Silence stretched between us while I wrestled with the memory of that volcanic fury.
Knox leaned forward, his chair scraping against the floor. “You would’ve stopped, Ryker. The guy would’ve gone to the hospital maybe. ICU perhaps. But taking a life? That’s not in your DNA.”
“I’m friends with men who’ve taken lives,” I argued.
“You’re loyal. Morally gray, sure. But your line?” Knox tapped the table. “It’s made of different stuff than ours.”
“I wanted to end the guy who attacked Tessa,” I repeated.
“Wanting and doing are different creatures.” Knox’s eyes held mine. “Picture it. Right now. Someone who hurt someone you love, standing in front of you. Knife in your hand. Could you drive it into their heart? Feel the resistance of flesh, the scrape of bone? Watch the light leave their eyes?”
The visiting room noise faded. I was back in that night, bat in hand, rage making my vision red. Then a different day—the euphoria when Blake told me Tessa’s attacker was dead. The relief. The satisfaction.
But me being the executioner?
“To protect someone I love? Probably.”
Knox looked skeptical. He knew me too well.
“No,” I admitted, the word barely a whisper. “I couldn’t.”
“There’s your answer.” Knox sat back. “This girl is forcing you to examine where your gray begins and ends. What you’ll accept in theory versus what you’ll accept with a partner.”
“Why does it matter? I’ve stood by all of you.”
“Because, one day, you might share a bed with her.” Knox’s words cut through my rambling. “Build a life. Have kids who carry her DNA, along with yours. That’s not brotherhood. That’s choosing someone to create the future with. And you’reterrified she might be exactly what her past suggests she could be.”
The truth of it sat heavy in my chest.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek, nodding. “You’re right.” Whenever I found myself imagining being with Faith, that implied I imagined her in my future. And my future had a wife and kids in it. “Turns out, I have a problem with cold-blooded murder. That’s apparently where I draw the line.”
“Says the man visiting his friend, the convicted murderer.”
“That’s different?—”
“Is it?” Knox challenged. “Or are you just better at accepting violence in your periphery than in your bed?”
“Easy for you to say. You killed someone for a damn good reason.”
Knox’s expression went flat. Dangerous. “Careful.”
“I’m just saying?—”
“You don’t say. We don’t talk about that, so keep my story out of your mouth.” His words came out sharp, each one placed like a blade against skin. “I did what I had to do. You’re trying to figure out if Faith did. Big difference.”
“Five minutes,” a guard called out.
Knox studied me with those eyes that had seen too much, done too much, and still, somehow, he gave a damn. “You know what your problem is? You think there’s some cosmic scorecard. Good reasons and bad reasons. Justified and unjustified. But sometimes, Ryker, there’s just survival.”
Well, shit. Why did he have to put it like that?
“You want to know how I’d handle it?” he continued.
“Handle what?”
“If I found a woman I loved, there’s nothing she could do that would make me walk away.” His voice carried absolute conviction. “She kills someone? I’m buying the shovel. Someone hurts her? They’ll need dental records for identification.”
The woman at the next table had stopped pretending not tolisten. Her eyes were wide, locked on Knox like he was either her worst nightmare or her darkest fantasy.
