Page 170 of The Thief
"Think it was enough?" Maverick asks as we pull into the driveway.
"For Henry? For Jer? For all the others?" I consider the question. "Nothing could ever be enough. But it's what we had to give."
"And now?"
"Now we go home. We hold the people we love. We rebuild what he tried to destroy."
Because that's what matters in the end. Not the violence, not the revenge, but what we protect. Who we save. What we build from the ashes of our enemies.
Trace Harrington is dead. His war is over.
Time to start living again.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
freddie
My hands are still shaking; not from fear, but from leftover adrenaline. From the satisfaction of watching Trace Harrington's eyes go wide when he realized his time was up.
Blood's caked under my fingernails. Splattered across my shirt. All of it belongs to him.
The porch light flicks on as I approach the front door. Tríona must have heard the car. She's probably been watching from the window, waiting, worrying herself sick despite all my promises.
Smart girl. She knows what kind of business I went to handle tonight.
The door opens before I can reach for my keys.
"Freddie?" Her voice is small, uncertain. Then her eyes find the blood and her face goes white. "Jesus, what happened? Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine." I step inside, close the door, and turn every lock. "It's over."
"What's over?"
"Trace." I meet her eyes, letting her see the finality there. "He's gone. He'll never hurt you again."
The relief that crosses her face is immediate and overwhelming. Her knees actually buckle, and I catch her against my chest before she can fall.
"He's really dead?" she whispers.
"Very."
"Are you sure?"
"Trust me. I'm sure."
She pulls back to look at me, taking in the blood that's not mine, the cuts on my hands, the exhaustion I'm carrying like lead in my bones.
"You're safe," I tell her, cupping her face. "We're both safe. It's finished."
"How do you know he didn't?—"
"Because I watched him die. Because I made sure he could never come back, never threaten you or anyone else again."
The words settle between us, heavy with implication. She knows what I am, what I'm capable of, but seeing the evidence of it painted across my clothes is different.
"Thank you," she says finally.
"For what?"
