Page 17 of Salvation (Reckless Kings MC #6)

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.

“I’d like that,” she said simply.

Three words, but they bridged the gulf between us more effectively than any grand declaration could have. I nodded, suddenly unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.

We separated without another word, Yulia heading to the bathroom while I made my way to the kitchen to get us both water. The domesticity of the task felt surreal after the recent violence, but I clung to it, a lifeline back to normalcy.

I stood in the kitchen, two glasses of water sweating on the counter beside me, thoughts circling like hungry wolves.

The invitation to share my bed had slipped out, born of a desperation I hadn’t fully acknowledged until the words were already hanging between us.

Not sex. Just closeness. Just the certainty of knowing she was there, breathing, alive.

I pressed my palms flat against the cool granite, anchoring myself to something solid while everything else felt like quicksand beneath my feet.

Eleven years we’d lived as husband and wife on paper, raising Clover together, maintaining careful boundaries that suddenly seemed fragile and meaningless.

A muffled cry shattered the silence, distant but unmistakable. My body reacted before my mind processed the sound, already moving toward the hallway, heart slamming against my ribs. Clover.

Yulia emerged from the bedroom at the same moment, her hair loose and damp around her shoulders, eyes wide with the same alarm that surged through me.

Our gazes locked for a fraction of a second, no words needed.

Together we moved toward Clover’s room, instinct propelling us forward with matching urgency.

Another cry, louder this time, the sound of my daughter trapped in terror.

I hit the door first, shouldering it open without breaking stride.

The bedside lamp cast a weak glow over the room, illuminating Clover’s thrashing form.

She’d kicked the blankets into a twisted mess, her body arching against invisible restraints, face contorted in a silent scream that occasionally broke through as desperate whimpers.

“No, please,” she muttered, head tossing against the pillow. “Don’t touch her. Don’t --”

I reached her in three strides, lowering myself carefully onto the edge of the mattress. Her skin was clammy with cold sweat, her T-shirt clinging to her thin frame. Even in sleep, her fingers clutched at her wrists where the zip ties had left angry marks, an unconscious echo of her captivity.

“Clover.” I kept my voice low, gentle, my hand hovering over her shoulder before settling with the lightest pressure. “Baby, you’re safe. You’re home.”

She continued to struggle, caught in the grip of a nightmare more real than my presence beside her.

“Clover,” I tried again, a little firmer this time. “Wake up, sweetheart. It’s Dad. You’re safe.”

My chest ached watching her fight demons I couldn’t see, couldn’t protect her from. I’d always been her shield, her protector, from the moment I’d nearly lost her when she was just a little girl. Now I couldn’t even guard her dreams.

I glanced back toward the doorway where Yulia hovered, uncertainty written across her features.

She stood with one hand pressed against the doorframe, as if needing its support, her gaze fixed on Clover with naked concern.

But she didn’t approach, didn’t intrude on what she perhaps saw as my territory -- comforting my daughter.

Clover’s eyes flew open suddenly, wild and unfocused, pupils dilated with fear. Her breath came in rapid, shallow gasps as she struggled to orient herself.

“It’s okay,” I murmured, keeping my hand steady on her shoulder. “You’re home. You’re safe.”

Recognition flickered across her face, then crumpled into relief so profound it bordered on pain. “Dad?” Her voice broke on the single syllable, splintering like glass.

“I’m here,” I assured her, brushing damp hair from her forehead. “Just a nightmare. It’s over now.”

Clover’s gaze shifted past me to where Yulia stood. “Yulia?” she called, her voice small and frightened, like the child she’d been years ago rather than the young woman she was becoming.

Yulia stepped forward hesitantly, drawn by Clover’s need but still uncertain of her place in this moment.

“I’m here, malishka ,” she said softly, her accent thickening with emotion as it always did in moments of stress.

Clover reached for her with desperate fingers. “I dreamed they took us again. They hurt you and I couldn’t stop them.” A sob caught in her throat. “They made me watch.”

Yulia moved swiftly then, crossing to the opposite side of the bed, all hesitation gone. “It was just a dream,” she said, perching carefully on the edge of the mattress. “See? I am right here. The worst that happened to us was being hungry, thirsty, and some scrapes and bruises.”

Clover grasped at both of us, one hand clutching my arm, the other reaching for Yulia. She looked so young, so vulnerable, with her tear-streaked face and frightened eyes. My daughter. But Yulia’s too, in all the ways that mattered.

“Stay,” Clover pleaded. “Both of you. Please.”