Berkley glances up from the counter where she’s laying out toppings, the knife catching the light for a second. She tilts her head, that half-smirk I can’t help but be obsessed with playing on her lips, and says, “Sit down before you burn yourself again.” Her tone ribs me, but there’s affection in it—sharp, familiar, the kind that’s tempered by years of knowing each other’s worst moves.
Kimber trots over, already clutching a blanket, and the kitchen fills with the easy, ridiculous banter of people who’ve been through hell and are trying—desperately—to be normal for fiveminutes. I tuck the worry back into my pocket and join them, because tonight we give Kimber a night that’s ordinary.
By the time the pizzas are in the oven, the house smells comfortable. Garlic, roasted tomatoes, melted cheese. A smell that shouldn’t exist in our world anymore, yet here it is. Kimber sets up blankets in the living room, demanding the best spot, and we let her win. She chooses some ridiculous animated movie with singing animals, and soon enough we’re all packed in, plates balanced, drinks in hand.
Ronan doesn’t bother hiding his closeness. His arm drapes over Berk’s shoulder, his lips brush her hair every few minutes, and his fingers skim her thigh like he’s reminding the world she’s his. She leans into him easily, but when Rowan passes her a drink, his hand lingers against hers, and she lets it. When I hand her a slice of pizza, my knuckles graze her wrist, and she doesn’t pull back. Small things. Quiet things. But they feel huge.
The movie rolls, and within five minutes we’re mocking it.
“Why is the penguin rapping?” Rowan deadpans.
“Because he’s dropping ice-cold bars,” I shoot back, smirking.
Berkley laughs so hard she nearly spits her drink across the room. “That was terrible.”
“Terribly good,” I argue, and Kimber squeals with laughter, collapsing sideways into Berk’s lap.
“Shhh,” she protests, trying to be serious, “you’re ruining it!”
Ronan kisses the side of Berk’s head and murmurs, “Relax, Pix. They can’t help themselves. My brothers are jealous of penguins.”
“Pretty sure the penguins got better moves than you,” I shoot back.
Ronan flips me off without missing a beat. Berk tries to cover her laughter, shoulders shaking.
The movie passes in a spiral of teasing and laughter—Kimber demanding silence, Rowan making her snort soda, Ronan roaring until Berk smacks his arm. For a brief stretch of time, the years fall away, and we’re back before everything broke.
By the time the credits roll, Kimber is out cold, curled up under Berk’s arm, snoring softly. Rowan gently scoops her up and carries her to bed, his face softened by something I haven’t seen in a long time.
The living room is quieter when he comes back, the weight of reality pressing in again. Bryce’s name flashes on my phone screen, another unanswered call. But as much as Bryce’s constant noise eats at me, it’s Dean’s silence that makes the back of my neck itch. If they’re not aligned, if the cracks in their alliance are spreading, then maybe, just maybe, that’s the opening we’ve been waiting for.
Berk breaks the quiet with a sharp clap that bounces off the walls and somehow turns the whole room electric. “Well,” she says, grin deadly and beautiful, “are we going to figure out who we’re going to kill next?” The way her smile curls—part angel, part knife—makes heat crawl up my neck. I feel something stupid anddangerous shift in my gut, and when Rowan shifts in his chair like a man settling a hard stone, it’s obvious he’s feeling the same thing. The old Berk is back, and the new one is deliciously lethal.
She springs up and practically drags us to the little wall she’s turned into a war room. The door to her hidden setup slides open, like it’s been waiting for our arrival, and the glow from the monitors throws light and shadow across her face. She flops down in front of the screens and starts moving her hands over the keyboard like a pianist. Rows of feeds, text pulls, shipment logs scroll past in a blur. Her fingers dance while her mouth hums under her breath. It’s intimate and obscene to watch someone so alive in their element.
I can’t help myself. The words slip out before I can cage them. “Damn, that’s sexy.” It comes out half laugh, half admission, and the sound of it shocks me with how true it feels.
She doesn’t look up. She smirks instead, that tiny, unapologetic half-wink that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to us. “You don’t know half of it,” she replies, and the way she says it is equal parts promise and dare. My skin prickles. I want to ask for details, for proof, for receipts that will let us pull the thread tight enough to tumble an entire empire. Instead, I watch the screen and let her lead.
Rowan leans in, voice low and flat with business mixed under his amusement. “Walk me through it, Pix.” He doesn’t mask the hunger in the question. He never learned to pretend very well.
She flicks a file open, and the room fills with names, timestamps, and connections that look simple until you follow them. “Trent’s route,” she says, scrolling, “two phone hops from Bryce’soffice. Shipments flagged last quarter that should have been rerouted, not burned. Blake’s payment trails—different laundering points than their usual. Vince was a local node, easy cut.” She points at the map and traces roads with one finger like she’s drawing bloodlines. “These hit the same week you were to be away. Coincidence is a bad alibi.”
I listen, and my head fills with angles. “If we do this public, we have to force him into mistakes,” I say, pacing the edge of the room as ideas line up. “Make him paranoid. Make him point fingers at his own. He’ll expose himself before we ever have to lift a hand.”
She tilts her head and laughs a little wildly. “That’s the plan, Em. We make them bleed in public and let the rot show. You handle the legal threads, find the anomalies in custody and filings, and I’ll keep feeding you the skeletons. Rowan and Ronan hold the perimeter and make sure the hits land clean when the time comes for us to escape cleanly.”
Rowan grins, the lethal boy version surfacing. “Sounds pretty.”
“And when Bryce calls,” I add, wanting to keep the tempering voice in the conversation, “we let him rant. He doesn’t know half of what’s coming. The silence of Dean is odd, though. We need eyes on him.”
Berk’s fingers don’t miss a beat. “I’ve got watchers,” she says, tapping the keyboard, and a live feed pops up, a man in a warehouse blinking under lights. “See? Still sloppy. Perfect for tonight.”
She looks up at me then, all mischief and menace and something softer that I recognize as a kind of trust. “Sit. Watch,” she orders, and it’s not rude. It’s a command that’s wrapped in an invitation. “You’ll love the fireworks.”
I drop into the chair beside her, the dark thrill of the plan settling in like a second skin. We trade barbs while we work, Rowan throwing in the occasional crude joke that makes Berk snort and me laugh despite the weight of it all. For a few hours, the world is a little smaller, sharper, cleaner. We’re plotting the undoing of men who thought themselves immortal, and in the way Berk’s smile bends under the monitor light, I can’t tell whether I’m more terrified or wildly, achingly relieved.
Chapter Thirteen