Chapter Sixteen #2
The bruises on his torso were worse than I’d expected: one the size of my fist blooming over his left side, another small one curling under his collarbone. I touched them, gentle as I could, but he sucked in a breath all the same.
“Sorry,” I said.
He shrugged. “Had worse.”
I doubted it.
I hooked my fingers in the waistband of his bottoms, sliding them down over his hips. He wasn’t wearing underwear—probably too out of it to remember—and I tried not to stare at the bruises that tracked down his thigh, the angry red line on his hip where the gravel had bit in.
His legs shook, but he didn’t make a sound.
I set the water to lukewarm, then led him to the shower.
He gripped my wrist, the way you might grip a handrail, knuckles sharp against my skin.
I guided him in, waited for the spray to hit, then stepped in after him, fully clothed.
He shivered, more from exhaustion than cold, but I adjusted the temperature anyway, careful not to scald.
The water washed the last of the dried blood from his face, leaving behind streaks of diluted red that swirled down the drain. The bathroom filled with the scent of clean skin and iron, and I breathed it in, letting the rage settle in my lungs.
Levi tipped his head back, eyes closed, water tracing the slope of his jaw and the column of his throat.
He looked like he might fall asleep standing up.
I took the hotel soap, lathered it between my palms, then set to work, fingers tracing over every bruise, every scrape, every mark they’d left on him.
He winced when I touched the split lip, and something inside me cracked.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to put my fist through the wall.
But instead I took a deep breath and forced my hands to move slow, gentle, washing his hair in slow circles, then cradling his face in my palm while I rinsed him clean.
“You’re good,” I whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
His lashes fluttered, but he didn’t open his eyes. “I know,” he said.
When I finished, I wrapped him in a towel, careful to pat rather than rub. I steered him to the sink, sat him down, then grabbed the first aid kit from under the counter. My fingers shook so hard I almost dropped the box.
Levi watched in the mirror, face slack and unreadable. I met his gaze, and for a moment, I saw the fear there, raw and undigested.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, dabbing at his lip with a gauze pad.
He snorted. “Only when I laugh.”
“Don’t,” I said. “Not tonight.”
He tried to smile anyway.
I cleaned every cut, every scrape, the smell of antiseptic stinging my nose. The ointment went on last, a thin layer over the split lip, the road rash on his thigh, the scrape along his ribs.
I lingered on the tattoo at his wrist, running my thumb over the black letters—my name, fused to his skin, proof of something even pain couldn’t erase.
His hand closed over mine, squeezing once.
“I’m not scared,” he said, and this time I believed him.
I finished bandaging the last wound, then stood. My legs ached, a phantom pain in my knees like I’d spent the day kneeling on gravel. I helped him up, walked him back to the bed, then settled him onto the pile of pillows and pulled the blanket over his body.
He curled onto his side, eyes already drifting shut.
“You staying?” he murmured, half-asleep.
I sat on the edge of the bed, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gently tracing the line of his arm. “Not going anywhere.”
His breathing slowed, deepened, and I listened to it, letting the rhythm anchor me. I watched him until the tension in his body melted, until the pain lines on his face faded into nothing.
I sat there, sentinel, my own wounds forgotten. Tomorrow I’d hunt the fuckers who hurt him. Tonight, I’d guard him until the sun came up.
It was the only thing that mattered.
* * * *
The house was quiet except for the tick and pop of the fire.
I stood in the darkened hall, every sense stretched thin, straining for the smallest sound from the bedroom—a shift in the sheets, a soft exhale, the music of Levi’s breathing.
Nothing. He was out cold, and the silence pressed down like a weighted blanket.
I drifted toward the living room, steps light on the old pine boards. The air in the house was cold, but the fire raged in the hearth, flames gnawing at the logs, the heat stinging my face as I stepped close.
Pa sat in the big chair, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together so tight it looked like he might snap them. He stared into the fire, not blinking, not even when I settled into the couch beside him. He didn’t say a word. He never did, not unless it was necessary.
The silence was worse than shouting. I tried to sit still, but my legs twitched, my hands drummed the arm of the couch, every movement a staccato Morse code of anger. The fire threw red stripes over the walls, painting us both in blood.
I finally broke. “They tried to take him from me,” I said, the words torn out of my throat like wire.
Pa nodded, slow and grave. “I know.”
The logs shifted in the grate, sending up a gust of sparks. I watched them, trying to make sense of my own thoughts, but all I saw was Levi—his face swollen, the blood on his shirt, the terror in his eyes when I found him. I balled my fists, nails digging crescent moons into my palms.
