Chapter Sixteen
~ Quiad ~
It was the little things that undid me—the red sliver of dried blood on the rim of a coffee mug, the warped reflection of my face in the stainless steel faucet, the barely perceptible tremor in my left hand when I tried to twist the cap off the peroxide.
The kitchen was still and dim, except for the yellow glare of the under-cabinet lighting, which made everything look sick, jaundiced. I stood at the sink, staring at the world outside, every muscle in my jaw wound tight as an archer’s bow.
On the stove, Ma’s ginger chicken soup sputtered in a cast iron pot. It was supposed to be comfort food, the kind she made whenever anyone in the house so much as sneezed, but tonight it just sat there, an oil-slicked sea of yellow.
The smell—usually a promise that nothing bad could ever happen—made my stomach churn. I couldn’t look at it without wanting to break the bowl against the tile.
I ground my teeth so hard it sounded like gravel.
Through the window above the sink, I could see Knox, Harlow, and Ransom on the porch, framed by the light from the bug-zapper and the faint gleam of the security lamps out by the barn.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, each with a rifle balanced in their arms, posture loose but eyes sharp, as if they were expecting the woods themselves to get up and march on the house.
Knox paced the length of the porch, boots echoing off the old boards, while Harlow just rocked on his heels, slow and silent, staring into the dark as if he could will any threat to reveal itself.
Ransom leaned against a post, a cigarette dangling from his mouth, fingers drumming on the stock of his rifle like he was keeping time for a firing squad.
I should have been out there with them, but instead I was here, inventorying the damage.
The images kept replaying: Levi’s face, wild with panic, blood spattered across the front of his shirt; the way his body had crumpled when the suit hit him; the blank shock in his eyes when he realized it wasn’t just a threat, it was real this time, it was happening.
My mind cycled through the details, unable to let go. The way the split lip had bloomed instantly, fat and purple, a bead of blood swelling at the corner like a single tear. The way his arms had hung, slack and defeated, as if even his bones had given up.
The urge to kill something—someone—coiled in my gut, hot and animal. I caught myself gripping the handle of the knife block, fingers white, the blade halfway out before I registered what I was doing. I forced it back in, slow, then shook my hand out like it was a cramp.
I wanted to hunt them down. I wanted to feel their windpipes collapse under my hands, to watch the light go out of their eyes, to make them understand what it was to suffer for a mistake.
I wanted to find Gloria and drag her by the hair through every street in this town, let everyone see what happened to people who touched what was mine. I wanted blood.
Instead, I watched the soup simmer.
Behind me, the house creaked and shifted. The wind off the creek rattled the windows, and somewhere in the distance, a fox screamed, the sound shrill and human enough to make the hairs on my arms stand up.
I looked down at my hands. The tremor was worse now. My left thumb tapped a staccato rhythm against my palm, like a telegraph operator losing his mind.
I tried to steady it by gripping the edge of the sink, but the metal was slick with condensation. My wedding ring—two weeks old, still pristine—glinted in the harsh light, an anchor in a storm.
I focused on the list. Get Levi out of those blood-soaked clothes. Disinfect the cuts. Make sure nothing was broken that couldn’t be set. Get him to eat something, even if it meant spoon-feeding him like a child. Make sure he slept. Make sure he knew he was safe.
I had to do all of it or the rage would get loose and burn down the world.
I heard the door creak open, and my pulse spiked. I didn’t turn. I didn’t need to.
“You gonna stand there all night?” Ransom’s voice, deadpan and sharp as a paper cut. “Or you planning on actually feeding him?”
I kept my eyes on the window. “He’s not hungry.”
“Not the point,” said Ransom. “You gotta act normal. For him. For Ma. For everyone.”
I didn’t answer.
He stepped into the kitchen, rifle slung over his shoulder, the reek of smoke following him like a dog.
He nodded at the soup, then at my hands, then at the window.
“They’re not coming back tonight. Floyd’s got the main road locked down.
Knox says Harlow could take out a moose from here to the water tower if he had to. ”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “They tried once. They’ll try again.”
Ransom let that sit. He picked up a bowl from the drying rack, then filled it with soup. He set it on the counter, shoved a spoon in, and looked at me. “Levi needs you.”
I exhaled, tried to shake the anger off like water, but it clung to every inch of me. I wiped my hands on a towel, then picked up the bowl.
