"Yeah."
"That was the Marine."
"I know." I flex my hands, feeling split skin pull tight across knuckles. "He threatened her, Cole. Planned to burn my house. With her inside."
"I know," Cole says quietly. "It's done now. He's in custody, he's not a threat anymore."
Mira stands frozen where I left her, phone still recording, face pale. She watched the whole thing. Watched me beat Sullivan bloody while law enforcement looked the other way. Watched the controlled violence I'm capable of when someone threatens what's mine.
I cross to her, blood on my knuckles, jaw throbbing where Sullivan connected. Wait for her to step back, to look at me with fear or disgust or the realization that she's been sleeping with someone who can do that kind of damage without hesitation.
She doesn't step back.
Instead, she reaches up and touches my jaw where it's already swelling. "You're hurt."
"I'm fine."
"Your hands?—"
"Will heal." I capture her wrist, holding her hand against my face. "Are we good?"
The question asks more than whether she's okay with watching me beat a man half to death. It asks if she can accept this part of me, the violence I keep controlled but never fully leashed. The Marine who surfaces when threats get too close to what matters.
Mira's eyes search mine. Then: "We're good."
Relief hits harder than Sullivan's punch. I pull her against me, not caring about the blood on my hands or the law enforcement presence watching. She's mine, and she's accepting me as I am—controlled violence and all.
Davis approaches with a paramedic, medical kit in hand. "Let him look at those hands."
"I'm fine."
"You're bleeding." Davis's tone makes it clear this isn't optional. "Sit."
I sit on the tailgate of a patrol vehicle and let the medic clean the split knuckles, apply antiseptic that stings like hell, and wrap them in gauze. Mira stands close, hand resting on my shoulder, grounding me while he works.
"Sullivan's lucky," Davis says quietly. "You could have done a lot worse."
"I know."
"But you didn't. You stayed controlled enough to stop when Cole pulled you back." Davis watches as the medic works, wrapping the second hand. "That takes discipline most people don't have."
Maybe. Or maybe I'm just better at managing violence than most people need to be.
Davis and his team spend the next hour methodically processing Sullivan's vehicle while Perez's officers handle the criminal evidence collection. The search reveals everything we suspected and more.
Commercial accelerant containers hold enough to start multiple fires. Timing devices sophisticated enough to delay ignition by hours. Maps of Anchor Bay show Brotherhood businesses circled in red marker, some already crossed out to indicate completed targets.
Ironside Customs is marked. Ironside Bar is marked. My house is marked.
All targeted for destruction.
Davis photographs the fire-related evidence while Perez's officers catalog the criminal evidence and maintain chain of custody. Sullivan sits in the back of a patrol car, face swollen and bloody, no longer ranting. Just broken.
"We found documentation," Perez tells me while holding up a folder pulled from Sullivan's glove compartment. "Receipts for accelerant purchases dating back months. Timeline of each fire with notes about burn patterns and response times. He kept records of the entire revenge campaign."
"Why?" Mira steps closer to examine the folder contents. "Why would someone document crimes they're actively committing?"
"Control." I recognize the psychology from other arson cases I've worked. "He needed to feel like he was winning, like he had power over the situation. Keeping records made it real, made it his story instead of ours."
