Page 16 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)

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.”

Dr. Kestral finished placing the bandage on her cheek, then checked her wrists as he had Yulia’s. More abrasions, more evidence of their ordeal. Each injury he treated felt like an accusation -- you weren’t there, you were too late, you failed them .

“Dehydrated, exhausted, some minor injuries,” he concluded.

“Let me take a look at you.” Ignoring my attempt to wave him off, he bandaged my arm, then began packing his supplies back into his bag.

“Nothing life-threatening for any of you, but they need rest, fluids, and monitoring for the next twenty-four hours.”

I nodded, unable to form words past the tightness in my throat. The doctor stood, moving back to give us space, but I remained where I was, paralyzed by the blood drying on my skin. It flaked when I flexed my fingers, falling to the concrete like rust.

Yulia’s eyes never left my face. “I never had any doubt you’d come for us,” she said softly.

“Not for a single moment.” The simple certainty in her voice nearly broke me.

She reached toward me, but I shifted slightly back, keeping my filthy hands away from her.

The movement wasn’t lost on her -- nothing ever was.

She’d always seen me more clearly than I’d seen myself.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, understanding in her eyes. “We’re okay.”

But it wasn’t okay. Nothing about this was okay.

My jaw clenched so hard it ached, teeth grinding together as I fought to maintain control.

My family had been taken, hurt, terrified -- because of me.

Because of who I was, what I did, the life I’d chosen.

The blood on my hands felt suddenly symbolic, impossible to wash away.

I nodded once, sharply, the only response I could manage.

My gaze never left them, cataloging every detail as if they might vanish again if I looked away -- the pallor of Yulia’s skin beneath the bruising, the slight tremble in Clover’s hands, the way they leaned toward each other for support.

My family. Hurt but alive. Damaged but whole.

“We need to move,” Hawk said from the doorway, his voice low and urgent. “Now.”

I rose to my feet, body stiff from kneeling on concrete. Dr. Kestral helped Yulia stand while Cyclops supported Clover. I watched, hands hanging uselessly at my sides.

“Can you walk?” I asked them, hating how weak the question sounded. Of course they could walk. They’d survived captivity, fear and pain. They were stronger than I deserved.

“We’ll manage,” Yulia answered, her gaze never leaving mine. “Take us home, Salvation.”

Home . The word echoed in the empty spaces inside me. I would take them home, keep them safe. And then, somehow, I would find a way to wash the blood from my hands.

* * *

The roar of motorcycles cut through the morning as we formed a protective convoy around the SUV carrying Yulia and Clover.

I took point, the familiar vibration of my bike beneath me doing nothing to ease the knot in my chest. Beast and Hawk flanked the vehicle like dark sentinels, their headlights bathing the empty streets in white light.

Nothing mattered except getting my family home.

Wind whipped against my face as I led the procession back to the compound. My knuckles tightened on the handlebars, the splits in my skin reopening with the pressure.

The compound appeared ahead, its outline familiar against the blue sky.

Home. Safety. The massive gates stood open, waiting for us, and something tightened in my throat at the sight that greeted me.

Brothers lined the entrance on both sides, standing at attention like an honor guard, solemn faces illuminated by the headlights as we passed between them.

No cheers, no celebration -- just the quiet acknowledgment of what had happened, what had almost been lost.

I cut my engine outside the clubhouse, the sudden silence ringing in my ears.

Around me, motorcycles went quiet one by one as my brothers parked in a protective circle around the SUV.

Beast dismounted first, moving to my side with the silent communication that came from years of friendship. No words needed. He understood.

The SUV doors opened, and Dr. Kestral emerged first, circling to help Yulia and Clover.

They looked even more exhausted in the harsh compound lights, their faces pale, bodies held together by sheer willpower.

Yulia kept one arm around Clover’s shoulders, supporting her despite her own injuries -- the fierce protectiveness that had always defined her, even when she was the one who needed protection.

“Inside,” Beast ordered, his deep voice carrying across the courtyard. The single word set everything in motion -- brothers forming a corridor from the vehicle to the clubhouse, others moving to secure the perimeter, all of them focused on the same mission. Protect. Defend.

I moved toward Yulia and Clover but stopped short of touching them, painfully aware of my appearance. Blood spattered my shirt and jeans, crusted under my fingernails, mapped in the creases of my knuckles. Instead, I led the way, Beast and Hawk falling in beside me like bracketing shadows.

“Medical room’s ready,” Hawk said quietly. “Doc Cooper’s on standby if needed. But it looks like that won’t be necessary.”

I nodded, the simple movement requiring more effort than it should. “Thanks.”

We crossed the courtyard in silence, boots heavy on the packed earth. Behind me, I could hear Prospero’s voice, pitched low and gentle as he guided Yulia and Clover toward the clubhouse.

“Just a little farther,” he was saying. “Everything’s prepared. You’re safe now.”

The words scraped against my chest like barbed wire. Safe now. But they hadn’t been safe before. I’d failed them in the most fundamental way.

The clubhouse was unusually quiet as we entered, the usual noise and chaos replaced by a watchful stillness. Brothers nodded as we passed, expressions grim, respectful.

Dr. Kestral directed us toward the infirmary -- a room we’d converted years ago for situations just like this, though never for my own family.

The space was stark but well-equipped: two hospital beds with clean sheets, cabinets stocked with medical supplies, an IV stand, monitoring equipment.

Too much like a hospital. Too much like defeat.

I stopped at the threshold, unable to cross into the room.

My boots seemed rooted to the floor as Prospero guided Yulia to one bed, Clover to the other.

Dr. Kestral moved between them with practiced efficiency, opening cabinets, preparing supplies, his movements sure and precise in a world that had suddenly lost all certainty for me.

“Get that shirt off,” he instructed, snapping on latex gloves. “I need to check those ribs properly and get them wrapped.”

My hand tightened on the doorframe, knuckles splitting farther as Yulia carefully removed her shirt, revealing the full extent of the bruising across her ribcage.

Purple and black stained her pale skin like spilled ink, evidence of the violence she’d endured.

I noticed Prospero kept his gaze locked on the opposite wall.

A presence appeared at my shoulder -- Hawk, his face lined with concern. “You should clean up,” he said quietly. “Get that blood off. We’ve got this covered.”

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.