Ransom watched, his gaze flicking to my knuckles, where the skin was split and bruised from the alley brawl. “You should clean that,” he said.
I ignored him.
In the bedroom, I found Levi propped against a nest of pillows, eyes glazed and unfocused. The bruises on his face had deepened, the cut on his lip crusted black. There was blood on the sheets, a rusty Rorschach that made me want to peel the skin from my own bones.
He looked up as I entered, and for a second the old fear was there, sharp and bright. Then he saw the soup, and his mouth twisted into something like a smile.
“Hey,” he said. Voice hoarse, barely there.
I sat beside him on the bed, the soup bowl cradled in both hands.
He tried to push himself upright, but winced. I caught his shoulder, guided him back down, then tucked the blanket up under his chin. “You’re supposed to eat.”
He looked at me, blue eyes too wide in his battered face. “Not hungry.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said, echoing Ransom. “You have to try.”
He nodded, let me scoop up a spoonful and bring it to his lips. He took it, slow, but the second it hit his tongue he gagged, turning his head away. I set the bowl on the nightstand.
My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Levi reached out, his fingers spidering over my wrist, tracing the tattoo he’d put there himself—black ink, a ring of thorns and his initials hidden in the vines. His thumb stroked over the new scab on my knuckle.
“I’m okay,” he whispered. “You don’t have to—”
“I do,” I said, harsher than I meant.
He flinched, and I hated myself for it.
I took a breath, forced the words out softer. “I do have to. It’s my job.”
He gave me a look—part skepticism, part apology. “Your job is woodworking. Not body-guarding.”
“Same thing,” I said.
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
I sat there, frozen, feeling the war inside me play out in real time: the need to cradle him against my chest, to guard him from the world, fighting with the hunger to mete out violence, to answer pain with pain.
The soup cooled in the bowl. Levi’s hand was still on my wrist.
I didn’t know if I could keep him safe. But I knew I’d kill every single thing that tried to hurt him, even if it meant becoming something I couldn’t recognize in the mirror.
I tucked the blanket tighter around him, then stroked his hair back from his forehead, the old, automatic gesture.
“Sleep,” I said. “You can take a shower once you get some rest.”
He nodded, already halfway there.
I watched him, the rise and fall of his chest, the soft hitch of his breath when he rolled onto his side. I stayed until I was sure he was under, then crept from the room, closing the door soft behind me.
Downstairs, I heard the rifles racking and the brothers settling in for the night. The house was safe, for now.
I went back to the kitchen, poured the soup down the drain, and rinsed the bowl twice.
My hands still shook. They would for a long time.
But tomorrow, I’d find the men who’d done this. Tomorrow, I’d show them what it meant to fuck with a McKenzie. Tomorrow, I’d make sure nobody ever touched my Sunshine again.
* * * *
Levi only slept for a couple of hours before he woke up demanding a shower. Said he could sleep with the smell of blood all around him. I believed him because I knew what he was talking about.
Blood was a terrible bedmate.
The bathroom was a confessional, white tile and harsh light exposing everything you’d rather leave in shadow. I guided Levi in, one arm around his waist, the other bracing his shoulder.
He shuffled, blinking against the light, his feet dragging over the grout lines. There was an old towel on the floor, and I aimed him at it, then steadied him when his knees wobbled.
He looked wrecked. Even with the swelling down and most of the blood washed off his face, the bruises had spread, blooming under his skin like black roses.
The cut on his lip was a straight line, clean but deep, and it pulsed with every heartbeat. His hair clung in damp clots, and there was a patch of dried blood on the side of his neck that I hadn’t noticed before, probably where one of the bastards had tried to choke him.
I set him on the closed toilet lid and crouched in front of him, hands fisted against my thighs to keep them from shaking. My head was full of static, the kind that buzzes when you stand too close to live wires.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said, keeping my voice low. “Won’t take long.”
He nodded, but didn’t look at me. Instead he traced the seam of his pajama bottoms, picking at a loose thread. His hands were steady, which pissed me off for reasons I couldn’t articulate. I wanted him to be angry, to break something, to let it out.
Instead, I did it for him. I reached for the hem of his t-shirt and peeled it off, slow so I didn’t tear the scabbed-over scrape across his ribs. He raised his arms without complaint, wincing only when the shirt stuck to the cut.