Page 136 of Thunder's Reckoning
Her breath didn’t catch, didn’t falter. She just said it plain, “I was.”
I turned toward her then, searchin’ her face. She didn’t cry. Miriam Thorne was done with tears. But the weight in her words—it was heavier than stone.
“He was gonna hand you over,” she said. Her voice didn’t shake, but it cut. “You were nine. You didn’t understand what the Prophet wanted from you, but I did. He said if you wouldn’t submit, you’d be punished. Called your fear rebellion. Said pain would make you holy.”
The words slid under my skin like fire old as bone.
“You were the Prophet’s son,” she went on, her jaw tight. “Property, that’s what they called you. Not a boy. Not my boy.” She looked out across the yard, her hand curlin’ white around the mug. “So I stopped him.”
The flash of it came back hard, smoke, a scream, the way my lungs felt like they were drownin’ in heat.
“I didn’t want you to see it,” she whispered. “But I couldn’t risk him touchin’ you first. Afterward… you weren’t the same. Wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t sleep. And then one day, you just… shut it all away.”
“Because I made it gone,” I muttered.
She nodded, eyes glintin’ in the porch light. “I wasn’t lettin’ that place have you. Wouldn’t let it carve you hollow. I wanted you free, Zeke, even if it meant carryin’ the fire myself.”
The silence after that wasn’t empty. It was thick, packed with years of unsaid truths.
“And Sable?” My voice came rougher than I meant.
Her head turned then, her gaze diggin’ straight into me. “I saw myself in her. And in those kids. That hollow look, they branded me with it once. You don’t forget it. You can’t. That kind of hurt, it lives in your marrow.”
I swallowed hard, throat tight.
“I never thought Gabrial would remember me,” she said. “Back then, I was just the Shepherd’s wife. Quiet. Invisible. But his father must’ve told him about the child I carried.”
“He remembered,” I said. My fists curled against my knees. “And he wanted you to pay for it.”
“I figured as much.” She set the mug down with a care that felt final, like the weight in it was gone. Then her hand found mine, strong, work-worn, comforting.
“I’d do it again,” she said. “Every inch of it. And not just for you. For her. For the family you’re buildin’ with her.”
My chest burned. Not with rage this time. With somethin’ close to hope. The thought of Sable wearin’ my ring, my patch. My ol’ lady.
It wasn’t just a blessin’. It was a reckonin’.
“Don’t bury it this time,” Momma said, her grip firmer now. “Don’t shove it down deep ‘til it festers. Feel it. Let it scar, let it heal. Or it’ll haunt you every damn step.”
I nodded once, small but sure.
Wasn’t ready.
But I was listenin’.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
WE WERE ALLin the war room. Doors locked.Voices low. The kind of meetin’ where every man had a seat, but no one leaned back, no one let his shoulders ease. The air had a hum to it, like a storm crouched just beyond the walls, waitin’ for us to blink.
The table stretched between us, scarred by years of fists and blades, ashtrays brimming with smoldered-out butts. Half-drained mugs of cold coffee sat forgotten. In the middle lay a stack of printed intel—satellite images, DEA reports, photocopies of names with red lines slashed through some andcircled hard around others. It wasn’t just paper. It was a ledger of the war we’d just survived.
I leaned forward, forearms braced on the edge, fingers laced. My cut sat heavier than it ever had, like it’d soaked up the blood and smoke of the last week and decided it was never lettin’ go.
“We got confirmation last night,” Devil said finally, his voice low but cuttin’ through the quiet. He nodded toward Mystic.
Mystic tossed a burner onto the table, the thing skidding across the wood like a stone over water. “Jaycee put together a flash drive three days back. Marked it like a school project, slipped it through the mail. Every file had Gabrial’s dirt. Accounts, shipments, payout trails. And footage—real footage—from inside. Traffickin’. Weapons. Rituals.” His voice dropped harder on that last word. “They can’t unsee it.”
“FBI’s takin’ the rest,” I added, my voice comin’ out rougher than I meant. “Traffickin’ goes federal. They’ve got boots in both Carolinas already, talkin’ to survivors, runnin’ warrants, crossin’ state lines with their weight. This ain’t stoppin’ anytime soon.”
