Chapter 12 Legion #2
All the other things I've walked away from.
All the other things I've destroyed.
The tally marks on my collarbone seem to itch.
Like they're waiting for me to add another.
One more debt I'll never repay.
One more sin that can't be washed away.
One more time I should die, but won't.
I ease myself from beneath Savannah's sleeping form, careful not to wake her. Her body shifts, seeking my warmth, then settles back into the expensive sheets with a sigh. The floorboards don't creak here—nothing in the Ashby mansion announces itself. Nothing betrays.
The moon hangs low over the eastern pasture, spilling silver across acres of land that will never know my footprints. I stand at the window, bare-chested, watching my reflection watch me back. The brand over my heart stands out, the angry red starting to turn white now.
I trace the invisible 'B' with my fingertips. The skin puckers under my touch, sensitive and wrong. I remember the sizzle of my flesh, the smell of burning skin, Brick's eyes shining with pride when I didn't scream. When I took it like a man.
Like a brother.
Beyond the glass, Ashby land stretches for miles in perfectly maintained fences and manicured fields. The stables stand silent in the distance, housing horses worth more than I can even comprehend. Nothing here knows hunger or need. Nothing here understands survival.
I place my palm flat against the cool window, marking the barrier between my world and hers. The glass feels cold and unyielding. Like the truth.
After dinner, Mercy showed me the Rimrock catalog. Her small fingers traced over pictures of girls in plaid skirts clustered around a science display. Her eyes had widened with excitement as she described the paleontology club and their collection of real dinosaur bones.
"They have an actual triceratops skull, Legion. And they let the kids touch it!"
She'd never had possibilities in the trailer. Just survival—instant noodles, second-hand clothes, and learning to shoot before even being legally allowed to hunt. Her whole life, watching doors close before she even knew they existed.
I glance back at Savannah. She could have anyone—a man with clean hands and a clean record. Someone who wouldn't drag death and danger behind him like a shadow. Someone who belongs in this house, with its crystal glasses and imported rugs.
The brand stretches when I move. Tight and taut, reminding me of the promise I made. The brotherhood that took me in when no one else would. The life that fits a man with my history, my violence, my particular set of skills.
I turn back to the window, seeing my reflection merge with the distant mountains pressing my forehead against the glass, feeling the cold seep into my skin.
I don't belong here among linen sheets and security systems. I belong in the dirt with my brothers, doing the ugly work that keeps the wheels turning.
This brief taste of another life was never meant to last.
Just a fever dream.
Just one more thing to lose.
Back downstairs in my room, I dress in darkness, jeans, t-shirt, boots.
Moonlight spills through tall windows, illuminating the Ashby dynasty in silver frames. Eleanor's eyes follow me from every photograph, knowing and possessive. I don't look at them directly. Some ghosts are better left undisturbed.
The kitchen is all granite and stainless steel, everything cold and perfect. The landline hangs on the wall—old school, like something from another time. My fingers dial without hesitation, the number etched into my bones since I was seventeen, desperate to belong somewhere.
Three rings before Diesel answers, his voice rough with sleep or whiskey or both. "Yeah?"
"It's me," I keep my voice low, though no one in this house would hear a gunshot through these thick walls. "I need a ride."
The silence stretches between us, filled with what I'm not saying.
"From the Ashby place?" He finally asks, judgment thick in his tone.
"Yeah. Bring the Charger, not your bike."
Another pause. I can almost hear him weighing his response.
"Trouble?"
I close my eyes, seeing Savannah's face when she wakes to find me gone. Seeing Mercy's when she realizes I've left again.
"No. Just time."
Diesel breathes into the phone, understanding what I mean. The club doesn't require explanations. Doesn't demand justifications for the damage you carry. My demons fit there, contained within rules, and hierarchy, and purpose.
"Leavin' now. Be there in forty," he says, and the line goes dead.
I replace the receiver and stand in the perfect kitchen where I don't belong. Where I've never belonged.
Then I leave without saying goodbye.
The gravel crunches beneath my boots as I walk the quarter-mile drive. I pull a crumpled pack of Marlboros from my pocket, bummed earlier from one of the ranch hands. Light one, the flame briefly illuminating my face in the darkness. The first drag burns all the way down, sharp and familiar.
Halfway to the gate, I stop and turn. The mansion sits dark and silent on its perfect hill, framed by mountains that have watched over this valley for centuries. All that money, all that history, all that fucking privilege—and it couldn't save any of them.
Not Eleanor from her obsessions.
Not Savannah from her mother's plans.
Not even Cash from whatever eats him inside out.
Tomorrow morning, Savannah will wake alone. She'll search the house, calling my name. Then she'll understand.
I exhale a cloud of smoke that disappears into the night air. She'll hate me for this. Mercy too, eventually. The thought settles in my chest like a stone, heavy but necessary. Better they hate me than watch me drag them down. Better they build something without me than burn trying to save me.
I reach the gate and punch in the code. The mechanism clicks, and I push it open manually instead of waiting for the automatic swing.
Stepping beyond the boundary, I leave Ashby land behind. The moment my boot touches public dirt, I feel lighter. Like I've shed something I was never meant to wear.
Then… it's nothing but waiting. Thirty long minutes before I hear the rumble of Diesel's 1970 Dodge Charger in the distance.
It grows louder as it climbs the county road toward the ranch.
The sound is a promise—of brotherhood, of purpose, of the only family that ever wanted the real me, not some version they could fix, or change, or use.
The headlights appear around the bend, cutting through the darkness with twin beams. I drop my cigarette, crushing it under my heel as the car pulls to a stop beside me. Diesel leans across to push open the passenger door.
My Badlands cut lies folded on the seat, the skull wrapped in barbed wire visible even in the dim light.
I pick it up, feeling the weight of it in my hands.
The leather is cool against my fingers as I shrug it on, settling it across my shoulders like armor.
The brand on my chest seems to pulse beneath my t-shirt, a reminder of blood oaths and promises made.
I slide into the passenger seat, pulling the door closed behind me.
I don't look back at the mansion as Diesel pulls away.
Don't need to. I've memorized every inch of what I'm leaving behind—Savannah's skin in moonlight, Mercy's smile when she thought we might be a family, the taste of something I was never meant to keep.
"You good?" Diesel asks, eyes on the road ahead.
I nod once, settling deeper into the seat.
Maybe a better man would stay, but I’ve never been the better man.
"Yeah," I tell him. "I’m good."