Terrified I'd lose her the way I lost my parents.
These hands know how to build things. How to fix things. How to hold onto things that matter.
They also know how to destroy.
I squeeze.
I feel the cartilage of his throat collapse under my fingers.
Feel his windpipe give way. Feel the life draining out of him one precious heartbeat at a time.
He tries to struggle, but there's nothing left in him.
Just twitches. Just reflexes. Just a body fighting a fight it's already lost.
His eyes bulge.
His face goes purple, then gray.
His mouth opens in a silent scream, but no sound comes out—there's no air left in his lungs, no strength left in his body.
Ruger and Coin don't look away.
They stand there, bearing witness, because that's what brothers do.
We see each other.
The good parts and the bad parts.
The parts we're proud of and the parts that will haunt us in the dark hours of the night.
I want them to see this.
I want them to know exactly what I am, what I'm capable of, when someone threatens my family.
I want the memory of this moment to spread through the club, through the town, through every dark corner where men like Virgil do business.
I want them all to know: this is what happens when you touch a Saint's woman.
This is what happens when you come for our families.
This is the price.
It takes longer than I expect.
It takes less time than Virgil deserves.
When it's finally over, when the last twitch fades and his body goes completely slack, I let him drop.
What's left of him crumples to the floor, and I stand there, breathing hard, covered in blood that isn't mine.
The quiet stretches out.
My hands are shaking.
I stare at them, at the blood coating my fingers, and I feel something crack open inside me.
The coldness that carried me through the last hour is melting, and what's underneath is raw and bleeding and barely held together.
