The wind howls across the desert, and all I can make out through the whirling sand is Tor's blonde hair whipping around her face. Jésus grabs her by the waist. Her eyes widen with fear. Bullets whistle past me. And all I can think about is saving her.

I move to run toward her, but my feet won’t budge. Panic settles in my chest and then—Bam. A loud shot rings out. Tor’s eyes slam shut, her lips part on a silent scream, and a patch of blood appears on her white dress, the stain quickly growing.

“Why did you do this to me?” Tor shouts, and that's like a fucking dagger in my chest. Because I did this to her. To us. I destroyed her the moment I loved her…

I wake in a sweat, my heart pounding as I reach out for her. But all I find are cold sheets, and fuck if that's not the emptiest feeling I've ever felt. I squeeze me eyes closed and bite down on my lip as I ball the sheets in my fists. My chest grows uncomfortably tight at the memory of her. Of our life...the life I've forever lost. The life I never deserved.

I try to recall the way she felt wrapped in my arms, how her lips felt, because I'm afraid I'll forget and if I can just hold on to some bit of that, then she's not really gone. Is she? Sighing, I drag my hands down my face.

It’s been a week since I lost Tor, and as much as I want to drown myself in grief, I can't. Domingo is dead and so that leaves Jésus and Ronan to deal with. I've spent the last week searching for Cayla, going with Gabe and taking down bits and pieces of the Sinaloa because I have to do something to make myself feel some bit of worth.

I push up from the bed, pull on a pair of jeans, and go to the kitchen. Marney is usually down here drinking coffee and reading the paper at any given point of the day, but today his seat is empty. I fix a cup of coffee and sit down at the table, trying to sort through the thoughts swirling in my head. Part of me fears that since Tor is dead, Jésus would have killed Cayla, but then I remind myself he wanted something from me. Without Cayla he has no leverage.

I finish my cup and search the house for Gabe or Marney, but the only people here are Gabe's guards who constantly lurk in the hallways. I hate having nothing to do because that's when my mind gets away with me. That's when I start to think about things no man wants to think about. So, I go to the foyer and climb the stairs to my room. As soon as I get inside, I grab the bottle of whisky from the nightstand and take a heavy swig. If I can't keep myself busy, I'll just drink myself to sleep and hope I have peaceful dreams. Dreams of me, Tor, and Cayla, when my past had yet to catch up with me.

I've downed two more swigs when there's a knock on the bedroom door. "Jude?" Marney says, his voice low.

"Yeah..."

The door creaks open and he steps in with his chin to his chest. He shuts the door behind him without looking up, and I hear his breath catch before a strangled sob works its way up his throat. "The bastards..." he starts, but he can't finish. My heart holds back a few beats because I already know what he's going to say. "Gabe's informant said that Cayla...that she...you aren't gonna get the little darlin' back. She's—"

A fury of emotions pummel through me, and I'm not quite sure which one to grab ahold of. He glances up at me, and I don't want to fucking believe him.

"Jude, do you hear what I'm saying?"

I shake my head, a throbbing pain shooting through my temple. "No!"

He takes a step toward me. I can see tears welling in his old, blue eyes, but I don't want to believe him. He places a hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Jude. It ain't right."

I swat his hand off, and before I know what I'm doing, I ball my fist up and punch him right in the jaw. "She's not dead!" I shout.

Marney holds his face and takes a deep breath. "I know it's hard, boy. And it ain't right." He hangs his head and bites down on his lip. "It ain't right..."

And like a ton of fucking bricks, it hits me and I fall back on the bed, my entire world imploding and blowing to fucking smithereens. She can't be dead, but then again, why wouldn't she be? Why would a fucking soulless bastard like Jésus keep her alive?

"She's dead?" I whisper, those damn words echoing into the very bottom of my soul.

"Jude..." Marney whispers.

I bury my face in my hands, pressing on my head in an attempt to make it all stop. "Get out,” I barely manage the words.

"Jude—"

"Out!" I shout so loud my throat burns.

I hear him shuffle out of the room, the click of the door shutting behind him. I lean my head back against the wall and breath in and out with my heart going ninety to nothing and my stomach churning. Whatever was left of my life has just crumbled. Without them, I have nothing. No reason to live. I close my eyes and choke back a sob as my head falls to my chest.

Some people are the very air you need to survive—and the people who my world revolved around have been snuffed from my life. Those girls were my life and without them, without the promise of holding them again, there is no reason. No purpose. There's this black void sucking me in against my will, pressing in on me from all sides. My mind is unable to process the thought that I've lost my little girl and my Tor.

