Page 30 of Saint’s Revenge

The rational part of my brain, the part that got me through paramedic training, that keeps me calm during emergencies, knows I did the right thing. Knows Daniel would have kept killing. Kept destroying. Kept spiraling until he took out everyone around him or got himself killed in a way that was messier and more painful.

I gave him a clean death. Quick. As merciful as I could make it under the circumstances. Better than he deserved after what he did to Riley. Better than what would have happened if someone else had gotten to him first.

But knowing it was necessary doesn't make it easier.

I press my forehead against the tile. The coolness is a shock against my overheated skin.

*You were supposed to protect me. You were supposed to stay.*

The worst part is he was right. I was supposed to protect him. That's what we did growing up: protected each other from our father's fists, from our mother's neglect, from a world that never gave a shit about two kids nobody wanted. We were a unit. Brothers against everything.

Until we weren't.

Until Daniel crossed a line I couldn't follow him across, and I had to choose between staying and watching myself become complicit or leaving and trying to salvage whatever was left of my soul.

I chose to leave. Chose to save myself.

And last night I chose to end him.

Two choices that destroyed everything we used to be. Two choices I'd make again if I had to because the alternative was worse.

Doesn't mean they don't hurt like hell.

I grab the soap. Scrub my skin until it's raw. Wash my hair twice. Try to physically remove every trace of last night: the smoke, the blood, the feeling of my brother's body going slack in my arms.

The water starts running cold. I don't know how long I've been in here. Could be twenty minutes. Could be an hour. Time doesn't work right when you're trying to scrub away guilt that lives deeper than skin.

I turn off the water, and stand there dripping for a moment before reaching for a towel. My reflection in the fogged mirror looks like shit. Eyes red and swollen from crying. Face drawn with exhaustion. A cut across my cheek I don't even remember getting. I look like I've been through a war.

I guess I have.

I dry off, and pull on clean clothes from the locker I keep in the bathroom—jeans, black t-shirt, clean socks. Leave my cut hanging on the hook for now. Can't face wearing it yet. Can't face the reminder of what I am versus what I was.

When I emerge from the bathroom, the clubhouse is quiet. Early morning, maybe seven or eight AM based on the light coming through the windows. Most of the brothers are probably still asleep after the raid. The women and kids too.

I should go back to Riley. Should check on her, make sure she's stable, verify the monitors haven't picked up anything concerning while I was gone.

Instead, I find myself walking to Phoenix's office.

The door is open. He's sitting at his desk, staring at a laptop screen, but he looks up when I appear in the doorway.

"Saint." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Come in."

I sit. Don't know what I'm doing here or what I want to say. Just know I needed to be somewhere other than alone with my thoughts.

Phoenix stares at me for a moment. Then closes the laptop. "How's Riley?"

"Stable. No signs of internal bleeding so far. Ribs are healing as well as they can. Concussion symptoms seem mild." I recite it like a medical report because that's easier than talking about how she looked at me earlier, like I'm still the same person I was five years ago despite everything I've done since.

"And you?"

The question catches me off guard. "What?"

"How are you?" Phoenix leans back in his chair. "You just killed your brother. That's not something you walk away from clean."

I don't answer immediately. Don't know how to. Finally: "I did what needed to be done."

"That's not what I asked."