Chapter Fifteen #2
The words hit like cold water. My brain tried to process, but every muscle was locked. “You’re full of shit,” I said, but it was barely more than a whisper.
“Am I?” he said, smiling wide. “She sold you. Signed the paperwork and everything.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folder—real, thick, with a notary’s stamp visible through the clear sleeve. He waved it in my face, then tucked it away.
“You’re mine now,” he said.
The world tilted. Something inside me wanted to scream, but it was frozen, trapped in the space between my ribs.
I looked at my arm, at the ring of ink that bore Quiad’s name. The band of platinum on my left hand, the wedding ring that still felt like a holy relic.
“I’m a McKenzie,” I spat, voice shaking but louder. “You try to take me, my husband will fucking destroy you.”
For a second, the man in the suit actually laughed. “You think he’s going to save you? You think anyone cares enough to look?”
He stood, then, and raised his hand. The blow landed across my mouth, fast and surgical. I tasted blood before I even felt the pain—hot, coppery, flooding my tongue. I watched it spatter across the front of my shirt, a bright red badge of failure.
The men behind me let go, and I slumped to the ground. Every nerve ending screamed, but I forced myself up, clawing at the wall until my knees locked.
He crouched again, wiped the blood from my chin with the back of his hand, and smiled. “Let’s go,” he said, and jerked his head at the muscle.
They lifted me up, one man under each arm, and started walking.
The world spun past in blurred streaks of color—market, sky, the empty stretch of road.
I tried to fight, but my limbs were useless, all the power gone.
At the edge of the parking lot, I caught a last glimpse of the market, the banners and the white tents and the people moving in oblivious circles.
I wanted to scream, but my jaw wouldn’t work. I looked at my wrist, at the name burned into my skin, and thought: Please, Quiad. Find me.
Then the world went dark.
I came back to myself in a universe of pain.
The world spun on a dull, red axis; the inside of my skull throbbed with each heartbeat, and every surface of my body ached like I’d been run over by a tractor and then hit for good measure.
Somewhere above me, men were talking, their voices filtered through cotton and the shrill of my own pulse.
Someone shook me, fingers digging into my armpits, hoisting me upright. The back of my head bounced off brick, sending a scatter of fireworks across my vision. I tried to move, but my limbs were dead weights. I opened my eyes to a blur of concrete, trash, and sunlight, all washed out and violent.
The man in the suit crouched in front of me again, close enough to see the individual grains of stubble along his jaw.
My mouth tasted like metal, a slow ooze of blood dribbling down my chin.
He looked at me with the kind of studied indifference you’d give to a wild animal, then reached out and grabbed my face, turning it left and right.
“You’ll heal,” he said. “Pretty faces always do.”
He stood, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. “Get him in the car,” he said, bored now. One of the muscle men bent to haul me up, hands rough under my arms.
There was a lull, a beat in the script, the kind of silence that makes your hair stand on end. The world froze in that instant. Even the birds in the alley shut up.
Then came the roar.
It started as a vibration, a low-frequency rumble that shook the brick wall against my spine. Then it resolved itself into a voice—a bellow so animal and loud it bordered on the supernatural.
“What the fuck are you doing to my brother?”
I had just enough time to see the faces of my captors go slack with confusion before the McKenzies exploded into the alley like a natural disaster.
Knox hit first, a human battering ram, plowing the first man back into a row of trash bins so hard the metal caved in.
The man in the suit reached inside his jacket—maybe for a weapon, maybe for a phone—but a blur of denim and ink intercepted him.
Ransom, all bone and fury, tackled the suit man to the ground, pinning him with a forearm across his throat.
Bodean was suddenly at my side, his eyes wild and shiny as he tried to pull me to my feet. “You okay?” he hissed. “Say something, man, say you’re alive.”
I managed a grunt, which was the best I could do. My lip stung like it’d been split open with a razor.
In the chaos, I lost sight of the man in the suit.
When I looked again, Ransom had him upright, one arm twisted behind his back, pushing him toward the brick wall like he was cattle.
Ransom bared his teeth and growled in the guy’s ear.
“How’s it feel, asshole? You like hurting kids? Try this on for size.”
The two muscle men tried to regroup, but Knox and Bodean closed ranks, pushing me behind them like I was the only thing worth protecting in the world.
