“And through you,” he continues, “it reaches me.”
There’s no defensiveness in it. No attempt to redirect blame. Only acknowledgment.
“They didn’t try to kill him,” I continue. “They avoided arteries and organ damage.”
“They were calculated,” he answers. “They understood exactly how much harm would send a message without killing him.”
My stomach tightens.
“They wanted him conscious.”
“Yes.” His jaw clenches faintly. “Pain is more effective when it can be remembered.”
“They wanted him afraid.”
“They wantedyouafraid,” he corrects quietly. “Your brother was leverage.”
“You knew this was possible.”
“I knew being close to me comes with consequence,” he replies. “I didn’t expect them to move through you.”
Through you.Not at you.The distinction matters.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
He answers firmly.
“The men responsible won’t be in a position to repeat this.”
“That’s vague.”
“That’s the point.”
I fold my arms loosely across my body to keep my hands still. “You’re not angry.”
His eyes darken.
“I am,” he replies calmly. “But anger is inefficient. What they did was strategic. My response will be the same.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And he’s alive,” Kiren says evenly. “That matters.”
“He apologized.”
“For what?” Kiren prompts.
“For getting hurt.”
A change moves through him that most people would miss. It’s subtle, but it’s there. His posture straightens, and his attention narrows in a way that feels personal rather than strategic.
“That guilt doesn’t belong to you,” he tells me.
“It does when my life spills into his,” I answer.
“No.” His voice tightens, not louder, just more certain. “They chose him. They made that decision. You didn’t. I didn’t. Don’t take responsibility for their actions.”
“If I wasn’t with you?—”
