The cover story is already in place. A drug deal gone wrong. The senator's son, caught up in a lifestyle his family tried to hide. Tragic. Predictable. The kind of scandal that makes headlines for a week and then fades into nothing.
When the light leaves his eyes, I feel nothing but satisfaction.
This is what I am. What I've always been. A protector. A killer. A monster who serves a purpose. The blood on my hands will never wash off, and I made my peace with that a long time ago.
But as I walk out of the warehouse into the cold night air, a new fear grips me.
Sparrow.
She knows what I am. She's known since the beginning. But knowing and seeing are different things. Knowing and accepting the blood on my hands, the violence in my soul, the darkness I carry like a second skin...
What if this is the thing that finally breaks us?
The clubhouse is quiet when I get back.
It's after midnight. The bar is closed, the lot empty except for a few bikes. I walk through the front door without speaking, ignoring the looks from the prospects on night watch. They know where I've been. They know what was done. They also know better than to ask questions.
I push open the door to our room, and she's there.
Sitting on the edge of the bed in the lamplight. Still fully dressed in the jeans and sweater she wore earlier. Still awake, her eyes alert despite the late hour.
She takes one look at me—at the blood spattering my shirt, the split skin across my knuckles, the haunted look I can't quite hide—and I brace myself for what's coming. The fear that will finally surface. The horror that will twist her features when the realitysinks in. The dawning realization that she's been sharing a bed with a man who kills without hesitation, without remorse.
Instead, she stands up. Crosses the small distance between us with steady steps. Takes my bloodied, battered hand in both of hers, her touch warm and deliberate.
"Is it done?"
I nod, unable to form words.
"Is anyone coming for you? Any blowback?"
"No."
She exhales slowly, something in her shoulders loosening, tension draining from her frame. Then, her voice soft but certain: "Come on. Let's get you in the shower."
She leads me to the bathroom like I'm a child. Undresses me like I'm fragile, careful with the bruises on my knuckles, gentle with the tension locked in my muscles. She turns on the water and guides me under the spray.
The heat is almost unbearable. I stand there, numb, watching the red swirl down the drain. Blood. His blood. The blood of a man who will never hurt her again.
I should feel guilty. I don't.
"Sparrow—"
"Stop." She steps into the shower with me, still in her clothes, water plastering the fabric to her skin. She doesn't care. Her hands find my chest, my arms, my face. "I know what you are. I've known since the first day, when you looked at my bruises like they were a personal insult. You think I haven't noticed thescars on your knuckles? The way people go quiet when you walk into a room?"
"This is different. I killed a man."
"You killed the man who hurt me." Her voice is fierce, unwavering. "You killed the monster who made my life hell for two years. And I'm not going to stand here and pretend to be horrified when all I feel is grateful."
"You should be horrified."
"Why? Because society says so?" She grabs my face, forces me to look at her. "You're not a good man by normal standards. I know that. But you're a good man by the only standards that matter. You protect the people you love. You fight for the people who can't fight for themselves. And you loved me enough to make sure I'd never have to be afraid again."
My chest cracks open. Something I've been holding back for weeks, maybe months, maybe my entire life, comes flooding out.
I sink to my knees on the shower floor, arms wrapped around her waist, face pressed against her stomach. The water pours over us, washing away the blood, and I let myself break.
She holds me. Her fingers comb through my hair. Her voice murmurs soft words I can't quite hear over the roar of the water.
