Page 121 of Beneath His Robes

Time hadn’t prepared me for this moment.

Watching them die for what they had done should have brought me some kind of relief, satisfaction, or peace. But there was nothing, no great surge of triumph, just…nothing. I only yearned more to hold Elias in my arms during this moment.

I thought about what they had done to me, how they had taken my life, twisted it, and left me stumbling in the wreckage. I remembered the violence, the blood, the bruises, the scars, and the staggering pain of the ripping.

It all was embedded in my soul, like the feeling of being trapped in my own skin, terrified of everything and everyone for so long.

Elias had broken through all that disgustingness and was the only person who made me feel safe, the only person who I trusted with my body. I’d spent so much time hating them, obsessing over them, wanting this day to come with all my being.

I had spent every waking moment that I hadn’t been desperate for Elias to return, imagining what it would feel like to see them pay.

Now that it was finally here, I felt…hollow.

Empty.

It was just more death.

The mechanical beep of the machines in the chamber broke through my thoughts. My heart lurched in my chest, a nervous anticipation rising up like bile. It was starting…the beginning of their end.

The first needle went into the one who’d watched and hadn’t initially helped. His arm twitched. It was the first sign of the poison coursing through his veins. His body stiffened, his eyes wide as though he finally realized the weight of his situation. Then he collapsed back, his body jerking once, and then nothing.

Silence.

His life drained away with a mechanical inevitability that felt so cold, so final. It was then that the realization hit me. I wasn’t watching a man die. I was watching a part of my past disappear, giving me the ability to allow myself to heal over their ashes.

As I watched their deaths, I let myself think of Elias, letting the pain enter my heart to share this small memory with him. I could feel the warmth spread through my chest. Father Franklin, his mentor, was by my side. Just like he had been for Elias, he’d become a silent anchor, a reason to keep walking forward.

One by one, they all followed until it got to Mullins.

His face was the one that haunted me the most, and his laughter brought vomit from just the thought of what was happening to him. Now, his noises, his expressions, were void of cocky humor, his body tightening as the same thing happened to him. He fought against it at first, his chest rising in a final, desperate breath, but then he, too, succumbed.

His body went still, just like that.

They were gone.

They were all gone.

Justice metered to the sins they had committed.

Everyone in this gallery had been a victim or knew someone who was taken by their cruelty. I wasn’t alone. There were no tears shed for these men—only silent absolution.

The overseer, a man in a dark suit, stepped into my line of vision. His presence snapped me back into the reality of the moment.

“They are dead, Mister Saint Clare. You may take your time to process.”

But what was there to take time for?

What was there to feel?

I shook my head slowly, my gaze still fixed on their bodies. It was over. It was all over. But there was no closure.

No redemption.

No peace. Just like any death, life moved forward, taking another piece of you with it, but uncaring in the way only you mourned.

“I will pray for their souls,” I said at last, not knowing what else to say.

I turned away and walked out of the gallery, my steps slow, almost mechanical. My chest was tight, my breathing shallow, but it felt like I wasn’t really there. I had left myself behind in that sterile room.

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