My eyes roll as I shove him lightly. “You’re an ass, you know that?”
“Yeah,” he says without hesitation, flashing that cocky grin that’s both infuriating and weirdly reassuring. “But I’m also right.”
Across the table, Rowan hides his smile behind a sip of coffee that looks like it’s been sitting there for hours. He’s quieter than his twin, more measured, but I catch the faint curl at the corner of his mouth before he schools his features again. He’s trying to play it cool, but I can see the ease creeping back into him—the kind that’s been missing for too long.
“Don’t start,” I warn, pointing at him. “I’ve had enough of your brother’s smug face for one night.”
Rowan lifts his brows, pretending innocence. “Who, me? I’m not saying anything.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, “that’s what makes it worse.”
The twins laugh, the sound filling the space and softening some of our edges that have been sharp for far too long. For a moment, it almost feels normal—three idiots in a room, trading jabs like nothing outside these walls exists.
But the calm doesn’t last. Ronan stretches and leans back in his chair, the grin slipping away and sharpening into something more serious. “Jokes aside,” he says, “we can’t slow down. Bryce isn’t going to sit still after what happened today.”
“Yeah,” I say, dropping into the chair across from them. “And with Dean going radio silent, I don’t like it. That’s not panic—it’s preparation.”
Rowan nods slowly, his fingers drumming on the tabletop. “You think they’re splitting?”
I shrug. “Maybe. Or they’re testing each other. Either way, it gives us an opening. Berk’s got eyes on the last warehouse. We hit that right, it’ll gut what’s left of their network.”
Ronan grins again, but this time he looks like a demon. “Good,” he says. “Then let’s make it a hit they don’t crawl back from.”
I meet his gaze, the same silent understanding passing between us that’s been there since we were kids. “We will,” I say, steady and certain. “We finish what they started.”
For a while, none of us speaks. The hum of the monitors and the low whir of the ceiling fan fill the silence, wrapping the room in a kind of stillness that isn’t uncomfortable, just heavy. We’ve done enough talking for one night—enough fighting, too. What hangs between us now is the quiet understanding that tomorrow will demand more, and that tonight might be the last piece of calm we get for a while.
Ronan’s the one to break the silence, his voice low but carrying that same rough-edged warmth that’s uniquely his. “Brother,” he says, glancing toward Rowan, “why don’t you go take care of our girl tonight? We shouldn’t let her be alone for long.”
Rowan lifts his head, meeting his twin’s gaze. For a second, he hesitates, like he’s trying to gauge if Ronan’s serious or just teasing. But then he nods, no argument, no excuses. He leaves his half-empty coffee on the table; the mug clinking softly as he stands. His shoulders are still a little tense, but there’s something steadier in his steps as he walks out. Progress. Small, but real.
When the door clicks shut behind him, the air shifts again. Ronan leans back in his chair, his grin slow and dangerous—a smile that’s equal parts trouble and pride.
I arch a brow at him. “What?” I ask, though I already know that expression too well.
He shrugs, the smirk deepening. “We’re almost whole again, brother.”
The words land harder than I expect. Not because of what he says, but how he says it—not cocky, not triumphant, just certain. Like he can see the fractures in all of us knitting together at last. My gaze flicks to the door where Rowan slipped out moments ago, then back to Ronan. And damn it—he’s right. For the first time in years, it feels like we’re inching back toward solid ground.
“Yeah,” I murmur, rubbing the back of my neck, a small smile tugging at my lips. “We’re getting there.”
Ronan hums his agreement and lifts his drink in my direction, casual but deliberate. “To family,” he says.
I tap my cup against his, the clink ringing through the quiet room. “To family,” I repeat—and for the first time, the word doesn’t feel fractured. It feels like a promise.
Chapter Sixteen
Berkley
I drift in that hazy space between sleep and waking when a soft shift of movement pulls me back. The mattress dips with added weight, subtle but unmistakable, followed by the quiet catch of a breath in the dark. The covers lift just enough to let a ribbon of cool air slip beneath them, brushing over my bare skin and sending a shiver through me. Goosebumps bloom along my arms, and without thinking, I reach out for warmth—seeking the familiar comfort I’ve only just learned to expect.
Then there’s warmth—solid and undeniable—settling against my side. Skin to skin. A startled heartbeat stutters beside me, followed by a quiet, disbelieving grunt. “Fuck,” he breathes, going completely still, like moving might shatter the moment. I don’t need the sound to know who it is, though. His scent gives him away instantly. Rowan.
He smells of cedar and smoke, like the woods after rain. There’s something grounded in it, something that always reminds me of home—of safety, even when I shouldn’t feel safe. Beneath it, I can still catch the faint trace of soap and the ghost of coffee on his skin, like he’s been too busy thinking to rest.
For a moment, I stay perfectly still, pretending to sleep, waiting to see what he’ll do. But the tension rolling off him is impossible to ignore, his body rigid beside mine as if being thisclose might break him. I can’t help myself—I shift just slightly, inching closer until my back meets the warmth of his chest.
His breath stutters, a low, uneven exhale warming the back of my neck. I smile into the pillow, a quiet spark of satisfaction flickering through me. Even half asleep, even with all the time that’s passed, teasing him feels instinctive—etched into muscle memory. I hum softly and shift closer, letting my body settle against his, fitting there the way it’s supposed to.