Page 86 of Priest

“Of what?” he asks. “This place? Or who Cage might become?”

“Sometimes those feel like the same thing,” I say.

Ledger nods, eyes fixed on the floor now. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doin’ wrong.”

“You ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong,” I tell him firmly. “You’re buildin’ somethin’. Protectin’ your family.”

He looks up at me then, searching.

“I hope she sees it that way eventually,” he says.

“I think she will,” I reply, believing it.

That belief will cost Ledger later.

But right now, it feels solid.

Ledger stands, shoulders squared again, though the strain around his eyes stays where it is. “Appreciate you checkin’ in.”

“Anytime,” I say. “That’s what brothers do.”

He leaves my office convinced his biggest fight is happening at home.

And I let him.

Deacon’s room is dim, the lights lowered to that in-between setting hospitals use at night, where nothing feels urgent but nothing ever really rests. The machines hum softly, steady and patient, like they’re waiting for him to decide something.

Lila sits beside his bed.

She’s not talking when I step in. Just watching him the way only someone medical does, eyes tracking numbers without staring at them, posture tuned to shifts most people would miss. I take the chair on the other side of the bed, careful with the space between us.

Deacon looks the same as he has all week. Still in every way that matters except for the controlled rise and fall of his chest, each breath measured out by machines while his body holds a line his mind hasn’t crossed back over yet.

Lila glances up. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

For a few minutes, none of us speak. The quiet here isn’t empty. It has weight.

Then Lila exhales slowly and breaks it herself.

“My brother would be so mad to find out he is here,” she says softly. “He was so angry when Jackson left.”

My mouth twitches despite myself. “That right?”

Her gaze stays on Deacon. “They were inseparable for a while. Jackson and him. Always together. Always moving too fast.” A small smile ghosts across her face. “I spent half my childhood chasing after them, trying to keep up.”

As she talks, Deacon’s heart rate ticks up, subtle but clear enough that Lila’s eyes flick instinctively to the monitor. She notices. Then she keeps going, her voice steady in that careful way of hers, like she’s offering memory without letting herself beg for response.

“They came from such different places,” she continues. “Him from the club. Matty and I from a house where my dad wore a badge and believed rules fixed everything, he came from a place that broke rules like they were glass.” She shakes her head faintly. “Two worlds that never stopped rubbing wrong.”

Deacon’s fingers twitch.

Just once. Small. Almost nothing.

Lila keeps herself together by inches. She doesn’t raise her voice or lean too far into hope, but something in her posture sharpens as she keeps the thread going.

She talks about her brother and Jackson playing football in high school together, sneaking into their games and watching them, laughing at all the girls drooling over them.