Chapter 173 Revenge means nothing

Chapter 173 Revenge means nothing
Knox

The recoil slammed into my shoulder, hard and sudden, a brute force that radiated straight through bone. The shotgun didn’t just fire, it roared, belching a thunderclap that seemed to tear open the night itself. For a heartbeat, I was swallowed by the violence. Fire leapt from the muzzle, painting the world in a savage, unnatural light.

For the briefest, most fragile of moments... Everything stilled.

The world held its breath.

And then the slug hit Rourke.

The impact was monstrous. His chest snapped backward, as if an invisible truck had barreled through him. The expensive fabric of his suit erupted in a blossom of crimson. He staggered, shock and pain contorting his face, both hands flailing up and clutching at the gaping wound that had just split him open.

Blood, dark, hot, relentless, spilled out between his trembling fingers. It ran down his arms, dripping onto gravel, painting the stones beneath his shoes. He stared down at the wound, gaze fogged with disbelief, as if his body was performing a betrayal he couldn’t comprehend.

“…No…” The word came out as a cracked whisper, barely audible over the ringing in my ears, over the crackling of fire. “No…”

He stumbled again, knees folding beneath him. The fall seemed to last forever, ending with a heavy, final thud that echoed through the night, louder, somehow, than the shotgun’s blast.

Nobody moved.
Nobody ran to him.
Nobody even flinched.

All that was left for Rourke now was time. His time. And it was almost gone.

I let the shotgun droop, lowering it a few inches. Not out of mercy, there was none left in me, but because I wanted him to know. I wanted him to feel every second, to understand what dying meant: slow, helpless, alone.

His breathing turned shallow, a wet, ragged gurgle. Every inhale rattled. Every exhale sent new sprays of blood onto his ruined shirt. He tried to crawl, rolling onto one elbow. His hand clawed at the gravel, leaving streaks of red behind him. Even now, even with the end clawing at him, he was still trying to escape. Still searching for the next angle, the next lie, the next way out.

I watched.

I felt… nothing.

The hollowness inside me was deeper than I’d expected, bigger, colder. I should’ve felt relief. Or satisfaction. Or justice. I’d dreamed of this moment since Caleb, since the girls, since every family Rourke had shattered for profit. Instead, there was only emptiness.

Because Lucian was still lying twenty feet behind me. Because no matter how much blood spilled from Rourke, it would never buy back a single heartbeat.

Rourke coughed, the sound wet and agonizing. Blood splattered the rocks. He looked up at me, his eyes wide, no longer cunning or cruel... just terrified. His lips quivered.

“Please…” The plea barely made it to my ears. “Please…”

Once, not so long ago, I might have cared. Not today. Not after everything.

How many women had begged him? How many fathers? How many children? How many brothers? He’d ignored them all. Why should I listen now?

He reached out, hand trembling, stretching for me. It fell short, then fell limp.

His breaths grew weaker, each one shallower, more ragged. I watched every second. Not out of pleasure, but to make sure he stayed down. Men like Rourke always had another trick, another betrayal, another escape.

But not tonight.

His gaze faded, glassy but locked on mine, as if still hoping for rescue or redemption. One last, shuddering exhale left his lips. His chest stilled.

The fire kept burning. The waves slapped quietly against the docks. Smoke curled into the night. Rourke’s body never moved again.

I stared down at him, letting the truth settle in. He was gone. The monster was dead. The war was over.

So why did it feel like I’d lost?

My fingers loosened around the shotgun. Suddenly, it was impossibly heavy, as if every ounce of grief in the world had pooled into its stock and barrel.

I turned, and regret punched me in the gut.

Lily was still there, crumpled on the ground, cradling Lucian’s head in her lap. Blood streaked her arms, her clothes, her face. She rocked back and forth, whispering something over and over, too soft for me to catch. Her shoulders shook, wracked with silent sobs.

Elias knelt beside her, hands gentle but insistent, trying to pull her back to reality. She fought him, not out of anger, but from a refusal to let go of Lucian, as if holding on tightly could somehow anchor him to this world.

Victor quietly removed his hat, bowing his head. Darius stood frozen, jaw clenched, fists balled at his sides.

Jinx… wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t talking. Wasn’t moving. I’d seen Jinx take bullets, stitches, and knives with a grin, but now... he just looked lost. Like someone had ripped up the earth beneath him.

My boots moved almost on their own, each step heavier than the last.

Lucian looked peaceful. That was the worst part. His eyes closed, the hard lines of his face smoothed away. For the first time in ages, he looked like he was just sleeping.

I knelt beside him. The air was thick with the scent of blood, leather, and gunpowder, the perfume of every ride, every lesson, every whiskey soaked night on the road, every time he’d thrown me the keys and said, “Don’t wreck it.”

A broken, choked laugh scraped out of me.

He’d taught me everything.
How to fight.
How to lead.
How to survive.
How to carry the weight of the patch without letting it crush me.

He taught me how to be a man.

Now I had to figure out how to be one without him.

I reached out, my hand trembling, and straightened the collar of his cut. Brushed a streak of dirt from his forehead. My throat closed up, so tight it hurt to breathe.

“I’m sorry…” The words were barely a whisper. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

Silence pressed in.

Around us, one by one, the Reapers removed their hats. Then the Nomads. Nobody spoke. Nobody gave orders. The future was a blank, silent page, waiting for a story none of us knew how to write.