightened his jacket, and put on the fake smile he reserved for donors and the press. “None at all,” he said. “Just surprised to see Newton out and about. I was under the impression he was… unwell.”
“He’s better,” I said. “Thriving, actually.”
Ransom snorted. “You want a doctor’s note or will a DNA sample do?”
James ignored him, locked eyes with Newt. “I hope you’re making good choices, son.”
Newt froze. I could see the words dying in his throat.
I didn’t give him time to choke on them. I reached up, cupped his jaw, and forced him to meet my eyes. “You’re mine now,” I said. “Not his. Mine.”
Newt blinked. Color flooded his cheeks, high and fast. He nodded, barely.
James looked like he’d just bit into a lemon. “This isn’t over,” he said, voice so quiet I almost missed it.
“Yeah,” Ransom said. “But your part in it is.”
James glared at him, then at me, then turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd.
I kept my hand on Newt’s face until his breathing evened out. “You okay?” I asked.
He nodded, then shook his head. “I hate him,” he whispered. “I hate how he still gets to me.”
“That’s the last time he does,” I said. “You have my word.”
He managed a shaky smile. “You’re really not scared of him.”
“I’ve faced worse,” I said. “Also, he’s got a terrible left hook.”
That got a real laugh. He leaned into my touch, almost catlike, and I let myself feel proud for half a second.
Then I saw the rest of my brothers.
Harlow, standing sentry by the kettle corn stand, arms folded, face like a mountain. Quiad, shadowing us from the spice booth, hands loose at his sides, eyes scanning for threats.
Even Uncle Cyrus was lurking near the pie vendor, eating an apple and radiating a kind of casual menace that would make most people cross the street. I hadn’t called them. I hadn’t needed to. They were here for us, for Newt, for the family.
It was what we did.
I caught Ransom’s eye. He shrugged, as if to say, “What did you expect?”
We moved as a unit through the last of the market, the four of them closing ranks around us like we were royalty on a tour of enemy territory. People stared, but nobody said a word.
Not even Mrs. Henderson, who watched with an open-mouthed fascination as Harlow gently moved a toddler out of the way and then offered the kid a chunk of kettle corn.
We lingered at Rosie’s coffee stand before heading out—a McKenzie tradition, which meant skipping it would be a red flag to anyone watching for patterns.
Newt stood by the edge of the counter, one hand wrapped around the cup, the other brushing against mine in a way that was so tentative, I almost missed it.
Almost.
I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The crowd had thinned; only the hardcore caffeine addicts and a couple of old guys playing checkers on the bench remained. Still, every move felt exposed. Every laugh or cough or clatter of a cup echoed, louder than it should.
Newt’s fingers kept finding mine, then pulling away, then coming back like a nervous Morse code. I let him run the sequence twice before grabbing his hand, intertwining our fingers, and setting it on the counter where everyone could see.
His whole body went rigid. I felt the tremor start in his wrist and work up to his shoulder. He stared at our hands like he couldn’t figure out if this was a good idea or a public execution.
A shadow crossed the counter. Rosie herself—two cups in hand, hair tied back, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. She set them down, then gave me a look like she was grading my performance.
“Bold move,” she said, nodding at the joined hands. “You boys sure you want to start this here?”
I smiled, no teeth. “We already started it. Just making it official.”
She grunted, unimpressed, and wiped her hands on a towel. “Town’s gonna eat itself alive over this.”
“Good,” I said. “They could use the protein.”
Rosie snorted, then turned to Newt. “You doing okay, hon?”
He nodded, tried to smile. “Yeah. Thank you.”
“Just coffee,” she said, but the softness in her voice was real.
When she left, I leaned in, close enough that my stubble rasped against his ear. “You did good today.”
He shivered, a full-body quiver I could feel all the way down to my bones. “You think it matters?”
I squeezed his hand, tight. “It matters to me.”
He looked at me then—really looked. Blue eyes, wide and clear, searching for the catch. When he didn’t find one, he smiled, shy and real. “Thank you,” he said, barely above a whisper.
The simple obedience, the way he let himself be seen, made something in me snap. I was hard, already, and he must’ve felt it because he went even redder.
“Later,” I said, voice low. “When we’re alone, I’ll show you how proud I am.”
He swallowed. “Promise?”
“Scout’s honor.”
He laughed—soft, shaky, but genuine.
I finished my coffee in three gulps, never taking my eyes off him. When we left the stand, I put my hand at his waist, fingers spread wide, and guided him through the last of the crowd like I was leading a parade.
People stared. They always would. But no one dared say a word. Not with me there. Not with the brothers watching. Not with Newt smiling like he’d finally won something worth keeping.
I turned to Newt. “You want to run, you run, but I’d rather you stayed.”
He looked at the brothers, then at me, and smiled, slow and bright. “I’ll stay.”
“Good,” I said, and leaned down and kissed him. Not a peck, not a tease—just a promise, sealed and public. When I pulled away, he was grinning, eyes bright and a little wild.
Right there, in front of everyone.
The brothers cheered. The town gawked. And somewhere in the distance, I hoped James Bridger was choking on his own bile.
Newt tasted like cinnamon and adrenaline. I pulled him in close, holding him there, letting the message echo through every alley and every gossip’s tongue in town: He’s with me. Come for him again, and see what happens.
“Let them talk,” I said.
He nodded. “Let them.”
I got in the truck with Newt tucked close to my side, started the engine, and floored it out of the lot. Tomorrow, the world would still be watching, but tonight, he was mine.
And I was going to make damn sure he remembered it.