Page 33 of Salvation

“This is for my wife,” I growled, twisting the blade deeper. “And this --” I yanked it free, blood spraying across the concrete, “-- is for my daughter.” In one fluid motion, I drew the knife across his throat, opening him from ear to ear. He made a wet, gurgling sound as his lifeblood pumped onto the floor beneath him, his eyes fixed on mine until the light in them flickered and died.

Only then did I become aware of someone calling my name. Hawk stood over me, his expression grim. “Salvation,” he said, his voice breaking through the red haze of my rage. “It’s done. He’s gone. Your family needs you now.”

I staggered to my feet, suddenly conscious of the blood covering my hands, my arms, soaking into my clothes. Yulia and Clover were watching me, their eyes wide. For a terrible moment, I wondered if I’d frightened them -- if they’d look at me differently now that they’d seen what I was capable of.

Cyclops was already cutting through Clover’s zip ties with a tactical knife, his movements quick but gentle. I moved to Yulia, the dead man’s knife still clutched in my hand. When I realized what I was holding, I dropped it as if it had burned me, wiping my bloody hands on my jeans before yanking my own knife free and reaching for her bonds. “Are you hurt?” I asked, my voice rough with emotion as I worked on the zip ties around her wrists. “Did they --”

“We’re okay,” she said, her accent thicker than usual with stress and exhaustion. “Nothing that won’t heal.”

There was so much I wanted to say, to ask, but I held back. It could wait. Right now, I needed to make sure they hadn’t been hurt too badly and get them home. Which meant taking a step back and letting the doctor do his job.

Chapter Eight

Salvation

Blood covered my hands. Most of it was his. The man who’d dared to hurt my family. I knelt on the concrete floor beside Yulia and Clover, their bound wrists now free but marked with angry red welts from the zip ties. The room stank of violence -- copper-tang of blood, acrid sweat of fear. But all I could focus on was my family. Alive. Breathing. Safe.

“Don’t move yet,” Dr. Kestral said, shouldering his way past Hawk to kneel beside us. The medical bag he carried looked out of place among the broken furniture and blood-spattered concrete. His hands were steady as he opened it, the movements precise and practiced. “Let me check them over first.”

I shifted back to give him room, my gaze never leaving Yulia and Clover. The doctor’s face gave nothing away as he gently tilted Yulia’s chin, examining the bruise blooming across her cheek. His fingers probed with clinical detachment, but I flinched with each touch as if feeling the pain myself. I didn’t ask, but I had a feeling he was making sure nothing was broken.

“Superficial,” he murmured, reaching for a penlight to check her pupils. “Any dizziness? Nausea?”

Yulia shook her head slightly. “No. Just tired.”

“And thirsty,” Clover added, her voice small and scratchy. “They didn’t give us much water.”

The words hit me like physical blows. Each detail of their suffering carved new wounds into me. I should have found them sooner. Should have prevented this entirely. My hands clenched into fists, dried blood cracking across my knuckles.

Dr. Kestral turned his attention to Yulia’s wrists, where the zip ties had bitten deep enough to break skin in places. He cleaned each abrasion with antiseptic wipes, the sharp medicinal smell cutting through the heavier scents of blood and fear.

“Any other injuries I should know about?” he asked, his tone remaining professional, detached.

Yulia hesitated, then lifted the edge of her shirt slightly to reveal a mottled bruise across her ribs. “One of them kicked me. When I tried to keep them away from Clover.”

My vision went red around the edges. I’d killed the man with the snake tattoo, but there had been others. Others who’d put their hands on my wife, who’d hurt her while I spent hours searching in the wrong places. Others who still deserved to die. I still didn’t know for sure if they were related to the Scorpions, and I’d leave that detail to the others. None of it mattered. As long as they were dead, I was satisfied.

“Likely bruised ribs, not broken,” Dr. Kestral said after a careful examination. “Deep breaths hurt?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll wrap them at the compound. Nothing’s displaced.” He applied some kind of cream to her wrists before wrapping them in loose gauze. “This will help with the pain and prevent infection until we can get you cleaned up. I’ll re-treat them once we’re at the compound.”

Throughout it all, Yulia’s gaze kept finding mine, as if reassuring herself I was really there. The trust I saw there felt like fire against my skin. I didn’t deserve it. Not when I’d failed to protect her in the first place.

Dr. Kestral shifted to Clover, his hands even gentler as he examined the cut on her cheek. The thin line of blood had dried, stark against her pale skin. She tried not to wince as he cleaned it, but I caught the small, pained breath she took.

“Won’t need stitches,” he said, reaching for a butterfly bandage. “But it might leave a small scar.”

A scar. On my daughter’s face. Because I hadn’t been there to stop it. Now she’d have that on top of the burn scars on the other side.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Clover said, reading my expression with uncanny accuracy. “I’m okay.”

Her voice cracked on the last word, the brave facade finally slipping. Tears welled in her eyes, the first she’d allowed herself since we’d burst through the door. My arm moved automatically to comfort her, reaching out before I remembered the dried blood still coating my hands and forearms. I froze, suddenly conscious of what I must look like to them -- covered in another man’s blood, hands that had just taken a life with brutal efficiency. I pulled back, not wanting to soil them further, to mark them with the evidence of what I’d done.

Clover’s eyes followed the movement, understanding dawning in her tear-filled gaze. “Dad?”

“You’re safe now,” I managed, my voice rougher than I intended. “That’s all that matters.”

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