Ronan catches the jab and winks. “You love it.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t deny it, and the small, serene smile that curves her lips is one I’m starting to crave.
I take the chair next to her, watching the way Kimber chatters between bites—about how soft the bed was, about the dream she had where Reign turned into a dragon and chased all the bad guys away, about how she thought Berkley’s hair looked like “cotton candy but dangerous.” The way she speaks makes the air lighter, filling every crack that’s fractured this house.
Berkley listens to every word, her eyes soft and shining. She passes Kimber a glass of milk and lets her talk without interruption, like nothing else in the world matters more than hearing her voice.
Emerson leans back in his chair, his elbows propped lazily on the table. “You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “we’ve got a good thing going here.”
Ronan grins. “You getting sentimental on us?”
“Shut up,” Emerson replies, though there’s no bite to it. “I’m just saying—it’s been a long time since we’ve felt like a home.”
Berkley looks up at that, her fork stalling halfway to her mouth. For a heartbeat, she just watches us—her gaze moving slowly, deliberately. Ronan first, all bare skin and muscle beneath that stupidly tiny apron, looking like trouble incarnate. Then Emerson, quiet and steady, his attention fixed on Kimber with a reverence that softens his entire frame, like the world narrows when she’s in it. And then there’s me—too close, close enough to feel the warmth of Berk’s shoulder brushing mine, close enough to be painfully aware of every inch of space we’re not quite touching. Her eyes linger there a second longer, something unreadable flickering across her face before she finally lowers her fork.
Her smile is soft, steady—rooted in understanding rather than hope. “Then maybe it’s time it feels like home again,” she says, like the idea isn’t a risk but a decision she’s already made.
Something in the air shifts. It’s not loud or dramatic. Just quiet understanding, a shared breath. We’ve all lost too much to pretend that what we have isn’t fragile. But at that moment—with the smell of pancakes and coffee, Kimber giggling with syrup on her chin, and sunlight slanting through the window—it feels like the start of something new.
I let my gaze drift around the table—taking in the faces that make up my entire world now, each of us scarred, reshaped, held together by shared damage and stubborn loyalty. We’re imperfect and fractured, stitched together by loss and survival, but for the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel something settle in my chest. Something solid that isn’t about bracing for impact.
Family.
Ours—messy, hard-won, forged in chaos and ruin. And somehow… it’s enough.
Chapter Fifteen
Emerson
We’d all agreed on one thing—no matter what came next, whether it was revenge, justice, or that warped space where the two bleed together, Kimber would be kept far from it. She’s already lost too much. She deserves mornings like this: sunlight pouring through the windows, uninhibited laughter filling rooms that once felt haunted, and a home that finally holds more warmth than ghosts.
The TV hums with some old animated movie—the kind we all grew up on, the kind that doesn’t ask anything of you except to laugh. Kimber laughs so hard she snorts, full and unfiltered, and the sound hits me square in the chest. It pulls a genuine smile out of me before I can stop it, not the practiced kind I wear out of habit, but one that actually feels like mine.
Berkley is curled cross-legged beside her on the couch, a blanket draped over both of them, her hair a soft, tangled halo that says she didn’t bother fighting sleep this morning. She flicks a piece of popcorn at Kimber, misses on purpose, and earns herself a sharp scolding in that bossy, dead-serious little-girl tone that makes Ronan and Rowan nearly choke on their coffee trying not to laugh.
For a handful of stolen minutes, everything is easy. The world beyond these walls disappears—no blood, no fire, no fathers pulling strings from the dark. Just the warmth of the room, the sound of laughter, and the quiet miracle of all of us being here together.
She laughs now—really laughs—and the sound lands in my chest like something sacred, something fragile enough to protect at all costs. But even that light casts shadows. She’s been through hell, deeper and darker than any of us, deeper than she’s ever said out loud. The truth of it—the truth of what she and Reign endured—lives in my memory like a burn that never cools. The video shattered whatever illusions I had left. Seeing what those bastards took from them, how thoroughly they tried to erase them, was worse than any nightmare I’d ever built in my head. It made her silence make sense. Her fury. Her fire.
I glance at Berk now, at the soft line of her smile as she brushes popcorn off Kimber’s lap, and I wonder how she still manages to shine at all. There’s a part of me that wants to wrap her up, keep her far from the violence waiting for us. But she’s never been the type to hide behind anyone. She’s our storm, our spark. And when the time comes to strike again, I know she’ll lead us through the darkness, no matter how much it costs her.
For now, though, she’s laughing with my sister, and I let the sound settle in my chest. It’s fragile and fleeting, but it’s real—and after all that we’ve lost, that’s enough to keep me going.
The movie’s just ending when my phone buzzes on the coffee table, shattering the fragile calm we’ve built this morning. The sound alone is enough to stiffen every muscle in my body. I don’t have to look to know who it is. Bryce. Again.
Ronan mutters a curse from where he’s sprawled on the couch. “Just ignore him,” he says, though his jaw tightens. “He’ll get the message, eventually.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, thumbing the decline button for what feels like the hundredth time this week. The satisfaction lasts all of two seconds before another notification flashes. A text. One photo.
The air in my lungs turns to ice. My mother.
She’s bound to a chair, wrists tied with what looks like electrical cord. There’s a rag jammed between her teeth, her mascara smeared down her face like bruises. And the gun—Jesus, the gun—pressed against her temple, silver and cold. My hand trembles just enough to make the image blur on the screen.
“Em?” Berk’s voice comes out low, cautious. She’s reading me the way she always does, and when I look up, she’s already on her feet, the laughter from earlier erased.
I don’t have to say a word. I turn the screen toward her, toward the guys. Ronan’s face goes blank—the quiet before a storm. Rowan swears softly under his breath, running a hand through his hair, the tension already winding through his frame. For a moment, no one breathes.
“Kimber,” I say finally, forcing my voice to stay calm. “Sweetheart, can you pick up the popcorn and take it to the kitchen for me? We’ll be there in a minute.” She gathers the bowls and scurries off toward the kitchen, pretending not to see the way Berk sinks into a chair, hands trembling on her knees.