What the fuck am I doing?
I'm so lost in my thoughts, replaying our conversation, analyzing every word and expression, that I don't see King until I almost slam into him as I turn the corner.
"Shit," I mutter, stepping back. "Sorry."
King's eyebrows rise. "Shadow? You alright, brother?"
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're distracted. And you're never distracted. That's kind of your whole thing, being aware of everything around you at all times."
Fuck. He's right. I pride myself on situational awareness, on never being caught off guard. And here I am, so wrapped up in thoughts of Rachel that I didn't even register King's presence until I nearly walked into him.
"Just thinking," I say, leaning against the wall because standing upright is taking more effort than it should. "About Vulture. About how his death felt... anticlimactic after everything."
It's not a lie, even if it's not the whole truth. Vulture's execution has been bothering me. The quick shot to the head, the way he went down without fanfare or drawn-out suffering.
"Anticlimactic," King repeats.
"Yeah. After all the shit he put us through… The attacks, the kidnappings, the blood feud, he died in seconds. Didn't feel like enough. Didn't feel like justice for what he did."
King is quiet for a moment, then he gestures down the hallway. "Walk with me."
It's not a request, so I push off the wall and fall into step beside him, ignoring the way my shoulder screams in protest. We walk in silence until we reach his office, where he closes the door behind us and moves to the small bar on the corner.
"Drink?" he offers, pouring himself two fingers of whiskey.
"Probably shouldn't mix it with the pain meds."
"Probably not." He takes a sip, looking at me over the rim of his glass. "You want to know what I've learned after all these years running a motorcycle club?"
"What's that?"
"Sometimes it's better to just finish the job than to let it consume you." He sets the glass down, his expression serious. "I could have made Vulture suffer. Could have tortured him for days, made him pay for every drop of blood spilled, every life lost in this fucking war. And part of me wanted to. God knows the bastard deserved it."
"But?"
"But revenge is a poison, Shadow. It eats at you from the inside out, makes you into something you don't recognize. I've seen good men destroy themselves chasing vengeance, turning into monsters worse than the ones they were hunting." He meets my eyes. "Vulture needed to die. For the safety of the club, for the women he hurt, for all of it. But making him suffer wouldn't have brought back the dead or healed the wounded. It would have just fed the darkness."
I process this, turning it over in my mind. "So, you chose the quick death. Clean and efficient."
"Exactly. Now Vulture's dead and we don't have to worry about the Iron Eagles attacking us or our families. The threat is neutralized, the war is over, and we can move forward instead of looking back."
It makes sense. Cold, pragmatic sense. But there's still a part of me that wishes Vulture had suffered more, that his death had been slower and more painful.
Maybe King's right. Maybe that darkness is already eating at me more than I realized.
"Speaking of moving forward," King says, his tone shifting slightly. "Luna mentioned something interesting. Said you and Rachel seem to have developed some sort of... trauma attachment."
"I'm just making sure she feels safe," I say. "She's been through hell. Needs someone who understands."
"And that someone is you?"
"She responds to me. Doesn't trust anyone else."
"Shadow." King's voice is gentle but firm. "I'm not questioning your intentions. You did good tonight. Taking that bullet, getting her to let Luna examine her, staying with her when she needed someone. That's exactly the kind of protection this club stands for."
"But?"
