Page 38 of Last Rites

“Kit?” I tried again, searching his profile as he continued to glare against the rising sun.

My heart was tired. Tired of racing and aching and breaking open over and over again. I just wanted to be happy. I wanted my family to be happy and safe, and instead they’d been dragged into the darkness with me.

“Kit, why are they here?” I asked.

Behind me, Isla pressed in, then gasped. “Is that Otis?”

One of the invaders strayed close enough I could clearly discern his face. Pale in the shadows of a straw hat, Isla’s brother paced the perimeter of my family’s property. My mind reeled anew, and my tender heart thrummed. This time, it felt like a war drum rattling in my chest.

I whirled around to pin Isla with a narrow glare. “You said he was taking over for Harlan!” I barked, fueled by ferocity as my rage built.

Layers of exhaustion peeled away as I stood, leaving me raw. Isla cowered, and the panic in her eyes sent a jolt through me. Gods, I’d been so helpless. Dangling in Anders’s grip. Kicking and thrashing just to steal a breath.

But now I stood over her. Looming. And I felt big.

I remembered the knife at my belt, one I should’ve used so Rosie didn’t have to, and yanked it free. The weight of it felt good in my hand as I leveled the gleaming tip at Isla.

“You knew he was here!” I ground out. “You knew, and you lied!”

“Penny, I didn’t!” she gasped, scrambling back, hands lifted. “I swear it!”

Rosie lunged forward, trying to get between us, while Kit dropped the reins and reached for me. I twisted away from his grab and vaulted off the wagon. My boots hit the ground, and my fingers curled around the hilt of the knife, testing it—wondering if the blade would hesitate at the edge of someone’s skin.

Or if I would.

I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Not Isla. Not really. I wanted to help.

My mother and Sayla were in that farmhouse, and they needed me. With the Bone Men prowling the property line like soldiers on patrol, they were being held prisoner, and I knew too well, too recently, how that felt.

“Pen, stop.”

Kit’s voice was low and rough, a sound that scraped down my spine.

I turned to find him standing behind me on the packed earth. Solid, but shaken.

“Why?” I asked, my voice rough and cracking under the weight of everything I couldn’t say. “You expect me to see this and do nothing? He can’t have it, Kit. Merrick can’t have everything. I won’t let him. Take the farm, fine. But not my sister. Not my mother…”

Kit moved forward with slow, dragging steps. Gods, he looked wrecked. Sallow and sad. Eyes rimmed with red and head shaking at me as I bit my lips to pen in a sob.

When he reached me, he held out his hand. “Merrick has no reason to hurt them,” he said quietly.

“And no reason to protect them, either!” I shot back. Tightening my grip on the knife, I pointed the blade toward the house. “What must they be thinking? Surrounded by strangers, wondering what it all means, what will happen when it’s over…”

I could picture my mother at the window, clutching Sayla close. I could feel her fear, her helplessness. Like mine. Like Anders’s hand around my throat.

Kit reached again—not for the knife, but for me. His fingers brushed my wrist.

And I let go.

The knife dropped into his palm, and I pressed my empty fists to my chest, trying to hold myself together. Trying to keep from running full tilt toward the farmhouse and into whatever trap Merrick had waiting.

Kit didn’t move. His hands were still with the knife laying in his open palm, glinting in the sun. “There’s nothing we can do here,” he said.

My head whipped toward him. “You can’t mean that. Of course there is. There has to be!”

“There are too many of them.”

“We could go into town,” I insisted, “rally everyone there. We could outnumber them.”