I stagger to my feet and begin to pace, dragging my hands down my face. My Cayla...her soft ringlets, that smile that could light up even my cold fucking heart. Gone. Gone? There's a moment, a split second where darkness covers me. Where an indescribable amount of grief consumes me, but then...then the rage slowly sets in, burning and breathing, growing with each passing second because the thought of Jésus killing my daughter, hurting her infiltrates my mind.

I slam my fist through the wall on a growl. "I'll fucking kill him!" I pick up the chair under the window and throw it against the mirror, shattering the glass. I go into a fit, punching and throwing things, raking shit from the dresser. My blood pressure rises with each second, with each thought of Cayla crying for me and Tor. And then I stop.

The tension in my muscles melts as the devastation sets in.

Cayla must have thought we abandoned her. My little girl thought I left her. I was her father and her protector. She was too little. Too innocent, and she was murdered because of who I was—who I am. My knees buckle and I sink to the floor, my head swimming with morbid thoughts of how she may have been killed, of where her body may be—out in some desert...

I pound my fists over the floor and scream until I'm gasping for breath. Not a damn thing I do will change this. Nothing will give my girls back to me. I’ve lost plenty of people I’ve cared about, but this loss is a blanket of grief and regret and shame, and every form of pain you can imagine—it's unbearable. I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fan blades circle for a moment before I reach for the bottle of whisky on the nightstand beside me. She's dead. They are both dead. I twist the top and bring the bottle to my lips, gulping back the warm whisky, waiting on some cheap form of reprieve from this shit.

But even after I've sucked back the rest of the liquor and dropped the bottle to the floor, the pain is still very real. My head spins, my thoughts numb. But not enough. Nothing will ever make this sense of loss bearable.

“Gone,” I whisper to myself as I stagger to my feet.

I look across the room at the shattered mirror, down to the dresser drawer. Emotions swirl through me like a raging cyclone, sweeping me up against my will. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. There have been moments over the past few days where I could not believe this is real. And then, almost like the shifting of the tides, realization would set in. Panic would grow in my chest until it felt like I was going to implode, detonate like a bomb. I’ve been on a pendulum, swinging between grief and despair, anger and disbelief, but at the end there was always hope because I thought I still had my little girl, and now all there is, is hopelessness.

But there is hope in death.

After all, it would end the thoughts, the hurt, the guilt. There has to be so much peace in the quiet, in a place where I’m not without them. Glass crunches under my feet as I walk to the dresser, opening the top drawer and taking out Caleb's Colt 45.

A lump forms in my throat. My chest tightens, but the tears I know should come don’t. I stare at the sleek black metal and skim my finger over the barrel, circling it around the tip. This is control right here in my hand. A cold, metal form of control because I can choose to take all the shit in my head away. I can choose not to live without them. I can find the quiet, a way out of this unbearable fucking loneliness that will continue to choke me every fucking second of every fucking day.

I stare at my reflection in the shattered mirror as I lift the gun to my head and slowly press the barrel to my temple. My finger rests over the trigger. But I shake my head because this is not the best way to do this. I move the gun away and slip it into my mouth, biting down on the barrel. The taste of metal coats my tongue as I war with myself. I miss them. I hate myself for dragging them into a life that had no room for innocence. My nostrils flare. My finger trembles over the trigger. One slight movement. That’s all it will take. A few seconds. A blinding pain, and if I’m lucky, this bullet will go right through my brain stem and my heart will stop immediately.

This will all stop.

My heart bangs against my chest, each beat thrumming in my ears. My palms sweat. It should be easy; I think as I stare at my distorted reflection. Shouldn’t this be easy? Just pull the goddamn trigger. End it. I have nothing left. No comfort in this world. But I swear to god, it’s like I’m paralyzed. It’s like something is holding me back, there’s a sliver of doubt in the back of my head. I close my eyes. I drag in several deep breaths, the gun still resting in my mouth. My finger slides down the curve of the trigger and all I can see in my head is Tor. Her smile...she could make me feel like a better person with just her fucking smile.

I drop my hand to my side and the gun clatters to the floor. Sighing, I brace my arms on the dresser and lean over. There will be no peace in death if I leave business unfinished, and Jésus and Ronan are unfinished business. As much as I’d love for this empty feeling to be blown into oblivion, it’s just not in me to allow the men who took my girls away to keep on living. I open my eyes and stare down at the gun. My peace will have to wait because vengeance is part of my nature. So, I stumble to the bed and fall back onto the mattress, my heart pounding as I close my eyes and wait for the world to fade away.