The air was filled with the sound of bodies slamming into bodies, shoes scraping concrete, curses spat through broken teeth.
I watched as Knox wrapped his arm around one man’s neck, squeezing until his face turned the color of wet cement.
But it was Quiad who brought the apocalypse.
He emerged from the end of the alley, backlit and immense, his expression a cold, empty mask.
He walked through the chaos like it didn’t even touch him.
The man in the suit saw him coming and tried to run, but Ransom held him fast, forcing him to face the oncoming storm.
Quiad reached them in three strides. He looked at Ransom. “Let go.”
Ransom did.
Quiad grabbed the man by the lapels, lifting him off the ground like he was made of balsa wood.
The man twisted, trying to claw free, but Quiad slammed him against the wall with enough force to crack the plaster.
He leaned in, and for the first time I saw Quiad’s face contorted by something worse than anger. It was hate, pure and simple.
“You think you can touch my family?” he said, voice flat, barely above a whisper. “You think you can take what’s mine?”
The man tried to talk, but it came out as a wet gasp.
Quiad hit him. Once. Twice. Three times, each blow a meat-hook thud that sent blood spraying across the brick. The man sagged, and still Quiad didn’t stop. I watched, half-conscious, as my husband broke every bone in the man’s face, each impact echoing through my ribs like a gunshot.
Someone screamed—not the man, but maybe me, or maybe Bodean, who had gone pale and was trying to drag me away from the wall. I dug my heels in, transfixed, unable to look away as Quiad painted the alley with violence.
Finally, it was Knox who called out. “Quiad! Enough! You’re killing him!”
Quiad didn’t hear, or didn’t care. He just kept punching, his knuckles slick with blood, his jaw clenched tight enough to shatter teeth.
Ransom spun to me, grabbed my shoulders. “Levi,” he shouted. “You gotta call him off! He’ll go full psycho if you don’t!”
I tried to speak, but my mouth was a busted tire. All I could do was make a sound, low and desperate. But I saw Quiad’s arm rear back for another swing, and I knew what I had to do.
“Quiad,” I croaked. “I need you.”
The effect was instant. He froze, fist cocked, then turned his head in my direction. His eyes went wide, wild animal wild, and for a second I thought he might not even recognize me.
Then he dropped the man in the suit, who slumped to the ground with a gurgle, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.
Quiad was at my side in two steps. He dropped to his knees, hands trembling as he cupped my face, turning it side to side the way a man inspects a precious thing that’s been run over by a truck.
The blood on his knuckles smeared across my cheek, and I could taste the salt and iron of it on my tongue.
He looked me dead in the eye. “Did they hurt you?” His voice was broken, soft. Nothing like the rage from a minute ago.
I nodded, or tried to. The pain in my jaw was intense, but nothing compared to the feeling of his hands on me—solid, real, anchoring me to the earth.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
I wasn’t sure, but I said yes. He helped me up, keeping one arm wrapped around my waist like a tourniquet. I staggered, nearly fell, but Bodean slipped under my other arm, propping me up.
Behind us, Knox and Ransom were dragging the other two men into the open, lining them up against the dumpster. The man in the suit didn’t get up; he just lay there, leaking blood into the cracks of the pavement.
I looked at Quiad’s face—bloodied, hands shaking, mouth twisted with worry. “Don’t let them get away,” I said. “They’ll just come back.”
He nodded once, then looked at Knox. “Call Floyd.”
Knox was already on it, his phone at his ear, eyes scanning the alley for more threats.
Quiad kept his arm tight around me, refusing to let go even when I tried to stand on my own. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said, voice a raw scrape. “Don’t you ever leave my sight, you hear me?”
I nodded, then buried my face in his chest. He held me there, hands gentle, the violence gone but the strength still there, immutable.
The sirens started up in the distance, getting closer.
Bodean wiped at his face, eyes glassy. “Holy shit, man. You almost killed that guy.”
Quiad didn’t answer. He just pulled me closer, his lips pressed to the top of my head, whispering, “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
But I knew the world was never that simple.
As the police closed in, I closed my eyes, letting the ache wash over me, letting myself be held. Whatever happened next, I knew this: nobody would ever take me from him. Not while Quiad still had breath left to fight.