Page 35 of Salvation

I shook my head, unable to look away from the scene before me. “Not yet.”

“Salvation --”

“Not. Yet.” Each word landed like a stone. I couldn’t leave them. Couldn’t take my eyes off them for even a moment. What if they disappeared again? What if this was all some cruel dream, and I’d wake to find them still missing?

Hawk retreated without another word, understanding in his silence. The respect of my brothers had never felt so heavy, so undeserved.

In the infirmary, Dr. Kestral had wrapped Yulia’s ribs with practiced hands, the white bandage stark against her skin. He moved to Clover next, replacing the butterfly bandage on her cheek with a more secure dressing, his voice low and reassuring as he worked. Both of them kept glancing toward the door, toward me, their eyes seeking reassurance I couldn’t give.

My shirt pulled tight across my shoulders, stiff with dried blood. My hands hung at my sides, useless, filthy things that had taken a life but failed to protect what mattered most. I wanted to go to them, to hold them, to promise that nothing like this would ever happen again. But the blood stopped me -- not just the physical stains on my skin, but the deeper stain that came with the life I’d chosen, the risks I’d brought to their door.

“Dad?” Clover’s voice, small and uncertain, cut through my thoughts. “Aren’t you coming in?”

I met her eyes across the room, saw the need there, the confusion at my distance. Beside her, Yulia watched with that penetrating gaze that had always seen straight through me.

“Soon,” I managed, the word scraping my throat raw. “Let the doc finish first.”

It was a weak excuse. We all knew it. But I couldn’t bring myself to cross that threshold, to contaminate their space with the violence that clung to me like a second skin. So I stood guard instead, a sentinel at the door, my eyes never leaving them as Dr. Kestral continued his ministrations.

Minutes stretched into an hour. My legs ached from standing, my body screaming for rest after days without sleep, but I remained motionless, watching. The doctor hooked up IVs to combat dehydration, checked vital signs, administered mild sedatives to help them rest. Through it all, Yulia’s gaze kept finding mine, asking questions I had no answers for.

When he finally stepped back, pronouncing them stable but in need of rest, I felt something inside me crack. They were safe. They were home. But the distance between us -- the few steps from the doorway to their beds -- felt wider than any ocean.

My fingers twitched at my sides, wanting to reach out, to touch, to confirm they were real. Instead, I remained where I was, blood-stained and broken, watching over my family from the threshold of a room I couldn’t bring myself to enter.

Chapter Nine

Salvation

The blood on my hands had dried to a flaking crust, pulling at my skin like a second hide I couldn’t shed. I’d killed for them, would kill again without hesitation, but I couldn’t contaminate their healing space with the evidence of that violence. So I stood guard at the door, a silent sentinel, watching over their fitful sleep until Beast had finally placed a heavy hand on my shoulder and muttered, “Go clean up, brother. They’re safe now.”

Hours later, the blood was gone, scrubbed away under scalding water until my skin was raw. But I still felt it there, phantom stains mapping the violence that lived in me. I’d changed into clean clothes, a simple black T-shirt and jeans, but couldn’t bring myself to sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Yulia and Clover bound to those chairs, saw the knife against my daughter’s cheek, saw the bruises flowering across Yulia’s pale skin.

When I’d gone to check on them an hour ago, they’d been awake once more and wanting to go home. Dr. Kestral had relented and removed the IVs but made me promise to keep an eye on them and call if anything changed. I’d agreed, and now my daughter was tucked into her own bed and sleeping soundly.

I found Yulia in the living room, perched on the edge of the leather bench beneath the window. She’d changed into clean clothes… sweatpants and a soft gray T-shirt that hung loose on her frame. Her hair was still damp from a shower, pulled back from her face in a messy knot that exposed the elegant curve of her neck. She looked small, vulnerable, but her spine was straight, the core of steel that had always defined her evident even now.

She glanced up as I entered, her blue gaze tracking my movements with the watchfulness of prey that had escaped a predator but remained on high alert. The sight squeezed something in my chest -- that she should look at me that way, after eleven years under the same roof.

“Clover’s still sleeping,” she said, the exhaustion in her voice evident. “Dr. Kestral said she’d probably sleep at least a few more hours.”

I nodded, moving to sit beside her on the bench, close but not touching. The space between us felt charged, electric with unspoken words and emotions too raw to examine.

“You should be resting too,” I said, my voice rougher than intended.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She looked down at her hands, clasped tightly in her lap. I noticed the fresh bandages around her wrists, covering the abrasions left by the zip ties. She’d need to keep them covered so they wouldn’t get infected, but since she didn’t have stitches, she’d at least be able to bathe without having to keep the area dry. “Every time I closed my eyes, I was back in that room.”

I understood. God, how I understood. The silence stretched between us, thick with all the things we weren’t saying. How close we’d come to losing everything. How much had changed in the span of a few days. How our almost-kiss at the fair now felt like it belonged to different people in a different lifetime.

Guilt churned in my gut like acid. I should have protected them better. Should have anticipated the threat. Should have found them sooner. The thoughts circled like vultures, picking at the carcass of my failure until I shifted slightly away from her, unable to bear being so close to what I’d nearly lost through my own complacence.

Yulia’s body tensed at the movement, a minute flinch that I might have missed if I hadn’t been hyper-aware of her every breath. Her hands clasped tighter, knuckles going white as she tried to hide their trembling. Something in her expression shuttered, a door closing. She thought I was pulling away. And why wouldn’t she? Eleven years of careful distance, of never quite crossing the line between the marriage we had on paper and the one that lived in my heart.

I noticed the way she curled in on herself as if preparing for rejection. The realization cut deeper than any knife. Even after everything, she still expected me to keep my distance.

I hesitated, the words sticking in my throat. My heart hammered against my ribs like it was trying to escape. “If you want… you can stay in my bed. Just to sleep.” I kept my voice steady but inside my emotions were churning with vulnerability, need, and the fear of rejection.

Yulia’s shoulders visibly relaxed, tension bleeding out of her as she processed my words. A soft smile touched her lips. Not her usual guarded smile, but something real and warm that reached her eyes.

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