“I’ll kill them if they try again,” I said, not as a threat but a fact. My voice was unsteady, too thin to be menacing, but it felt truer than anything I’d ever said.
Pa didn’t flinch. He just looked over, the lines on his face deepening in the firelight. “I know you will, son. Any man would.”
I stared at the rug, unable to meet his gaze.
He cleared his throat, and for a second I thought he’d let it go, just let me stew in my own violence. But Pa never wasted a teaching moment, even if it meant opening old wounds.
“You remember the time you broke Bodean’s collarbone?” he asked.
I looked up, startled by the change of subject. “I was ten,” I said. “He had it coming.”
Pa’s lips quirked. “That’s what you said then. But your ma—she made you sit with him every day until it healed. Made you carry his plate, do his chores. Said if you were gonna inflict pain, you better be ready to pay for it.”
I nodded, the memory hot and embarrassing.
“She was right,” said Pa. “But so were you. Sometimes people do have it coming.” He turned back to the fire, the orange light hollowing out his cheeks.
“Whatever you do,” he said, voice low, “remember that Levi needs you. You’re married now.
You got responsibilities. If you go to jail, you can’t protect him. ”
I bristled. “I’m not stupid. I just—” I stopped, words catching in my throat. I didn’t have the vocabulary for what I felt, only the raw nerves and the pounding of my heart.
Pa leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “It’s not about being smart or stupid. It’s about knowing the difference between vengeance and protection. A McKenzie never lets anyone hurt what’s his. But a McKenzie also knows when to hold, and when to strike.”
He let the silence stretch. The fire spat, the clock in the kitchen ticking off the seconds.
“They tried to take my Sunshine,” I said, quieter this time. The words tasted like blood and salt. My eyes burned, and I blinked hard, furious with myself for being weak.
Pa’s hand landed heavy on my shoulder. The calluses rasped against my skin, the grip strong enough to anchor me to the world. “I know, son,” he said. “I know.”
I buried my face in my hands. For a long moment, I sat there, crushed by the weight of what I wanted to do, what I knew I couldn’t do.
The urge to destroy, to annihilate, burned brighter than the fire in the hearth.
But underneath it was the fear—bone-deep, marrow-deep—that if I failed, Levi would be gone, and I’d be nothing.
A tear slipped down, hot and bitter. Then another. Not for pain, not for loss, but for the violence and the love twisted together inside me.
“I can’t lose him, Pa,” I choked out. “I won’t survive it.”
Pa squeezed my shoulder, then let go. He stood, joints popping, and went to poke at the fire, sending a fresh shower of sparks up the chimney. “Then don’t,” he said, simple and final. “But remember—vengeance and protection aren’t always the same thing.”
He left the poker in the hearth, then turned, his shadow stretching long and dark across the rug. “I’ll tell the boys to stay close tomorrow,” he said. “You get some rest.”
I nodded, but he knew I wouldn’t sleep. He watched me a second longer, then headed for the door, boots silent on the wood. The house settled around me after he left, the only sound the slow crackle of burning logs.
I sat there all night, staring into the flames, planning. Every scenario, every contingency, every way to keep Levi safe. I pictured myself in a thousand iterations: a bodyguard, a shield, a weapon, a monster. I didn’t care what I became, as long as he was safe at the end of it.
The rage never left. But somewhere around four a.m., a brittle clarity set in. I could destroy them all, easy. But that wasn’t enough. I had to be smarter, meaner. I had to be a fortress, not a bomb.
When the sky lightened, I got up, poured myself a cup of the burnt coffee left in the pot, and walked the perimeter of the house. Knox and Harlow were already up, talking in low voices on the porch. Ransom lounged against the door, a fresh cigarette trailing smoke, eyes red but sharp.
“Everything quiet?” I asked.
Knox nodded. “Nothing out there but the river and some deer.”
I looked out at the world—at the woods, the fields, the blue haze of the mountains in the distance. Nothing moved. But I knew better. I knew the enemy was out there, biding time.
“I’ll take over,” I said.
Ransom shrugged, then handed me the rifle without a word. The wood was warm from his grip.
I settled on the top step, watching the sun claw its way up the sky. Today, I’d build Levi a fortress. Tomorrow, I’d make sure no one ever got close enough to hurt him again. If it meant becoming the monster I’d always feared lived inside me—so be it.
He was mine and I was never letting go.